Footering about

HOLIDAYING in France, broadcaster and journalist Paul English spotted a new brand of trainers called Hoffs, which he thought were rather natty.

Deciding to buy a pair when he returned to Glasgow, he found himself in JD Sports in the city centre, where he asked the salesman if he had that particular footwear in stock.

“Haufs?” replied the highly knowledgeable expert in sports clothing. “Aye, depends on the make, but. Some only do full sizes.’  

Toffee tippling

THE Glasgow Bar Awards, held earlier this week, are a sort of Baftas for barflies and booze hounds.

At the swish ceremony, held at Saint Luke’s, the top tipple was revealed to be something called Sticky Toffee Pudding.

This sludgy sounding concoction can be sipped at Daddy Marmalades in the city centre, though we doubt that Diary reader Robert Menzies will be ordering one at the bar.

“Sounds like the judge at the Bar Awards inadvertently sampled a pint of Guinness that had been left unattended for 24 hours,” he shudders.


Whither the weather?

WE continue discussing the favourite topic of Scotland’s chattering classes: the meteorological mayhem marauding across our skies.

(In layman’s terms this means the rubbish weather we’ve been having recently.)

Peter Wright from West Kilbride lives next to the coast, which allows him to use a highly scientific method of forecasting the weather.

He studies the movement of the local seaweed.

“If the seaweed passes left to right, it’s a southerly,” he says. “If it flies past, halfway up the window, it’s gale-force. And if it gets washed down the chimney, it’s a hurricane.”


Cool rumblings

WHILE we’re on the topic of woeful weather, it can’t have escaped our readers’ notice that the Diary has become so fed up with the rain/hail/lightning/tornadoes (delete as appropriate) that we’re now adapting famous novels to reflect the soul-sapping circumstances.

David Donaldson suggests Ice Cold in Alexandria.


Boxing clever

TRAGEDY struck the home of Lisa Summers this week when her television went on the blink.

Our understandably distraught reader said to her teenage daughter: “That’s very annoying. I’ll have to phone the TV repairman.”

Her daughter stared at Lisa as if she were an alien, recently landed on Planet Earth, then replied in shocked tones: “What century are you living in, mum? You don’t repair, you replace.”


Workers get legless

TIME for some political pontificating.

“What do you call a snake that works for the government?” asks reader Derek Baker. “A civil serpent.”