WHERE would sport be without its big-money sponsors? Probably eking out a grim, poverty-stricken existence under a bridge or something. Everybody wants a piece of the action and the corporate bigwigs like nothing better than to dip their bread in sport’s sloshing gravy boat. The diarist recalls nonchalantly scrawling through an Olympics website and up popped a link to a household cleaning agent manufacturer, which was one of the “official partners”, cheerily suggesting that we should all “share in the exhilaration of the Games” by purchasing one of its products.

Presumably, nothing encapsulated the elation and dejection of courageous, inspiring athletic endeavour quite like a bottle of frothy liquid that removes stubborn limescale with a couple of squirts. The other day, the Scarlets rugby team unveiled a new kit with more sponsors on it than you could shake a stick at. And even the stick was emblazoned with a ruddy sponsor. In total, there are 18 company names splattered across the club’s red shirt and shorts. It makes a Formula One driver look like Worzel Gummidge.

Here in the guddle- down-the-couch world of Scottish football, sponsorship is harder to come by. The diarist got wind of major resources being ploughed into the game by a benefactor who was a big player in the world of kitchen appliances. Unfortunately, the deal fell through when he had an incident with a Kenwood blender and liquidated his assets ...

FOOS yer doos? Well, it’s deid actually. Forget Monty Python’s dead parrot sketch, the hallowed Hampden Park turf was the set for another avian absurdity the other night when the feathery fatality had to be cleared from the pitch by St Mirren keeper, Craig Samson, during a BetFred Cup encounter with Queens Park at the national stadium. Where’s the burdz? Even the intrepid fancier Frank McAvennie wouldn’t have touched that one. Then again?

THE Open was some show eh? Nearly a week on from that frenzied finale, there are still folk trying to re-attach their jaw to their face after it spent much of the afternoon plummeting to the floor. The absorbing nature of the denouement brought to mind whispering Ted Lowe’s description of a shimmering snooker showpiece. “The audience are literally electrified and glued to their seats.” Quite the image, Ted.

ON yer bike. The Tour de France continues to inspire a generation of folk to hop on their cycles and clog up the nation’s highways and byways with their ponderous pelotons. The current craze of Middle Aged Men In Lycra seems to be spreading across all walks of life. The other day, the diarist was blethering to a 52-year-old bloke who installed new worktops for a living. He was a Middle Aged Man In Formica. Dearie me.

GIDDYUP. If you don’t know your piaffe from your passage then read on. In the genteel world of British Dressage, that equestrian endeavour of methodical trots and calculated canters, a mule called Wallace the Great has struck a blow for equality by becoming the first such beast to win an official event. The bold Wallace, previously banned from such cuddy competitions because he’s half-horse, half-donkey, triumphed on his debut in a British Dressage Quest Club event in Gloucestershire recently after bigwigs relented on the rules. With Wallace proving his doubters wrong, you can genuinely say that the law is an ass.

PREDICTIONS are a fool’s errand. The other week oor esteemed former leader and golf enthusiast, Alex Salmond, got right behind Scotland’s Russell Knox at Carnoustie and urged the nation to put their money on the US-based Invernesian for Open Championship glory. “Knox has the sort of swing that can win big titles - compact, simple and very reliable under pressure,” reasoned Salmond. He probably wishes the SNP enjoyed that kind of swing in the referendum. Of course, Knox missed the halfway cut. When it comes to golfing gambling, don’t listen to Wee Eck. The diarist will seek out the nous of Soapy Soutar next year