Lorne Jackson
Tattoo you
A NERVOUS reader informs us she is about to undergo a colonoscopy, and isn’t much looking forward to the procedure. However, while perusing the information pamphlet she was given, she was moderately thrilled to read the sentence: “Sometimes we may place a small tattoo on the bowel wall.”
Medical experts will no doubt explain that this is to mark a specific part of the bowel that doctors may want to study at a later date – but our reader is more focused on deciding what tattoo design to get.
Skull and crossbones, perhaps. Or maybe a ship’s anchor.
Her own preference is for an image of the sun, which will have the gratifying result of preventing any jealous friend from claiming that her tattoo is inauspiciously displayed “where the sun don’t shine”.
Cold calling
AMERICAN comic book illustrator Neal Adams sadly died a few days ago. A giant of the superhero industry, Neal was famous for his gritty rendition of Batman, which helped the character shrug off his camp and corny reputation, notoriously celebrated in the hammy 1960s TV show.
Fellow comic book creator Fraser Campbell once got a poster signed by Neal, and recalls the auspicious occasion: “My accent threw him a bit,” admits Fraser, “so he initially signed ‘To Freezer’, before cheerfully changing it once he realised I was Scottish.”
Oh my word
ONCE again we dip a toe into the world of madcap malapropisms, those occasions when the English language has been mangled, mutilated, minced and mulched.
A nervous reader gets in touch to whisper in our ear that although he would usually be happy to have his Diary contribution attributed to him, in this case, for the sake of marital harmony and physical survival, he prefers to remain anonymous.
With that being said, he adds that his wife once told him she needed to dilapidate her armpits.
She also once informed him that she intended to vote tactfully at an upcoming election.
And John Cochrane recalls the elderly lady in an ironmonger’s who asked the chap behind the counter if he stocked “any of the wee Durex batteries”.
Buster busted
A ROMANTIC scene, in the style of Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, or perhaps Boris and Angela Rayner.
Tom Irvine from Strathaven was enjoying a pint in the bar of a Fort William hotel when he overheard a local Lothario attempting to chat up a comely wench whose accent indicated she hailed from New York.
The conversation flowed thus … “Can I buy you a drink?” says he.
“No thanks,” says she. “Come on. Just one little drink,” persists he. “Look, Buster. You’re really not my type,” insists she. “And what do you think is my type?” lilts the likely lad. “Inflatable,” lashes out the loathing lass, and stomps out the bar.
Sad surprise
“I REALISED my mum preferred my twin brother,” sighs reader Alex Briggs, “when she asked me to help blow up balloons for his surprise birthday party.”
Hot and bothered
ROCK musician Paul Simpson is a scouser who has recently moved to Glasgow, and he finds himself more than a tad perturbed by the culinary delights on offer in his adopted hometown.
For the very first time he has been confronted by that darkened, doughy delicacy that is the well-fired roll.
Paul – who has played with several bands, including The Teardrop Explodes – notes that the rolls are promoted as being baked at a higher temperature.
“Higher temperature than what?” he wonders. “The surface of the sun?”
After studying the list of goodies that go into making each roll, he adds: “That’s a long list of ingredients … for carbon.”
Brought to book
VISITING his local library, reader Kurt McGill asked the librarian if she had any books on paranoia. She whispered back: “They’re right behind you.”
Party animals
A DIARY yarn about roguish revelries reminds a Milngavie reader of the occasion when two female students from Dundee found themselves discussing a party that had been held the previous night.
“Aye, she passed out stoatious ontae the flair,” said one of the young ladies, clearly appalled. “You could even see her knickers!”
Sounding a note of even greater disapproval, her friend replied: “Knickers? At a pairty?”
Traffic jamming
MADCAP malapropisms, continued. The uncle of reader Margaret Thomson arrived home from work a little bit late. He explained that there had been a crash on the main road, and the police had put an accordion round the accident scene.
Making a splash
A STORY about a hyper-intelligent cat reminds Bryce Drummond from Kilmarnock of a dog he owned called Dudley, who could read. Says Bryce: “He once saw a sign under a leaking roof in a public building, which stated: ‘Attention: Wet Floor’ … so Dudley did.”
Delay date
CONSCIENTIOUS reader Beverley Connolly gets in touch to say: “Just a quick reminder for everybody. The second of May is Procrastination Awareness Day.”
Sleep aid
EXHAUSTED Diary correspondent Mary Rushton tells us: “I’m thinking of sleeping on my husband’s side of the bed tonight. Apparently from that side, you don’t hear the kids wake up at night.”
Fatal attraction
THE strange things you notice while abroad. Visiting Canada a few years ago, reader Richard Dougherty spotted hanging from a wall a brilliantly astute poster which was advertising the work of a local night school. On it was written: “Whatever you do, please don’t join our class on reverse psychology.” Read Lorne Jackson’s Diary every day in The Herald