The money shot

WE mentioned that chivalry isn’t dead in Scotland. It’s merely like the unfortunate black knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Sans arms, sans legs; all that remains is a bleeding torso.

Which reminds Robin Gilmour from Milngavie of his aunt and uncle who lived in magical Millport.

Visitors were rare, so on the occasional hot day the mode of dress adopted at home was the one described by anthropologists of leisurewear as "the scuddy".

For health reasons the couple were obliged to vacate their Shangri-La, relocating to a Glasgow flat.

But the couple’s naturist ways persisted, leading Robin’s uncle to ungallantly proclaim one hot day: “We’re not in Millport now, dear. So please don’t stand at that window letting all the neighbours know I only married you for your money.”

Coarse corsair

BROWSING in a Muirend corner shop, reader Arnold Harrison spotted a father with his son, aged about six, talking to the chap behind the till.

The youngster had a fake tattoo displayed on his arm; the type often sported by dashing young fellows with a rebellious streak.

The shopkeeper nervously inquired if the boy was a pirate. The boy assured him he was not.

“Well, since you’re all grown-up with that fancy tattoo, why don’t you pay for daddy’s groceries?” said the shopkeeper.

The boy responded by thrusting out his tongue and blasting a rip-snorting raspberry.

“Must be a pirate after all,” shuddered the shopkeeper.

Maiden… maybe

LAST weekend reader Tina Oakes was in Dundee city centre when she spotted two couples approaching each other.

One of the blokes shouted to the other: "I was waiting for you to call me last Friday."

To which the other chap replied: "Sorry, Jim. A man was in fixing my Virgin"

It was only after a few seconds of utter astonishment that the penny finally dropped, and Tina realised that he just might have been referring to his broadband rather than a broad.

In the drink

WE hear rumours of a huge fiery ball heading to a sky near you. Which motivates reader Jim Kent to deliver this warning…

“IMPORTANT: During the hot weather drink lots of water. TOP TIP: It’s fine in frozen form, though you may need to smear in a whisky lubricant to make it more palatable.”

Hot tip

THE sun has got his hat on, hip, hip, hip hooray! That’s what the stout citizens of Blighty once sang. Nowadays we’re advised to batten down the hatches, hide under the bed, and pray for the big, bad orange ball in the sky to leave us alone.

Russell Smith from Largs has some advice. “During the previous heatwave I took off all my clothes and opened the windows,” he says. “Unfortunately some people on the bus objected.”

Brill Bolly

THE Diary is replenishing the stock of books we keep in our vast library. John Robertson suggests we order… The Story of Bollywood Films by brothers Dan and Roman Singh.

Tunnel vision

CONNOISSEUR of all things cartoonish, Derek Quinn, says: “It's disappointing that Wile E Coyote is remembered for his violence, and not for his impeccably realistic paintings of tunnels.”

Browned off

SOME entertaining advice from reader Dennis Stewart, who says: “A whoopee cushion filled with gravy adds a hilarious new dimension to a rather tiresome joke.”

Spiritually lost

MORE religious ramblings. Reader Nigel Barr says: “As I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, I remind myself that you can’t always trust Google Maps.”

Play it again, ham

ON social media Glasgow thespian Alasdair Hankinson expresses his appreciation for the skills of a fellow practitioner of the dramatic arts.

Or perhaps not…

Says Alasdair: “Just witnessed the most over-egged, focus-pulling death scene I've ever seen an actor perform on a stage. The other two actors were saying some of the most important lines in the play, meanwhile actor X is on the floor shaking, gurgling and gasping all the way through it. Mental.”

The Diary demands to know the name of the play, and where it’s being staged. For we intend on buying tickets for every performance.

Should be dead enjoyable…

Far-out friendship

WE continue describing popular movies in the most boring way possible. Julie Fitzpatrick suggests: Boy makes new pal in the neighbourhood, goes on bike ride with him, then pal goes home to parents.

The film is, inevitably, E.T.

Jet set japery

A TALE of teenage torpor. Lisa Byrne from Shawlands asked her 16-year-old son to go to the corner shop across the road to pick up groceries.

The lad declined, explaining he was still suffering from symptoms akin to jet lag following a family holiday.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” says Lisa. “It’s just that the family holiday was a weekend in Millport.”

Flipping out

NOSTALGIC for halcyon days of yore, reader Tony Mellow says: “Truly, there was no better feeling than snapping shut your flip-phone to hang up on someone annoying.

Read Lorne Jackson's Diary in The Herald every day