ONLY THE cruellest of cruel hearts could fail to sympathise with Lisa Baxter, the 18-year-old from Gullane whose hands have been scarred for life after a too-close encounter with a rare white lion at a safari park in New Zealand. However, one's sympathy is tempered with astonishment at the stupidity of Ms Baxter who absolved the beast of blame. I should think so too!

More often than not the poor beast is put down by way of retribution. Why people persist in thinking animals should behave as if they were stuffed beggars belief.

Looking good for anyone's age
SOME sad numpties, I gather, were fooled by a headline in one of the red tops suggesting that one of its feral paparazzo had got a pic of Queen Tupperware frolicking in a red bikini in a waterfall at Balmoral. The Queen in question, it transpired, was Dame Helen Mirren, the actress. This caused more than the usual hoopla because she is 62 and ought to look like a saggy bag. That she does not appears to have shocked folk who don't get out much. That she looks infinitely better and sexier than most of the Wags a third of her age has had some twerps wondering if the pic had in some way been doctored. May they hang their heids in shame! The fact is Dame Helen is in tip-top condition, not just for her age, but for any age. If only I could look like that, I thought, before appreciating how weird that would be, me being the current caber-tossing champion at the Tranent Hielan Games and not an Oscar-winning actress. One sensible pundit noted that in history all the best-looking birds are older, including Cleopatra and Marie Antoinette. "Ripe coxes," he added, "are far, far better than green crab apples." Hear, hear! Now men have the equivalent of that shot of Daniel Craig, aka 007, emerging from the briny in his trunks to ogle. Nothing brighter has happened this horrible summer.

Enough to turn a man T total
I WAS unable to make my annual visit to T in the Park in Fifeshire, being otherwise engaged at the World Pipe-and-Slipper Championships in Carnoustie. As still-conscious readers may recall, I was at T in the P last year but, sadly, had to leave just as my dear friend Richard Jobson and his fellow Skids were about to do their stuff. Thus I heard barely a note of the music. Not that this is primarily on the minds of the attendees, many of whom arrive with enough drugs and drink soon to become oblivious to events. Reports suggest the behaviour of the crowd has reached rock bottom. No-one I have spoken to was surprised to learn that a man had been stabbed. You may blame this on the quality of the music: I cannot possibly comment. Drink and drugs and general loutishness doubtless played their part. What Fifeshire has done to deserve this I cannot say. People now use its once verdant fields as open-air toilets. I blame Tennent's and their awful lager. One sip and you can feel your brain cells melting.

You'll have had your heritage
EMBRA may be about to lose its World Heritage status. Don't tell me you didn't know it had one! This is one of those awards that is in the gift of Unesco, the organisation which made Embra a World City of Literature. Say no more. Except that having made it a WCL it stepped back and let us pick up the tab. How cute is that? Unesco says it has a number of concerns about Embra, in particular a proposed development at Caltongate to the east of Waverley station. I, too, am concerned about this, mainly because anything new is invariably worse than anything old. In Caltongate this will take some doing because the proposed development is on the site of a former bus depot. Opponents to this scheme argue "it will erode the character of the Old Town", which is full of shops selling tourist tat and winos howling at tourists and EmSpees. What, one wonders, does Unesco think about them? Or, indeed, the World City of Literature? Any chance of us losing that status too?

If it needs explaining, don't bother
THE New Yorker has got into a spot of bother over its current cover, which shows Barack Obama and his missus dressed as terrorists and saluting each other with their fists.

Meanwhile, in the hearth of what looks like the Oval Office, the Stars and Stripes are burning brightly.

According to my dear friend David Remnick, editor of The New Yorker, the cover is meant to be satirical, a swipe at those in the US who continue to spread rumours about Mr O, his antecedents and his intentions when and if he becomes president.

Mr O himself, it seems, is not amused. Like many of his fellow Americans he thinks the joke will be lost on dumbos who'll miss the satire and take the cartoon at face value.

One sympathises. Therein lies the problem of satire.

Look, for instance, how it backfired on Sir Salmonella Rooshdie. Be too subtle and you're asking for trouble. Alternatively, be too direct and there's no surprise and, consequently, no guffaw.

The problem with The New Yorker cover is that it's not in the least funny, which Mr Remnick, by pointing out in advance what its intended target is, seems to have admitted.

Jokes, like poems, ought never to require explanation. On top of which, the drawing is crude and ugly. All in all a bad day at the office for Mr Remnick and co. Tut, tut.

Send dribbling fops back south
THE world as we know it may be changed utterly on Thursday when the result of the Glasgow East by-election is announced. A by-product of the by-election has been the arrival on our doorstep of snooty hacks, some of whom are expats, who couldn't get out of the country fast enough but who can't wait to get back into it whenever an excuse arises. One such is A A Gill, whose initials stand for Alcoholic Anonymous. Mr Gill writes for the Sunday Times about food. Apparently this qualifies him to write about politics. He should stick to swallowing stewed slugs through straws. "Shettleston," he says, as men prone to nosebleeds are wont to do, "makes the rough margins of Liverpool look like the Chelsea Flower Show." Petal!

Enough, though, about dribbling fops. One of the more fascinating questions due to be answered four days hence is which of the socialist parties will come first? The Scottish Socialist Party has reason to be hopeful because its candidate, Frances Curran, may steal a few votes from her Labour namesake, Margaret Curran, "the banshee from Baillieston". Solidarity, meanwhile, is counting on the charisma of its leader, Thomas a Sheridan. Its candidate, Tricia McLeish, above, says she wants to ban air guns and end war and nuclear weapons, though I'm not sure which comes first.

In what looks like being a close fight the influence of the Murdoch papers ought not to be discounted. Not, I hasten to add, that His Rupeness is taking a huge interest in events in Easterhouse and environs. It is worth noting, however, that in the heroic contest between St Thomas and the News of Screwballs various members of the SSP testified against Sheridan.

Moreover, this week the Sun's Scottish political editor, Andra Nichol, awarded Frances Curran eight out of 10 at a hustings and spoke droolingly of her passion and talent. Hmmm. In contrast, he gave Tricia McLeish a measly two out of 10. Double hmmm. I trust no-one is reading any bias into this. It may be worth noting, however, that at the launch of Mr Nichol's bestselling novel, The Unbearable Frightfulness of Page Three, the turnout of SSP'ers was more than they get for their AGM. Interesting, non? Not even a wee bit?

Ae farewell, and then forever
MUCH ado has been made about Maggie Thatcher's funeral. Before I chunter on, may I remind you she is not deid. For now, though, we have learned that three million quid has been put aside for a state farewell. In some left-leaning quarters this has produced an outbreak of hives. Some folk just don't know how to have fun. I do hope, however, that when she does finally shuffle off we Scots will be given the opportunity to say cheerio to her in a befitting manner. In my mind's ear I hear my dear friend Harry Reid, who once famously managed to bend his knee in the Iron Maiden's presence, softly crooning "ae fond kiss and then we sever...."