Monster ink
A PENSIONER at the bingo in Clydebank pulled down her cardigan and showed her pals a little flying bird that she had tattooed on her shoulder. When asked why she had waited until she was 70 to have a tattoo, she replied: "Ah would have had it done years ago, but ah wis always afraid whit my mither would say."

Making a pointe
IS the west end of Glasgow still populated by the genteel of the city, asks an expat. All we can say is that a woman meeting her friends for cocktails in Byres Road explained that she had come off her bike because of a huge pot-hole. Asked if she was hurt, she told them: "Fortunately, I remembered my ballet training, and did a beautiful arabesque into the bushes."

Pail face
WE did end our exciseman stories, but wanted to squeeze in the story Ian Maclean of Bishopton tells of a Glasgow haulage contractor which delivered bulk whisky from Speyside. One driver, on occasion, would deliver a load of 4000 gallons, which was always three gallons short on delivery. But with the seals on the tank intact, no-one could accuse him of anything.

On retirement, he confessed that while cleaning the inside of the tank, he had screwed a hook into the top and hung a bucket on it. "When they filled the tank, they filled the bucket, but when they emptied the tank " he explained.

Cutting rejoinder
WE are told about a worker who had emergency treatment at a Highland hospital for cutting the tip off his finger. A junior member of staff was filling out a form about the accident, and asked if it had been done with a power saw or a handsaw.

"Trust me," he replied, "if it had been a handsaw I would have stopped sooner."

Chain reaction
TALKING of saws, Simon Lord in New Zealand tells us of an airline passenger at Auckland who complained about the smell of petrol on board. The flight attendants discovered a petrol-driven chainsaw in a bag in the overhead locker. The plane was delayed while it was removed and the owner identified, who told crew that security had stopped him but let him through because it wasn't on their list of things to confiscate.

Lead astray
THE death of Jeff Torrington, who wrote about his early days in Glasgow's Gorbals, reminds us of when he won the Whitbread Prize for Swing Hammer Swing!. Asked why it took him 30 years to write it, he replied: "I couldn't find my pencil."

After being presented with his winning cheque for £20,500 at a dinner in London by Whitbread chairman Sir Michael Angus, Jeff returned to his seat and whispered to his wife: "I've lost the cheque."

He searched his pockets, but no joy. Sir Michael realised he had swept the cheque up with his papers at the lectern, and it was quietly presented to Jeff for a second time.