Not everyone in the planet is obsessed by the World Cup. We cite as evidence a report in the Spanish newspaper El Pais. It has a photograph of His Holiness John Paul II meeting Ronaldo, the Brazilian who is the world's best-known player.

It was a big day for Ronaldo, especially since his mum got to meet the Old Fella as well. The historic was only mildly spoiled when the Pope asked Ronaldo: ''What sport is it you play?'' Followed by: ''And which country do you come from?''

The Pope is obviously not first choice for the vatican pub quiz team.

n We carried a story in the last Diary speculating that the Irish and Scottish faithful might launch a joint effort to have Cardinal Winning elevated to the papacy. We said he would have to chose between Pope Andrew or Pope Patrick. Eric Gillies e-mails the compromise suggestion of Pope Partick.

We plagiarise from an after-dinner spech by John Gahagan, a former Motherwell footballer who is making something of a name for himself in this metier, rather more than he did with his boots on. Mr Gahagan tells us that Thomas Doll, the German footballer, has been over for talks about joining Celtic FC. Mr Doll was impressed by the club, the wages, and prospects of playing in the European Champions league. His wife, however, vetoed the proposed transfer. She didn't fancy living in Glasgow with the name Mary Doll.

Still on a vaguely footballing theme, we hear of the Edinburgh couple who made their way to Glasgow last Saturday for the Tennents Scottish Cup Final. As they walk towards Celtic Park they are sipping some refreshment of an alcoholic nature. They are approached by a mounted policeman who explains that under the strict by-laws, it is illegal to drink on the streets of Glasgow. ''Awfy sorry,'' says the woman, ''we'll move on to the pavement.''

Towards more ecumenical first-communion celebrations. We hear of a Glasgow family who, having witnessed their little cherubina's special moment, repaired to some local premises for the traditional buffet. Some members of the family were surprised to discover that the post-communion celebrations were held in the masonic halls.

An apocryphal and largely unlikely tale but we will pass it on anyway. It concerns a chap who is required to take along a sperm sample to a fertility clinic in Glasgow. He is advised by telephone that he should ''put the test tube in a warm pocket''. The patient decides to take no chances. He arrives and hands the receptionist a foil-wrapped package. When opened, the contents emit a quantity of steam. The staff had never before seen a test-tube sample nestling in a baked potato.

The following contribution came in simultaneously from a variety of sources. We will give the credit and the blame to the Rev William Shackleton since he is a man of God and should know better:

A cowboy is sitting in a Sauchiehall Street pub - spurs, stetson, pistol, jeans, the lot. A young lady asks him: ''Are you a real cowboy?''

''Yer durn tootin'. Spent ma whole life ridin' the range, herdin' critters, breakin' horses, shootin' outlaws. Say, what are you ma'am?''

''Me?'' she says, ''I'm a lesbian.''

''Ah ain't never heerd o' that,'' he says. ''What's a lesbian?'' She explains: ''Well, I'm attracted to women and think about them all the time.'' The lesbian goes into some detail, which need not concern us here, of her obsession with beautiful women.

The young lady leaves. The cowboy is sat there ponderin' when an elderly lady approaches him and asks: ''Are you a real cowboy?''

''Well, ma'am, I always thought I was but I guess I've just found out I'm a lesbian.''