THE APPOINTMENT of Jack McConnell as British high commissioner to Malawi raises many important issues. Such as, what has Malawi done to deserve this? Such as, when did Jack suddenly acquire diplomatic skills which were noticeably absent during his political career? And such as, what happened to Jack's promise that when his political career was over he would do something useful by going to Malawi to teach maths?

But let us not address these questions. Let us simply rejoice that we have a relocation zone (it would be churlish to say dumping ground) for Scottish politicians who are surplus to requirements.

Jack follows in the footsteps of fellow Lanarkshire Labourite Helen Liddell, who stood down at the last Westminster election to become high commissioner to Australia. Mrs Liddell became enamoured of life down under during a visit in her capacity as secretary of state for Scotland. She mentioned this enthusiasm for Oz to prime minister Tony. He said no worries and by happy coincidence there was a job going as Britain's envoy in Canberra.

There was another happy coincidence as Helen's departure from the Airdrie & Shotts seat meant Blair's henchman and rottweiler John Reid did not have to get involved in a potentially bruising game of musical chairs after his own constituency was axed by the Boundary Commission. I always knew the Commonwealth would come in handy one day. It is such a big Commonwealth, too, with loads of possibilities for posting Scottish Labour politicians to faraway places.

Consider the chilling prospect of having Wendy Alexander as Labour leader. We can avoid all the hassle, for the lady herself and for the nation, by short-circuiting the process and giving her a diplomatic appointment.

The British Antarctic Territory might suit. The population consists of penguins and a few scientists so Wendy would not be troubled by too many callers at her igloo on the South Orkney islands. It would be cruel to subject Wendy's weans to the Antarctic's sub-zero temperatures, so another option will have to be considered. There is always the job of governor of St Helena, the British dependency 1200 miles off the coast of Africa.

It was good enough for Napoleon, who spent the last six years of his life there. If Wendy tires of the hustle and bustle of St Helena (population 4000) she can hie herself to Tristan da Cunha, where she is also governor. Tristan da Cunha is the most remote populated island in the world. The bad news is that it is a 3200-mile round trip to the nearest shops in Cape Town. The good news is that the capital of Tristan da Cunha rejoices in the name Edinburgh of the Seven Seas, so Wendy should feel quite at home really.

The concept of colonial transportation need not be restricted to Labour politicians who require to be paid off for services rendered. Rebellious MPs or MSPs could find themselves kitted out with the pith helmet and sent to carry the white man's burden in some far-flung place.

A logical posting for a mutinous Labour MP (if the species still exists) would be as governor of Pitcairn, where the population of 47 is descended from Fletcher Christian and his fellow mutineers from HMS Bounty. It may be in the middle of nowhere, halfway between New Zealand and America, but it is a land of coconuts and honey and exotic Tahitian ladies. The job is bounty appeal to someone.

When our glorious leader Alex Salmond eventually leads Scotland to independence, he will have to recruit an entire squad of diplomats. I am quite sure Salmond will not resort to cronyism and will cast a wide net.

If he is short of a Scottish consul-general for Catalunya, I am prepared to serve the nation in such a capacity.

I CONTINUE to be comforted by the concern shown by Canadian pharmacists in my general health. Not a day goes by without an email offering miracle drugs to keep the Buffer's pecker up or to contain the dark dog of depression.

Even better was the message last week promising to restore my youth for only US$300. The Canadian chemists have a magic potion which will decrease my body fat, reduce my wrinkles, restore lost hair (and the restored follicles will be luxuriantly dark and not grey) and increase my energy and sexual function.

The miracle medication will also return my liver, pancreas, heart and others organs to a state such as if I had never touched a drop of lager or ardent spirits in my whole life. There will also be significant improvement in both my vision and hearing.

The stuff on offer is human growth hormone (HGH), once very expensive and only available to Hollywood stars and lottery winners. That was in the old days when HGH was made from the pituitary glands of dead people.Now it is made synthetically which means it is cheaper and there is the added side-effect that you don't run the risk of dying from yon CJD mad burger disease.

Apparently after a one-year course, you can look 20 years younger. My only concern is that until my memory is dramatically improved, I will be wandering around the house trying to remember where I left my wee bottles of HGH.

LIKE most people, I spent much of the last week contemplating how I would spend £35 millon. It was all theory, of course, because it was a nice single mum from East Kilbride and not I who lifted the lottery loot. I am not bitter, even though Angela Kelly's winning numbers 23, 40, 42, 43, and 49 (with lucky stars 2 and 6) were a bit odd: who would choose four numbers in the forties? A wider spread of numbers - for example 14, 23, 24, 34, and 37 with lucky stars 5 and 7 - would have been much more logical. Which was why I chose them.

Ms Kelly has wisely decided not to change her life drastically but merely to upgrade it ever so slightly. I would do the same in her shoes. I am quite happy with my Renault Megane motor, my wee house in the West End of Glasgow, and a small flat in Barcelona.

I would resist the temptation to buy Hamilton Academical FC as my personal plaything. I would not upgrade to the investor's lounge at Celtic Park, not even for the pie and cup of tea at half-time. There would have to be some expenditure, if only to use up the £2m earned in interest each year. The houses in Paris, New York, Shanghai, and Melbourne would not count as luxuries but as investments and useful facilities for sending family and friends away on wee holidays.The only indulgence I came up with during the whole week of imagined wealth would be to get my chauffeur to drive my pilot to the helipad so he could helicopter to Rothesay to get some tattie scones for my breakfast from the Electric Bakery.

The Electric Bakery's tattie scones are one of the culinary wonders of the world: they are exquisitely thin and melt in the mouth. But I realised that this would be ecologically unsound. It would make more sense merely to have the Electric Bakery send the tattie scones up by motorcycle courier.

And anyway, the butler and the pilot would be much better occupied using the Lear jet to go to the Rungis market in Paris to shop for a few items not readily available in Roots and Fruits, Heart Buchanan, Mellis's cheese shop, or the other foodie fleshpots of the West End arrondissement. I might even pop along myself for the breakfast speciality in the Rungis cafeteria, a plate of tête de veau (plenty of cheek, hold the brains).

On reflection, it is perhaps just as well that I have been spared the trials and tribulations of winning the lottery. After all, who wants to feature on the front page of the Daily Record under the banner headline Tragedy of Lotto Winner Who Ate Himself to Death?