The diarist had a meander into Glasgow city centre the other day and got caught up in the lights, camera, action moment of a car-chasing cacophony.

“We’re filming a spin off of The Fast and the Furious,” said a set assistant as he just about caught my inquisitive nose in his clapperboard. “They could have just documented a hasty Herald sports desk morning conference,” replied the diarist.

“Are those high octane skidmarks on Albion Street?,” I enquired of my surroundings. “Aye, the on-site catering unit has had a few complaints,” came the sheepish response.

From the glitz and glamour of Hollywood blockbusters, the diarist caught a peek of the back page of a newspaper focussing on Cristiano Ronaldo’s eagerly anticipated return to Manchester United on Champions League duty with Juventus. But did you see his watch? Good grief.

With more diamonds on it than the Imperial State Crown, it was as eye-wateringly gaudy as Siegfried & Roy’s soft furnishings and cost a mind-mangling £1.85 million. The diarist has not been so enraptured by someone’s wrist since Larry Grayson was in his shut-that-door pomp.

Of course, when you’re earning over £510,00 a week for booting a ba’, you’re not going to simply plump for a retro Casio calculator watch to woo the gob-smacked masses with a flourish of your arm.

Back in ye day, Lancashire outfit, Darwen, ruffled the Corinthian spirit of the beautiful game in 1879 when it was scandalously revealed that they were paying two of their Scottish players, Fergie Suter and James Love.

By 1885, professionalism was legalised and six years later, a £4-a-week wage limit had been introduced. There was no turning back.

And what do we have now? That’s right. Cash-soaked mercenaries with more money than sense.

Ronaldo’s show of bling was bad. But at least it was better than Kyle Lafferty flashing his, ahem, time piece ...

*I shirt the sheriff? Irish side Bohemians caused a stir this week by launching a new away jersey with an image of reggae great Bob Marley emblazoned on it.

Marley played at the club’s Dalymount Park ground back in 1980 and the new design pays homage to that cherished concert.

Meanwhile, after performing a gig at Airdrie’s Shyberry stadium last summer, rumours of a picture of Elton John appearing on the shirts of the Diamonds were shot down as a load of, er, Reg Dwight ...

*On this day in 1941, the delightfully named American racing car driver, Dick Trickle, was born.

Trickle was a prolific short track champion and apparently logged one million laps and won over 1,200 feature races.

Trickle joined a decorated band of sporting Dicks including Dick Sisler, Dick Paradise, Dick Felt and, as fans often bellow at the opposing manager, “that dick in the dug-oot.”

*Enigmatist Eric Cantona was in Glasgow the other night as a guest of honour at Street Soccer Scotland’s gala dinner. The French footballing philosopher was presented with his own kilt too.

Apparently asked if he wore it like a true Scotsman, Cantona said: “When the seagulls follow the trawler, it’s because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea.” That’ll be a ‘yes’ then ...

*We are all potential fodder for the limpet tentacles of the ageing process as it coils itself around our ankles before entangling us in its withering embrace. But wait.

Japan’s Hiromu Inada stuck two fingers up to the passing of time recently when he became the oldest person to complete the Kona Ironman World Championship at the sprightly age of 85.

After racking up 140 gruelling miles of swimming, cycling and running in just under 17 hours, Inada said: “There’s nothing like the feeling of accomplishment at the goal after much suffering.”

That’s what readers often gasp once they’ve grimly digested this back page ...

*Ah, the green baize, the dust of the chalk, the clack-clack of cue ball striking red, the stifled coughs of the audience?

Cherished sights and sounds from snooker’s grand theatres like The Crucible or the Preston Guild Hall. And what about the K2 Leisure Centre in Crawley, host of the recent English Open?

“A hell hole” which apparently smelled “of urine” according to an unimpressed Ronnie O’Sullivan. Despite all this, The Rocket still managed a rousing 147 break.

As whispering Ted Lowe once said: “The audience is literally electrified and glued to their seats.”

Perhaps that may have explained the reek of you know what?