I stayed up all night to see where the sun went and then it dawned on me. Not just any joke (yes, madam, I assure you it's a joke) but it's a lexophilia joke.

This week I'm coming out. Yes, it's true: I'm a lexophile. A lover of words and word play. It's probably why I have trodden the boards for half a century proclaiming other people's words. 

The New York Times has an annual Lexophilia competition and recent winners have included this: "This girl said she recognised me from the Vegetarians Club, but I swear I’ve never met herbivore."

Or how about: "I know a guy who’s addicted to drinking brake fluid, but he says he can stop any time."

For a bit of fun I thought I would look at some of the words that have shaped my long life - particularly in an age where woke folk want to ban stuff and cancel the language.  I fear that political correctness is putting the tin lid on good old Scots sayings, if you pardon the colloquial expression.

It's a topic I've explored before as one of Stevenston's oldest surviving linguists - at least I think that's what they called me, but my hearing might be failing me. I'm not referring here to the strangling of grammar, as often witnessed from Glaswegian Storm Huntley on Channel 5 and on BBC Scotland football programmes.

He may have been a fine Scotland central defender and chip shop owner, but Willie Miller forever insists that the goalie "has went" the wrong way, while ex-Gers Ayrshire pundit Kris Boyd tells us the striker has tried "for to" score.  (Whatever happened to that good old description of "tucking it in the onion bag"?)

I've been revisiting that learned lexicon entitled The Patter, by Michael Malone, which records for posterity west of Scotland sayings that 'wur mammy' or granny used with gay abandon. (Editor's Note: I think you can't use that phrase any more either.)

That couthy wee expression "ah, but" takes me back to my council house when my mum said "it's time you were in your bed" with me replying "ah but, ah want to stay up for Man from Uncle." Yes, I know that dates me.

Ancient phrases still pop up now and again, such as "Am ah right, am ah wrang". The question is purely rhetorical as no-one actually expects to be told they are wrong.

"There's no way that shower are goany win the league, am ah right, am ah wrang?" You're right son. 

Inevitably, some phrases are about to die out. Who remembers being told that if your mother found out that you'd broken the vase "she'll have an Annie Rooney?"  Although there was an old music hall song of the same name, what it had to do with going into a rage is lost in the mist of time.

I remember a woman in my street who was called Baggie Aggie owing to her ill-fitting over large clothes. "Heh, baggie Aggie, did ye get that dress at Blacks of Greenock?" was the call. (Blacks made tents.)

One place where old phrases are repeated are at my beloved walking football sessions for old guys, where our referee Pat Rall will say things like "Just sit on yer a*** and cool yer beans, ma decision is final." (Expletives have been removed to protect the innocent.)

We have a one-eyed player who goes "birlin" doon the wing, but still insists he's no' running. We have a few old boys who can still "blooter" the ba', and we have others who just get blootered at the pub now and again. One of our ex-Glaswegian contingent likes to shout "ya dancer" when he scores occasionally. ("Ya dancer" is, of course, an exclamation of joy.)

In this age where you can't be sexist, mysoginistic or any other 'istics', I believe words like 'dreep' are 'down the swanny' or 'doon the pan'. In my school days, a dreep was the tall skinny guy.

"Ye want to see the big glaikit-looking dreep she's hinging about wi' noo."

When the photographer took the picture of me on this page many, many moons ago I asked him not to make me look glaikit. Judge for yourselves. (And I know, madam, I ought to have an up-to-date sophisticated, slimmer photo taken.)

Part of the study of language is something yon professors call dialectology, which, for example, means that how folk speak in Glasgow is different from other parts of the country, like Embra.

I often describe the difference between Glasgow and Edinburgh in the following terms:  If you see a crowd of people walking arm in arm down the street in Edinburgh, they call it a festival. If you see a crowd of them walking arm in arm in Glesga it's called a breach of the peace.

Right, this Largs lexophile has run out of space, so ah'm gonnae gie yeez peace...till the next time.

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Thought for the Week: You can watch a thief but you can't watch a liar.

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I don't often comment in this column on national issues but, honest to God: Sir Iain Livingstone must surely go down as the worst Chief Constable in the history of policing in Scotland.

He's about to walk out the door of the police HQ, with his golden pension for life, leaving an alleged problem that he was part of NOT solving for a decade. Exit stage left, a clown in a uniform.

Despite being the Chief Constable for six years, and the Depute Chief for four before, he suddenly blurts out that his polis force are "institutionally racist, mysoginistic, discriminatory, homophobic" and all the rest of it, tarring every officer with the same broad brush.

The usual suspects on the left, with Humza Yousaf and activist lawyer Aamer Anwar leading the way, were rubbing their hands. See, we told you, the police are not fit for purpose.

Then, within 24 hours, Chief Livingstone bleats that he didn't mean that individual police were sexist or racist.  That's a bit like a football manager saying his team is useless, can't defend, can't score but he doesn't mean the players! It's sheer stupidity.

No wonder police officers - now at their lowest number since 2008 - are "deeply offended."