THE Edinburgh Festival is upon us. For those who have not been made aware of this minor and unassuming shindig, sit back and allow the Diary to explain what it entails. Better yet, let Newcastle comedienne Lauren Pattison describe the experience…

“I’ve brought my boyfriend to the biggest arts festival in the world for the first time,” enthuses Lauren. “And how are we spending it? Well, I am throwing small pieces of cheese at him and he is catching them in his mouth. Catch our clown act debuting next year…”

Friends of Lauren are intrigued by this cheesy concept, with one suggesting he would watch such a show if the pieces of cheese slowly got bigger through the act, starting with little cheese cubes, then Babybels, a slice of Mexicana and ending, triumphantly, with a wheel of Edam….

Colour coded

A YELLOW rain warning from the Met Office inspires an intrigued Bill Thompson, from Lenzie, to ask: “Does that mean it will pee down?”

Water silly remark

THINKING about favourite pastimes, Diary correspondent Jim Porter says: “The vast majority of fish don’t know what the wind is. Perhaps that’s why kites aren’t a popular toy in the aquatic kingdom.”

Smart dining

WE’RE discussing imaginative uses for old editions of The Herald. David Donaldson recently hosted a dinner party where one guest was a lady from America enjoying a trip to Europe.

“As this is her first visit to the Dear Green Place,” says David, “I thought it would be great to give her a taste of the real Glasgow. So I bought a load of frozen chips, some large pickled onions and a bottle of white vinegar. The chips were served in newspaper pokes made, of course, from old Heralds… to add that intellectual touch.”

Hairbrained name calling

A FRIEND of reader Nigel Fisher refused to get his hair cut during the pandemic because he didn’t want to wear a mask in the barber’s chair. This increasingly hirsute chap is named Robert, Rab for short.

Inevitably, all his mates ending up calling him… Rab Punzel.

Fruity faux pas

OVERHEARD on a late night Glasgow bus by reader Sylvia Roberts. One drunken young chap slurred to his equally inebriated pal: “I’m tellin’ ye, likes, olive oil is a fruit juice. Wit else could it be?”

Hard to swallow

A TALE of a fussy eater. “When I was a kid I always hated eating my greens,” admits reader Eric James. “They were never as tasty as my other crayons.”