JACKIE Collins, author of The Bitch, The Stud and other contemporary classics which have led to her being hailed "Hollywood's own Marcel Proust", is appearing at Glasgow's Royal Concert Hall on October 17 at an event sponsored by this throbbing organ. Once upon a time Ms Collins and I were the bosomest of buddies. We met at The Dorchester where she was staying. She was wearing a red jump suit unzipped to the navel. You could have parked a mountain bike in her cleavage. I was wearing an indestructible Harris tweed jacket in seaweed-green, grey flannels and brogues. For several days I was to be her shadow. One morning we went to The Big Breakfast, then hosted by Paula Yates, who - as was her wont - interviewed Ms Collins in bed in a negligee. Never one to miss a publicity opportunity Ms Collins invited me to join them. How could I resist? I think Ms Yates thought I was Ms Collins's gardener. It's all been downhill since The early Broon catches the Dodo READERS with elephantine memories, and perhaps girths, may recall that several months ago I rubbished the notion that Irn Broon would chuck his chips on the table and gamble on an early election. Nothing I have seen, read or heard since has persuaded me otherwise. Not so, alas, those dunderheid political pundits whose opinions are about as reliable as the weather forecast. No sooner had Irn shut his gob at Boredmouth a week or so ago than they were predicting virtually to a man an election in November - thus intruding on my birthday celebrations - and the utter obliteration of the Dodo Party. What caused this incontinent display of error-strewn rubbish was a few polls which suggested Labour was so far ahead of the Dodos it was out of sight. Few bothered to consider what manner of a man is Irn Broon. Here in the Frozen North we know better. Mr Irn does not make snap decisions or take risks. Show him a roulette wheel and he'd probably use it to make a guider. I am pleased to note that my dear friend Alf Young was also not fooled, recalling in his Herald column Mr Broon's peerless history of dithering. He did it on the road to becoming an MP, leader of the Labour Party and PM. On the plus side, he is nothing if not consistent. If he calls an election now I shall be dumfoonert. Calm down chaps, it is not going to happen!

Reaction to Dave speaks volumes MEANWHILE, much ado has been made of Casual Dave's speech at Blackhell which some sight-impaired reporters said was made without notes. In fact, he had four pages of them. Be that as it may, it was reported breathlessly, as if Dave had just discovered a cure for cancer. Surely learning to ad lib was the least his mummy and daddy could have expected from the spondulicks it cost to offload him on Eton. But so low have our expectations sunk of politicians that when one of them can speak we go into raptures. Indeed, at this year's Edinburgh Book Festival, my dear colleague Iain Macwhirter suggested that the reason why Alexei Salmonella was such a welcome change from his immediate predecessors as First Meenister was because he speaks in sentences that make sense. He can also speak without a script or an autocue. There are precious few others. One such is my dear friend Sir Ricardo Demarco. Another is Monsignor Tom Devine, historian extraordinaire. And the minister at Kirkwall Cathedral whose name escapes me.

Di, Dodi and the shoe-tying driver MONTHS of witless diversion are in prospect with the inquest into the deaths of Lady Di and Dodi. Mohamed, Dodi's dad, suspects Phil the Greek was part of a conspiracy to kill the ill-fated lovers because, he says, Di was preggers and Dodi was about to do the honourable thing and marry her. The very thought, says Mohamed, was enough to give Phil and Liz an attack of the heebie-jeebies. My old chum, Sir Magnus Merriman, scriving in The Times, says this is simply tarradiddle, and compares it to the Loch Ness Monster, the Himalayan Yeti and the slaying of JFK. Who knows what to make of it all, other than it's marvellous amunition for those of us who'd like to see Balmoral turned into a flagship Lidl and the royal family swap places with Ricky Tomlinson and his couch tatties.

I am, however, intrigued by the part played in the affair by Henri Paul, the driver of the limo in which Di and Dodi died. A character from the pages of Simenon, his every step was forensically analysed by the Daily Mail, which told us he made two visits on the night in question after 10pm to the Bar Vendome, a stone's throw from the Ritz Hotel. There, we learned, "evidence suggests" he drank two glasses of Ricard. What this evidence is was not spelled out. Thanks to the Mail, though, we now know that Ricard is "a 45% alcohol aperitif." We also know that Mr Paul was "at least twice" over the British drink-drive limit. "But," adds the Mail incredulously, Paul is shown in CCTV footage "bending down and tying his shoelaces." What can this possibly mean? That he wasn't as drunk as a skunk after all? Or that even if he was he was still capable of tying his shoelaces? How many drinks does the government say one can have before tying one's shoelaces becomes hazardous to oneself and others?

Mrs Small and the book bonfire AT last, some good news! The Happy Endings Foundation is planning a series of Bad Book Bonfires later this month. You may say that smacks of the Nazis and their book pyres in Berlin: I could not possibly comment. However, the HEF, which has 11 branches - one of which is in Glasgow - has written to school librarians among others asking them to comb their shelves for books with nasty endings and miserable story lines and get rid of them. What the response has been is anyone's guess. Mine would consist of two words: "get" and "stuffed".

The HEF was founded in 2000 by Adrienne Small, a mother of two teenagers and - here's a wee clue to her mental state - a former tax inspector. Its aims are several and include the eradication of "sad thoughts from all literature" and "to highlight the dangers of reading sad books". Mrs Small was sparked into action, she says, because of A Series Of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket which - you've guessed - made her daughter sad and miserable and gave her "a negative approach to life". But that did not apparently stop her reading its 12 sequels. She should give Kafka a go.

Among the books Mrs Small approves of are Treasure Island, in which a teenager gets his first taste of killing, and Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, in which Augustus Gloop is swept away on a river of hot melted chocolate and most likely made into fudge. Top of the Happy Endings list is Raymond Briggs's The Snowman, in which the snowman melts. How happy is that!