WE are a deep thinking lot here at The Herald. The diarist, for instance, regularly challenges entrenched beliefs, preconceived ideas and prevailing opinions by opting for links sausage instead of lorne in the breakfast bap. To bolster this sense of intellectualism, the sports editor once commented that I reminded him of Auguste Rodin’s bronze sculpture, The Thinker. “Ah yes, an alluring, philosophical man captured in sombre meditation and battling with a powerful internal struggle?,” the diarist suggested. “No, a bloke in the scuddy constantly plootering with his chin resting on his hand when he should be filling this ruddy back page.” It was at that point, I shuffled off to put some clothes on.

In the world of golf, meanwhile, the deep thinking has extended to the scribblers on the beat. In the build up to the BMW Championship, Aussie golfer Marc Leishman was confronted with a fairly mind-mangling question. “Do you know what you don’t know?,” he was asked amid a crushingly awkward silence. “Do I know what I don’t know?” Leishman responded. “Er, no.”

It was the golfing equivalent of the Donald Rumsfeld wordy monstrosity when he blethered on about there being known knowns, known unknowns and unknown unknowns. Strangely enough, the judicial panel of Scottish fitba referees were confronted with known knowns and possibly some known unknowns during the Auld Firm game. But goodness knows how they didn’t know what do about punishing naughty Rangers stud-thruster, Allan McGregor . . .

THE Hammers are taking a hammering. West Ham have lost their first four league games for only the second time in the club’s history. They need the passion of old fan favourite, Julian Dicks, a man so hard he brushed his teeth with a chisel. “Julian Dicks is everywhere,” gushed a radio commentator at a typically all-action display. “It’s like they’ve got eleven Dicks on the field.” Funnily enough, that’s exactly what the brassed off fans think about the current crop on the pitch . . .

SAMBA stars Richarlison and Andreas Pereira were captured on camera singing songs as part of their induction into the Brazilian national football team. Musical initiations have become a big thing in recent years. In the rowdy world of domestic rugby, meanwhile, certain Howe of Fife players with a penchant for peculiar initiation acts with bottles never quite hit the high notes. It was more a case of shrieking, ahem, a bum note.

IT ain’t half hot mum. Novak Djokovic’s win over John Millman in the quarter-finals of the US Open featured an impromptu wardrobe change as Millman disappeared for six minutes mid-set to prise himself out of garments drookit with sweat. The heat in New York has been fearsome while the Djokovic tie was played in 86 per cent humidity. This diary, meanwhile, is regularly played out in 100 per cent stupidity.

ALL roads lead to Ramsbottom this weekend for the World Black Pudding Throwing Championships. Hundreds of pudding chuckers will descend on the Lancashire town and hurl the local delicacy on to a 20ft high plinth in a bid to dislodge a dozen Yorkshire puddings. It’s a bit like feeding time at The Herald staff canteen. Black pudding throwing is said to date back to the War of the Roses. Legend has it that during the final battle in Stubbins, the troops ran out of ammunition and resorted to throwing food at each other. It sounds all very familiar to the diarist. This is how the daily editorial conferences on the sports desk tend to pan out, after all ...

IT’S teenage kicks. Luke Matheson became the youngest player to trot out in the colours of the mighty Rochdale during the week at the age of just 15. Of course, Matheson, who emerged as an early sub and ended up as man of the match, is a wizened veteran compared to Mauricio Baldivieso who made his debut for Bolivian side Aurora as a 12-year-old back in 2009. Apparently, the hoopla surrounding Baldivieso’s appearance took the heat off the hapless Aurora goalkeeper at the time. The conversations in the crowd about dropping balls wasn’t about the calamitous custodian for a change . . .