Pure dead brilliant

NEXT week the USA will have a brand spanking new President. (Or slightly shopsoiled one, if Trump bags the job.)

The Diary has admitted before that we’re not especially enthused by either candidate, Donald or Kamala.

He talks too much, she refuses to say anything of substance.

It might be late in the day, but we’re now demanding that both candidates step aside, and let George Washington take over.

We concede that, unlike Trump, George isn’t merely shop-soiled. He’s graveyard-soiled, too, having been dead for some time.

On the credit side, he’s more popular with American voters than the living candidates.

In his day he was also very photogenic, or oil-painting-genic, as it must have been known back then.

His teeth were false, and made from wood. But we’re guessing they had a few coats of varnish, and sparkled like the gnashers of a Hollywood starlet.

So bring back the Top G, we say.

On the subject of popular classics, here’s a few of the finest stories from our archives…

 

The name game

EVIDENCE that the Church of Scotland now means less to the youth of the country.

A young woman watching telly saw a chap appear on the screen.

Below him was the caption "Kirk Moderator".

In all seriousness, she said to her sister: “That’s an unusual name. Do you think he’s Canadian?”

 

Boxing (not) clever

A CONFUSED reader got in touch.

He said: “I’ve noticed lots of boxes labelled ‘Fragile This Way Up’, so why arrange them that way?”

 

Fishy observation

IN a Glasgow hotel a company annual dinner was under way.

At the top table a somewhat imperious lady was going through the fixed menu, item by item, with the waitress.

“And is the beef on the bone?” was delivered with just a touch of the Lady Bracknells.

“Aye,” responded the young waitress with an impatient toss of her head, “else coos would look like jellyfish.”

 

Double trouble

A SCOTTISH holidaymaker was in southern Spain and got into a conversation with a London chap who informed him that he now lived permanently in Spain.

“So what brought you here?” asked the holidaymaker after they had shared a libation or two. “Your job?”

“Yes, mate,” replied the Londoner, before adding: “Well, actually two jobs. One was a bank, the other was a post office.”

 

Noises off

A FEW years ago a group of Faslane submariners were discussing the stress of leaving their families for long periods of time.

The Diary could not help overhearing the older, experienced chap telling the other men: “You must be sensitive to your wives’ emotional needs.”

After a pause, he added: “Never, ever whistle while you pack.”

 

Jaded job jabber

A DEPRESSED office worker once got in touch to tell the Diary: “The first five days after the weekend are the hardest.”