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Welcome to the Herald Diary newsletter by Lorne Jackson. Going strong for half a century, The Diary finds the sublime and the ridiculous in Scottish life.
📖👉 Send your jokes and observations to thediary@theherald.co.uk
THE other day reader Helen Forbes bumped into an old friend in the street.
The friend was holding her husband’s hand, and Helen said she thought it was lovely that a long-married couple could still be touchy-feely.
The pal’s husband snorted, then said: “Aye, we always hold hands when we’re out. She’s worried that if she lets go, I’ll vanish into the nearest bookies.”
WE’RE discussing the curious ways of Glasgow’s bohemian west-enders, where reader Paul Wilson recalls sitting near two young chaps in a bar.
They were clearly students of philosophy, for they were chatting about a date one of them had been on.
The Romeo who’d been on the pull said to his pal: “So, yeah, it was great. We chatted about suffering, decay and nihilism. Then went for ice-cream.”
ON Glasgow social media the topic again turns to work nicknames, with one lady recalling she “used to work with a girl whose last name was Daze. We called her Inna because she was.”
 Doug Maughan spotted this sign in a Helsinki hotel. “Not sure about the final instruction,” he says. “Is it compulsory?” (Image: Contributed)
RETIRED Labour MP Sir Brian Donohoe tells us that during his trade union days one of his responsibilities was to sit on disciplinary panels for the Bus Group, and he once dealt with a case where a driver had been dismissed.
Why?
Well, he’d finished his shift and was inspecting his vehicle and discovered a long parcel with something bulky at the end.
As he wanted to go for a pint instead of taking it to lost property he stuffed it in his locker.
Next morning, before his early shift, he opened the parcel and discovered a white stick and pair of dark glasses, so put them on.
Wandering outside, he asked an old woman to show him to the bus, hopped into the driver's seat and drove off to the absolute panic of those on board...
The kindly disciplinary panel overturned his dismissal, and gave him a final warning.
JAMES Kelman is one of Scotland’s greatest living authors, though perhaps not to everyone’s taste.
Pete Campbell once worked in Waterstones, where an elderly chap came up to him, grasping a Kelman novel.
“Whit’s this about?” he inquired.
“It’s a gritty urban tale of poverty and survival,” explained Pete.
The prospective reader looked a tad disappointed, then said: “Aye, but does it have any aliens frae space, or anything like that?”
THOUGHTFUL reader Jason Fry points out: “A moment to yourself should be called a me-ment.”
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