THE Diary is recalling with sentimental affection the mighty public transport workers who once ruled Scotland. Sometimes with beneficence. Sometimes with bite.

Gordon Casely tells us of a chap who foolishly enquired if the bus he had just hopped on was going to Rouken Glen.

“No,” said the conductress. “Carnwadric.”

The poor fellow was confused. “But it says Rouken Glen on the front,” he sputtered.

“Son,” said the conductress, with steely composure. “It says India oan the tyres. But we’re no gaun tae Bombay.”

Clock watching

OBSERVANT Gordon McRae spotted an advert recently that boasted "10 minute menu ideas you can make in a few minutes".

“That will be 10 minutes, presumably,” concludes our wily correspondent, who rarely misses a trick.

Filthy foot

LINGUISTICALLY astute Bob Wallace, from Pollokshields, Glasgow, tries to keep up with changes in phraseology. Even so, he was surprised to overhear a young chap on a train complaining to a pal that he was struggling to find a way to break up with his girlfriend.

The fellow concluded despondently: "I think I've s**t myself on the foot with this one."

(The artfully asterisked word rhymes with splat, in case you haven’t guessed.)

Art attack

The YardWorks Festival, showcasing graffiti and street art, took place in Glasgow at the weekend. A Bishopbriggs reader bumped into a friend just returning from having examined the many walls with wacky scrawls.

Our reader was eager to know if his chum had been impressed by the showcase of vibrant, visual creativity.

The chap shrugged dismissively, then said with a straight face: "The writing’s on the wall for that lot."

Hot metal

HAVING discovered that robots with Glasgow accents have been built for use in the boudoir, we are now figuring out what these amorous automatons should be programmed to say.

Jenny Oliver, from East Kilbride, suggests: “It’s been a while, da’ling. I hope you don’t mind if I’m a little rusty.”

The name game

THE Diary has once again been discussing nominative determinism, those quirky occasions when a person’s name helps to seal their fate.

Bill Brown, from Dumfries, says the best moniker he ever came across belonged to a 1980s Russian 400 metres hurdler, whose name was Marina Stepanova.

This delighted Bill. Though years later our correspondent’s delight turned to disappointment when he discovered that English footballer, Danny Welbeck, doesn’t have a father who works in bomb disposal called Stan…


WITH a despondent sigh, reader Gloria Metcalfe tells us: “I’ve just realised that I’ve never had an epiphany.”