John Gibson: Tales from a Princes St tailback

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A FAREWELL to arms? Don’t you believe it. In two wars I’ve shouldered arms, that you and your loved ones may live in peace and quiet. The qualities of life and you’ve got to forage for them.

But there’s something of the ex-serviceman about your columnist that’s telling me I’ve one more self-imposed duty before they sound the Last Post.

Stems from seeing Lothian buses early afternoon nose-to-tail, choc-a-bloc and running on empty (one passenger on a 26, two on a 1).

I’m planning to leap from one bus roof to another all the way from the East to the West End. Near enough the entire length of the street.

Cameras out. A game-for-a-laugh crowd-puller, it’ll be an all-ticket affair for spectators. Cheaper than a Stones concert. Takings to a charity of your choice after consultation with the polis.

You think I’m joking. Well, I’m loath to let the Royal Air Force down. Maybe me and Lesley Hinds hand-in-hand?

Fat chance

Bedsprings eternal. NHS beds are being reinforced to accommodate heavyweight patients. Pampering for the obese.

Too late for Cyril Smith. Sleazy Cyril, 29 stones in his prime, his heaviest, would have welcomed the mighty mattresses.

He’s gone upstairs and he had a bit of bother at the pearly gates, apparently.

Afterwords . .

. . . That statue of Fergie newly unveiled at Old Trafford, to my eyes, from a distance, it looked more like Les Dawson.