Two Scots, Angus and Jock, are sitting in the pub discussing Jock’s forthcoming wedding.

“Och, it’s all going grand,” says Jock. “I’ve got everything organised already: the flowers, the church, the cars, the reception, the rings, the minister, even ma stag night”.

Angus nods approvingly.

“Heavens, I’ve even bought a kilt to be married in!” continues Jock.

“A kilt?” exclaims Angus, “that’s grand. And what’s the tartan?” he asks.

“Och,” says Jock, “I’d imagine she’ll be in white …”

… because Adam Lambert is the duck’s nuts (in other words, he’s fan-fecking-tastic).

…inspire you to take up curling?

By Chris Mooney (Penguin, RRP $25)

I enjoy a good old-fashioned murder mystery and this book certainly delivers plenty of murder and mystery.

This is the third book to feature CSI Darby McCormick, a ballsy woman law enforcement officer who gets things done. Don’t be put off if you haven’t read the earlier books: I was a Darby McCormick newbie but was pulled into the story effortlessly. Sure, there were some intriguing hints at earlier storylines with mention of the heroine’s scars but they were enough to convince me to hunt out the first two books for later reading rather than offputting.

The story kicks off with an awful home invasion that leaves a woman dead and her son in hospital. The body count rises from there at breakneck speed, and ghosts from 20 years ago resurface to make the whole thing even messier.

Add to that a cop who actually seems to have no qualms about shooting the bad guys, an explosion and a spectacular little plot twist that I didn’t see coming and this book’s got it all.

Apparently, according to the interwebs, the first testicular guard “Cup” (you know, to keep the boys safe) was used in hockey in 1874. The first helmet was used in 1974.

That means it took 100 years for men to realize that their brain is also important.

No surprises there.

A New Zealander is travelling around the Greek Islands. He walks into a bar and orders a Speight’s (for the non-Kiwis out there, Speight’s is bottled weasel piss that masquerades as beer) from the New Zealand barmaid.

As she takes his order, she notices his accent and over the course of the evening they get chatting. At the end of her shift he asks if she wants to come back to his hotel.

Although she is attracted to him she says no. He then offers to pay her $200 to sleep with him. As she is travelling around the world, and is short of funds, she agrees.

The next night the guy turns up again. Again he orders Speight’s and after showing her plenty of attention, asks if she will sleep with him again for $200. She remembers the night before and is only too happy to agree.

This goes on for 5 nights.

On the 6th night the guy comes in again, orders Speight’s but goes and sits in the corner. The barmaid thinks that if she pays him more attention then, maybe she can shake some more cash out of him. So she goes over and sits next to him.

She asks him where he’s from in New Zealand. “Alexandra”, he tells her.

“So am I. What area?” she enquires. “Bridge Hill” he replies. “That’s amazing,” she says excitedly, “so am I – what Street?”

“O’Neill Crescent” he replies. “This is unbelievable … ” she says, her voice quavering; “What number?”

“Number 20″, he replies.

She is totally astonished.

“You are NOT going to believe this,” she screams, “but I’m from number 22! My parents still live there!”

“I know,” he says, “Your Dad gave me $1,000 to give to you”

(This is where, in the original joke, there’s a line that says “HE WHO DRINKS SPEIGHTS, THINKS SPEIGHTS”. However, since I don’t drink the foul stuff, I’ll offer a slightly altered final thought: Never trust a Speight’s-drinking bastard).