Elvis’s salad days
ONCE again the Diary is prepared to prove how politically astute it is when it comes to making a daring prediction.
We believe… (drum roll, followed by oohs and aahs from our excited readers)… that Donald Trump… (little bit more drum roll; readers now teetering on the edge of their seats)… will win the American Presidential election!
Yup, you heard it here first, folks. We’re predicting another term for Donald.
Look out for further authoritative forecasts from this column, including our prophesies that the Roman Empire will crumble, Henry VIII won’t be an especially doting husband, and Elvis Presley is unlikely to stick to a muesli and salad diet.
We also divine that you’ll love the following classic tales from our archives…
Seeing red
BEING a West of Scotland mother makes you particularly defensive about your sons.
We were told of the mum waiting at the test centre while her son sat his driving test.
She could see from his glum expression that he had failed, so she asked the examiner what went wrong.
The examiner said her son had failed to stop at a red light.
“Well,” persisted the lad’s mother, “just how red was the light?”
Facing the music
IN Aberdeen there was a teacher who played in a small jazz band in his spare time.
During a break in lessons he asked the pupils if they knew what jazz was.
A young Aberdonian brightly answered: “Aye, it’s that film about the big shark.”
Half cut
FIRST Aid is a serious business, and could save someone’s life, so we weren’t amused by a chap in Glasgow who was sent on a course by his firm.
The class was being taught resuscitation on a Resusci-Annie, a rubber model which only goes down to the torso to make it easier to transport.
When our bold lad was asked to have a shot, he walked over, put his ear to her mouth to listen for breathing, then announced to the class: “She says she can’t feel her legs!”
Toilet tittle-tattle
THE curse of modern living.
A female reader told us about the conversation she had in Glasgow’s Buchanan Galleries toilets.
Settling on the loo-seat, she was a little surprised to hear a voice from the next cubicle saying: “Hello?”
Not wishing to appear aloof, she replied: “Hello.”
“Hiya, how ya doing?” said the voice.
“Not bad, thanks,” said the woman.
The voice next door sounded a bit put out and continued: “Hold on a minute… do you mind? I’m on the phone…”
Barking mad
A READER got in touch with the Diary to explain that he had to rehome a small terrier as it tended to woof-woof far too much.
“If you’re interested,” continued our reader, “let me know. I’ll leap over my neighbour’s fence and get it for you.”
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