Browned off

ON social media you occasionally stumble upon a tale as profound as any Chekhov short story. For instance, a Scottish bloke has posted that he yelled at a woman whose dog relieved itself on his drive.

“She was clearly fizzin and claimed it wasn’t her dug that done it after me just witnessing it,” explained the exasperated fellow.

To his surprise, the woman took off her glove and lowered her hand…

“I thought, this fruitcake is gonnae just pick this up, bare hauns,” marvelled the fellow.

That wasn’t what transpired. Instead, the woman’s hand stopped an inch above the doggy’s doings. She then triumphantly proclaimed: “That’s no even hoat.”

The chap wasn’t taken in by this ruse and demanded that the woman get rid of the poo, adding: “I’m no stauning here arguing over the temperature ae a dug s***e.”

Thankfully she did as requested. Even more thankfully, she used a plastic bag, not her "bare hauns".

Booted out

PROMOTIONAL campaigns don’t always hit their mark, notes reader John Mulholland, who was watching TV with his family when a Scottish Government advert came on encouraging Scots to eat healthily.

At one point the website address for the campaign, www.eatwellyourway.scot, flashed on screen.

In unison, John’s outraged wife and daughter declared: “I’m not going to eat welly!”

Taking the biscuit

THESE are dark days for Ukraine, with little humour in an ugly war started by a covetous Russian despot.

However, David Donaldson does find a sense of the ridiculousness in Vlad the Bad, recalling the occasion, 31 years ago, when Putin was part of a Russian delegation visiting Ford's bakery in East Lothian. At one point he calmly walked over to a plate of Penguin biscuits and stuffed a load of them in his jacket pocket without so much as a by-your-leave.

“Any man who can p-p-pick up a p-p-penguin without p-p-permission is clearly a bad sort,” notes David.

“It was only a matter of time before he helped himself to whole countries without asking.”

Babbling booze

“A VENTRILOQUIST at a bar told me I was attractive,” says reader Jenny Miller. “I wasn't sure if it was him or the beer talking.”

Scott… or not?

A HERALD photo of the Scott Monument reminds Eric Begbie from Stirling of an incident a few days ago, when he spotted a tourist guide standing on Edinburgh’s Princes Street, surrounded by a group of admiring clients.

Clearly in command of his brief, this intellectual giant pointed at the looming structure across the road, before informing the tourists under his thrall: "That’s the Scots’ Monument. And the statue inside it is that most famous of all Scots… Rabbie Burns."

* THAT yarn Edinburgh reminds Bob Byiers of the time another chap of the same profession was asked by a curious holidaymaker: "Now, did Scott write his novels before or after he went to Antarctica?"

Daddy cool

THE modern convention of fathers being present at the birth of their children reminds Ian Noble from Carstairs Village of how different it was back when he first became a dad. “The gynaecologist, one Dr Grieve, would never even consider such a thing,” says Ian. “He only begrudgingly acknowledged that fathers could be present at the conception.”

Painful memory

EARLIER this week Michael Dale visited his dentist where Radio Clyde is normally burbling in the background, playing some innocuous ditty.

Not this week. As our poor reader was clenching his toes and ordering himself to relax, the tune being broadcast was the band REM’s hit song… Everybody Hurts.

Michael certainly didn’t need reminding of that.

Phone's home

TRAVELLER’S tales, continued. As a Walking Tour Guide in Glasgow, Gordon Hart regularly takes visitors to see the old police box on Buchanan Street.

Gordon once informed an American holidaymaker that the curious edifice was used by members of the constabulary in the days before walkie-talkies and mobile phones.

This intrigued the lady from the States, who scrutinised the blue box before saying: “Were they not awfully heavy to carry?”

In the drink

VISITING a dingy Glasgow pub with his grandfather, reader Jack Davidson was foolish enough to order soup from the bar. It arrived with little flies floating in the liquid.

Jack pointed this out to his grandad, who shrugged, then said: “See, that’s nice thick soup. Not one of those flies has gone under yet.”

Cruel cuddle

“I TOLD my wife to embrace her mistakes,” says reader Matthew Finlay. “So she gave me a hug.”

* Read Lorne Jackson's Diary every day in The Herald.

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