THE debate over Scottish independence is hotting up again, which inspires Ian Noble from Carstairs Village to describe the chasm that exists between the fierce Angles from the South and the doughty Northern Celts.

Ian once had a colleague called Torrance, who phoned a customer in England, a chap who was perhaps not used to hearing the dulcet tones of the native Glaswegian. The conversation proceeded in the following harmonious fashion…

“Hello, my name is Torrance.”


“No, Torrance.”

“How are you spelling that?”



“No, T”


“No, T for… Torrance.”


(And that, faithful reader, goes someway to explaining why so many Scots patiently queued to see a certain Mel Gibson flick, back in 1995.)

Off the rails

WORD reaches us that a cow – clearly seeking more thrills and high-adventure than can be experienced in your average meadow – was spotted on the Pollokshaws West train platform, contentedly licking his own reflection in the glass-fronted shelter. (Apparently humans do this, too, occasionally.)

The folk at ScotRail have suggested that the migrating moo was probably waiting on the next train to Cowdenbeef.

Material witness

ON a Shawlands bus, reader Mary Swain overheard the conversation between a tetchy mother and her son, who was aged about 12, and endlessly asking questions.

At one point the lad said: “Mum, why do motorcyclists wear leather?"

With a sardonic roll of her eye, the mother replied: "Because chiffon wrinkles too easily."

Food for thought

CULINARY-INCLINED reader Gordon Bilston gets in touch to point out: “Every pizza can be a mushroom pizza if you’re patient enough.”

Chippy chappy

GLASGOW poet Jim Monaghan has been recalling the indignities of youth.

“My grandfather used to take a hot water bottle to the chip shop, stick it up his jumper with the suppers to keep them warm,” says Jim. “He made us do it too, which was quite embarrassing when you’re trying to be a cool teenager.”

Cutting comment

WE recently told our readers about erotic robots with Glasgow accents. Now we learn that a machine developed by Google may have become sentient, i.e, “It’s alive!”, as Doc Frankenstein said about his monster.

Reader Martin Dodds says: “I was hoping the first sentient machine would be my lawnmower, so I could watch the telly while it gets on with cutting the grass.”

Picture (not) perfect

DISAPPOINTED reader Ted Fenn says: “All these years of technological development, and I still haven't seen a colour photo of a panda or zebra.”

Read more: How to put purple prose in the shade