Gray's crocodile-skin shoehorn...

This morning's Herald Magazine indulges in a spot of gentle levity by asking the Holyrood parties' respective high heid yin (or in Patrick Harvie's case, male co-convenor; hence, half-heid-yin) a series of staccato personal-ish questions. Do you believe in God? Are you a lush? Are you a domestic chore? What half-finished book is propped up beside your cot? And so on.

Tavish Scott's imminent electoral immolation now seems even more richly deserved, as his first thought on being asked who makes him laugh, was Michael MacIntyre. For shame! Questioned on their extent of their tippling habits, Gray confessed to a weekend Rioja with his wife (excellent choice, if I may say so, Mr Gray) while Salmond's tastes apparently run to a beaker of non-specific red, now and again. Tavish's answer betrays a certain nervousness, quavering that he quaffs only "a moderate amount" of an undisclosed liquor. As a Shetland sheep-farmer, no doubt he's a khalua and coke man. Or perhaps toppers on a tumbler of malibu on the weekend, while popping a prolapse back in with a nudge of his bony elbow. Patrick Harvie answered with admirable frankness, conceding that he slurps "a bit too much", while Dame Bella of Doilly thoughtfully confirmed all of our suspicions, owning up to "a sherry or a gin and tonic" before her Sunday lunch.

The incongruous extravagance of one answer to the humble inquisition - What's in your fridge? - afforded a morning chortle. None fell for the obvious ploy of listing excessively frou-frou or self-indulgent groceries. The electoral peregrinations of the rest, unsurprisingly, have kept them from inspecting in detail the contents of their respective refrigerators. If, however, you are the Gray albatross, every idle question is an opportunity to re-iterate heroisms past.   In what has become a characteristic tick, the Snark felt the need once again to connect the quotidian to the exotic in a none-too-subtle punt. Just as the herbily sweet miasma of Subway apparently evoked the charnal reek of killing fields; its footlong rubberised sandwiches the firearms of insurgent would-be dictators - fling open Gray's fridge door, pass through its cooling, lambent light - and you find yourself in Africa, feasting on fierce creatures. Like the gap year student, always that bit too keen to produce his buffalo-scrotum bongos, and slap them about at public gatherings, Gray answered...

"Ground coffee and great bacon from Ballencrieff and eggs from Knowes Farm Shop. I had crocodile in Zimbabwe and caterpillars in Zambia. Neither of them are in my fridge but I'd recommend them!"

Sir, I believe you misplaced your crocodile-skin shoehorn...