Sticking around

A WHILE back the Heed Honcho at Diary HQ treated his lackeys – sorry, prized colleagues – to a special day of fun.

This team-bonding exercise included a picnic in Kelvingrove Park. (Bring your own sandwiches, and if you’re thirsty, take a sip from the river.)

Afterwards we visited the cinema. As a special treat, the gang was encouraged to club together and pay for the Heed Honcho’s ticket, hotdog and extra large bucket of popcorn.

The film we watched that day was a Spiderman flick, and we were soon eagerly whispering to each other: “How does Spidey stick to walls? Is it glue on his palms? CGI trickery? What?!”

“Don’t be silly,” said the Heed Honcho, in between mouthfuls of popcorn. “It’s obviously Boris Johnson behind that webbed mask. If the bulky blond blighter can cling to power after everything he’s done, he’ll have no trouble sticking to a daft wee wall.”

Yet even Boris couldn’t sidle up the slippery surface of Westminster for ever. Now he’s fumbled and tumbled, like a posh Humpty Dumpty. So who will entertain the public with BoJo broken into a thousand pieces?

The Diary, that’s who.

As these tales from our archives prove, you don’t need a blond buffoon to supply lashings of laughter and loopiness…


AN English gap year student was travelling on the Trans-Mongolian train from Russia to China when an official came on board who shouted in Russian, before adding in English: “Papers!”

An unmistakable Scottish voice could be heard in the next compartment shouting back: “Scissors! I win.”

Cheque your hearing

A CHAP was working in a bank. One day a fiscally challenged customer came in to withdraw money from his account.

He had written the cheque in pencil, so the teller asked the customer to, “ink it over.”

The customer came back a short while later and said: “Yes, I really, really want the money.”

Bird-brained badinage

SOME years ago in the west end a distinguished chap in tweeds was carrying an imperious, leather-hooded hawk which was sitting on his gloved hand. Passers-by were struck dumb until one wee wummin asked: “Does your budgie speak?”

(Walking) dead reckoning

IN the days before Netflix, a Giffnock reader looked at the row of DVDs in his son’s bedroom and pondered: “Teenage boys – well prepared to fend off a zombie attack, but not ready for tomorrow’s maths exam.”

Brought to book

A RETIRED librarian told us about a girl who came in and asked where the “non-pretend” books were. He pointed her towards “non-fiction” but has always thought “non-pretend” sounded nicer.

Bar banter

TV programmes were being discussed in a Glasgow pub when one ageing regular declared: “I’m so old, I remember when X Factor was Roman sunscreen.”