Anyone for tennis?

WIMBLEDON is back! Which means the poor Wombles who usually frequent a certain suburb of London have been flown out to Rwanda against their will, to make way for a bunch of ladies and gents showing off their pristine white laundry.

Apparently they will also be playing tennis, though the Diary hasn’t been thrilled by that sport since the days of wooden racquets and Dan Maskell’s plummy diction explaining the action as though reciting a PG Wodehouse novel.

The truth is that most Scots aren’t especially enamoured by Wimbledon, even with the participation of a certain A. Murray. It lost its old world allure years ago, yet failed to become gritty enough for contemporary sensibilities.

Perhaps the players should be encouraged to fully embrace the modern world by playing in shell suits, with the net replaced by a barbed wire fence.

Luckily the Diary doesn’t share Wimbledon’s problems. The following classic tales from our archives prove that we boast a perfect balance of sepia-tinted charm and 21st century dynamism…

4th right opinion

WE recall a report that revealed one in four Britons claimed to have Irish ancestry, yet nearly half were lying or exaggerating. It came to mind when we overheard a chap going on about his Irish roots until his pal stopped him by saying: “You? Irish? You probably think County Down is a Channel 4 game show.”

Neigh fair

A READER had pals round for poker, and said to the chap who won the most: “How come you’re lucky at cards but unlucky at picking Cheltenham winners?”

He replied: “I don’t get to shuffle the horses.”

Closet confusion

IT’S strange how terms that were once common don’t crop up much, anymore. A reader holidaying with his daughter was in an old fashioned café when she went to the loo. On her return he enquired if she found it okay.

“There was a door marked WC,” she told him. “I guessed it was for women and children.”

Price is right?

A WEST END reader attending a Partick Thistle match heard a young chap ask a scarf seller how much his items cost, and was informed the price was £7.

“I’ll give you a tenner for two,” offered the fan.

“This is Maryhill,” countered the vendor. “No’ the kasbah.”


A DIARY correspondent in Australia spotted a car in Sydney with a sticker on the back window stating: ‘I Miss Glasgow.’

“So,” said our reader, “I smashed a window, nicked his radio, and left a note stating: ‘Hope this helps’.”

Boss bungles

AN office worker told us about his boss, who felt he was getting the blame for everything by head office. Or as he memorably put it: “I’m no one’s escaped goat.”