Irish premier Bertie Ahern may not have managed to meet the Celtic team during his recent visit to Glasgow, but some useful business was done. Our man in Dublin tells us that, as things stand, if Pope John Paul II should die, Ireland will be without a voice at the conclave to elect a successor. Cardinal Cahal Daly, now writing his memoirs, is 80 and no longer eligible to vote. Bishop Sean Brady of Armagh failed to get the red hat at the recent consistory. This serious matter has not escaped Mr Ahern's notice. Canny politician that he is, he has arranged for Ireland to have a proxy vote.
On his visit to Glasgow, Bertie adopted the head of the Catholic Church in Scotland, Cardinal Thomas Winning, as the Irish representative at the conclave.
The adoption took place at a dinner in Bertie's honour hosted in Glasgow's Hilton Hotel by the businessman Brian Dempsey. With Cardinal Winning himself a possible contender for the papal tiara, Bertie's bet could come up trumps. In that event, Cardinal Winning would then have the dilemma of becoming either Pope Andrew or Pope Patrick.
We move on to the subject of first communions. (Sorry, you can take the boy out of the chapel but you can't take the chapel out of the boy.) A young person's first communion is a very important family occasion, especially, it has to be said, for grannies. A few years ago in a parish in Whiteinch, a proud but desperate granny approached many a parishioner asking if they had a copy of the first communion service. But didn't her daughter have a copy? The distraught woman explained that there had been a family feud and granny was not on the guest list for tickets to the service. The argument had been sparked off by a debate over the outfit which the child would wear to her first communion. The dress was reputed to be a stunner, the family belonging to the faction which favours glitzy gear but not quite going as far as the illuminated tiaras and carriages drawn by Shetland ponies. Undaunted, granny
joined a small throng outside her daughter's close. Equally determined, a phalanx made their way to a car which was waiting with engine running. Behind came the mother, carrying the child wrapped head to toe in a white sheet. The good news is that the family were reconciled by the date for the child's confirmation.
We hear from Los Angeles of Helen Mclean, a Glasgow woman who has made a new life out there but in 25 years still has not lost her accent. She has a career as a realtor. Yes, she sells houses. And quite successfully despite, during her sales spiel, uttering such statements as: ''And jist look at thae big windaes.''
Helen's children have picked up some of the accent from her and are apt to come in from a hard day's play with such comments as: ''Gee, mom, ah'm a'
clatty.'' The weans are staunch supporters of their mum's Glasgow connections. They love Irn Bru and black pudding.
But their Scottish heritage was put to a pretty stern test when they first went to school and a tradition set them apart. They were the only kids in the class whose schoolbooks were covered in wallpaper.
Reported on the Internet by a chap called Mikbhoy (yes, on the Celtic supporters' line) an Evening Times newsvendor shouting out: Frank Sinatra dead . . . Frank Sinatra dead . . . '' And then bursting into song with: ''Start spreading the news . . . ''
A book called An Erk Among The Elks arrives at the Diary desk. It is the autobiography of Harold Bonnett, one of many young men who were called up and shipped abroad without warning during the last war.
It is a record of Mr Bonnett's time in Canada and North America where he was a flight mechanic with the RAF. We have not read Mr Bonnett's story but we were quite taken with the blurb on the jacket which begins: ''A feature of the Second World War was that it provided an opportunity for travel to which
most people could otherwise never
have aspired.''
A small extract from an article entitled ''Hints for beginners'' from Piping Times. No, it isn't: ''Don't start bagpiping at all, at all.'' It is to do with setting your chanter reed so that the scale is true. ''Blow the tenor drone with your mouth (taking care not to touch the epiglottis with the tip of the drone reed which can precipitate vomiting).'' A dangerous business this piping.
From Kilmarnock an exchange over the airwaves which our correspondent claims is true. It concerns an ambulance man who is nicknamed Twiggy because he is not at all thin, due to a not inconsiderable appetite. Twiggy has an accident in his vehicle and radios back to HQ: ''I've just run into a cow. Can you get another crew to answer this call?
The controller replies: ''No problem. Do you need any assistance?''
Another voice comes on the air impersonating aforementioned Twiggy: ''Aye, could ye send us oot a knife and fork and a bottle o' broon sauce?''
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