Distraught drookit damsels

AFTER a few days of hard graft the sun went on strike on Friday afternoon. No doubt annoyed about pay and conditions, it vanished from the sky at about 5.30pm, and was replaced by a reign of rain bulleting from dark clouds and battering the gentle souls of Glasgow.

Brendan Strawbridge was in a Sauchiehall Street newsagents when the biblical deluge commenced. Two teenage girls scurried into the store and pleaded with the shop assistant to give them plastic bags to wear on their heads.

“Wur meetin some lads an we dinnnae wanna get oor hair messed up,” explained one of them.

“Sure,” nodded the shop assistant, then demanded 25p each for the coifs to protect the coiffures.

Alas, the lassies were devoid of dosh, so were unable to procure the majestic headgear.

Adds Brendan: “The last I saw of them, they were dashing along Sauchiehall Street wearing bags they must have got for free from some other shop. Unfortunately they were made of flimsy paper, which was rapidly dissolving into the girls’ hair.”

Verdict? Futile fashion fail.

Artful addition

GRAFFITI artist Banksy, whose latest exhibition is currently running at the GoMA, recently revealed that his favourite UK work of art is Glasgow’s Duke of Wellington statue with a traffic cone on its head.

Reader Tim Sullivan believes all works of art would be improved with a similar Glasgowfication, and says: “A Glesga version of the Statue of Liberty would surely have the big stone wumman clutching a strawberry flavoured Cornetto in her mitt instead of the torch of liberty.”

Heavy duty exercise

OVERHEARD in a South Side gym by reader Claire Pearson. A flabby fella on a running machine wheezed to his pal: “I’m Fatboy Slim… without the slim bit.”

The Norse code

THE teenage grandson of reader Rachel Harrow has exceedingly long hair, so she suggested he get it shorn in order to feel cooler and more comfortable for summer.

With a shake of his bounteous mane, he replied: “No can do, gran. I’m willing to put up with a hell of a lot of discomfort and agony to look like a Norse god.”

Poor programming

NIFTY nicknames, continued. “In the office I’m known as The Computer,” says reader George Reed. “Not because I’m super-efficient. It’s just that I go to sleep if unattended for 15 minutes.”

Sharp tongue

“IF I ordered an axe from abroad and had it shipped to me,” muses reader Matt Hanning, “Would that mean I’d have a foreign axe sent?”