Showdoon at a saloon in the auld Wild West (End)

President Trump's new head of US Chicken ProtectionPresident Trump's new head of US Chicken Protection
President Trump's new head of US Chicken Protection
President Trump ‘s new Head of the US Chicken Protection Agency

Y’see, back in yon days, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth and no’ jist Lanark Community Cooncil, the words “nurse” and “pregnant” jist never appeared in the same sentence t’gither.

Ah understaun’ that even getting merrit required the permission o’ the Matron and it wisnae lightly granted.

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There wis even a hingover o’ this policy intae mah day; ah mind I had tae ask mah then editor for permission tae marry mah first wife. Ah wish noo he’d said: “Naw!” Ah’d be writing this in a far bigger hoose if he hud...

Onyway, as the auld dear hud been in the NHS almost frae the start, she wis fair prood o’ it. Indeed, ah hud it drummed intae me fae an early age - even afore ah started smoking - that this wis the wan big thing we hud ower oor Rich Yankee Cousins.

Oh aye; they might be the mightiest military, industrial and financial power oan the face o’ the planet BUT if ye got run doon in the road, the ambulance crews there went through yir pockets tae find yir wallet or credit card afore they’d lift a finger tae help ye.

Aye; the bahookie micht be hingin’ oot the breeks o’ Britain but at least we didn’t leave insolvent injury victims lying aboot in the street tae rot.

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Anither rare brownie point we hae ower the Yanks comes in the field o’ folk being tooled up wae guns. Or, rather, no’ being.

Ah hud a rare opportunity tae chat wae an actual Yank oan this very subject oan Saturday and it wisnae a very constructive conversation.

Y’see, yon morning I hud tired o’ the endless hurly-burly and thrill and spills o’ the Lanark social whirl and went tae seek some peace in Glescae.

Efter a morale-boosting stagger roond The Barras - which, Thank the Wee Man, is staging a recovery at last - and a visit tae Glickman’s nearby tae stock up oan some proper wine gums and jeely babies, mah homing instincts led me tae mah auld stompin’ groond in the West End.

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There - and this wull surprise ye - I entered a public hoose whaur me and the barman got chattin’ tae a seemingly pleasant lassie frae New Orleans and, oan your behauf, ah extended Scotia’s sympathies oan the previous night’s slaughter o’ folk by somewan angry at “ the Hispanic invasion of Texas”.

The fact that Texas wis originally Spanish and then Mexican had apparently escaped him; ye’d think the name “El Paso” might huv given him a hint. Sadly, oor New Orleans pal didnae appreciate the expert opinion o’ a Lanarkian hack and a Glescae barman oan her nation’s gun laws and President and naffed aff sharpish. Ah was later cheered up when ah met a Works Outing frae Lanark’s Horse and Jockey pub oan a lang breakdoon-delayed journey hame. Wan o’the party hud taken umbrage at a member o’ Central Station staff cried ‘Eddie’ because he’d scoffed at oor plight. Oor pal wis heard tae express (nae pun) the wish tae chuck ‘Eddie’ under a train in revenge. Ah pointed oot that ‘Eddie’ wid die o’ auld age lying oan the tracks afore ony moving Abellio train ran ower him. Ah also reminded him that this wis Scotland and no’ the USA. Thank God.

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