Talking Point, with Ron Harris

HAVING decided tae jack in this newspaper gemme, ah’ve hit oan a new career – professional gambler!

Aye, look oot folks; here comes Harris the Hustler.

Now, you poor sowls who read mah trash every week will probably be calling for a Steward’s Enquiry at this point.

“Haw-hay,” says you,”Did you no’ say ages ago that you’d never, in your entire puff, laid a bet in a bookies?”

This was – and remains – true but events last week in a certain Lanark shop have opened mah eyes tae an unearned world o’ riches, based entirely oan Lady Luck belatedly taking a wee shine tae me.

Y’see, in a certain licensed grocery emporium roond frae mah flat in Bannatyne Street, every purchase last week was accommpanied by a complimentary scratch card.

Mah first go at this won me a buckshee bar o’ yon Cadbury’s Crispello, a sorta new Brit version o’ yon Ferrero Rocher hings ye gie your maw oan her birthday now you cannae find Newberry Fruits oan sale onywhere.

Weel, did ah no’ get EXACTLY the same result the very next day, stirring the memory that winning streaks o’ luck always go in threes.

Therefore, it is a total certainty that the next bet ah lay will come home and so this week’s Euromillions has something like seventy million quid just awaiting delivery intae mah greedy paws.

But, haud hard there; wae mah luck, it might no’ turn oot that simple.

Indeed, whit if cruel fate rules that, instead o’ jackpotting the dosh, ah win seventy million Cadbury’s Crispello bars instead?

Now, up until noo, ah’ve largely avoided yon curse o’ the Scottish male, obesity. Just think, however, whit seventy million Crispello’s wid dae tae mah health, never mind the auld snakehips!

Ah can hear the BBC Scotland bulletin noo’: “Scotland’s fattest man, Ron Harris, has died. The neds oan the steps of Lanark Sheriff Court describe his condition as ‘satisfactory’...”

Then comes the big question ower the funeral; State or just a wee, cheapo £10 million family-and-freends-and-maist-o’-HM Armed Forces do?

Dinnae dismiss this as pure fantasy; President Eck, distraught at the passing o’ the only man in Scotland tae make him look slim by comparsion, wid probably order the Full Works.

Of course, me being hauf Proddy and hauf Kaflick, wid present a problem as tae where tae haud the funeral service and they would probably hit oan a spot in Lanark exactly between Greyfriars Kirk and St Mary’s Church.

This being the public bar o’ the Horse and Jockey, at least a 100 per cent turn-oot o’ mah newspaper colleagues wid be assured.

Ach; whit am ah worried aboot. Do they no’ say that us ageing Jocks are getting fitter?

The statistics state that the average Scot walks 900 miles a year.

Mind you, yon figures also record we drink, oan average, 22 gallons o’ beer annually.

Now, by mah reckoning, that means us fellas are getting 41 miles tae the gallon. No’ hauf bad, eh!

PS: Ah’ve just checked the Euromillions numbers. Ach weel; see youse again here next week, ah suppose...