Diary for sale

EARLIER this week we mentioned our failed bid to purchase Twitter. (Elon Musk offered forty-four billion dollars for the social media site. The Diary offered roughly forty-four billion dollars less than that.)

Stung by our failure, we’ve now instigated a new plan. Instead of buying a powerhouse media brand, we’ll sell one, instead… ourselves.

That’s right, folks. We plan on enticing Elon with the elasticated bank balance into snaffling up all the shares in the Diary.

For a mere forty-four gazillion bucks (our asking price) Musk can grab hold of everything that makes us great, including…

1) Our glamorous city centre headquarters. Or, to be specific, the dilapidated garden shed where we’re based, overlooking wasteland, rusty barbed wire and a grazing sheep called Barbara.

2) Our spiffy coffee machine, available to all Diary staff. (Though in reality only used by Barbara, who refuses to let anyone else touch the thing. She’s very grumpy of a morning, before her first espresso.)

3) Best of all – our humorous tales. Here’s a few classic yarns from our archives to prove why we’re the tops, not Twitter…

Suits you, sir

MEANINGLESS training courses are the worst. The colleague of a reader was sent on one such tedious day out, which under management-speak had been labelled a ‘workshop’. So while all the other attendees arrived in their business suits, it was for accounts staff after all, he instead turned up in a boiler suit and told the gobsmacked trainer: “I didn’t want to get my good suit messed up in some dirty workshop.”

Shakespearian shenanigans

AH, the humour of the newsagent’s. A reader was buying his Herald in Glasgow’s west end when the chap behind the counter asked: “Who are you backing to win?” He was pointing at the Herald headline: ‘David Hayman plays King Lear.’

Face facts

SEEMINGLY women are becoming impervious to bad chap-up lines. A reader heard one chap in a Glasgow bar avow: “You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

The object of his charm merely replied: “Well, I’ve seen your exes on Facebook, so I believe you.”

Phone fury

WE heard of a lady who was renewing her car insurance by telephone. The Q&A session was going well until she was asked if she was hormonal. At this point she lost the plot and had a bit of a rant at the telesales person over this stupid and blatantly sexist question. When he eventually managed to calm her down, he said: “I’m sorry, madam, but you must have misheard me. I asked you if you were a homeowner.”

Bog-awful intelligence

A PARTICK reader overheard a couple of students discussing their girlfriends in the pub. One of them declared: “The fuse went in the flat the other night, plunging us into darkness. I was trying to fix it when the girlfriend piped up: ‘Will the toilet still flush?’”

Woodwork wouldn’t work

“WHEN one door closes, another one opens,” said a chap in a Glasgow pub. “That’s why I won’t hire that carpenter again.”