The pool of comedy writers at BBC Radio Scotland had no idea what was coming their way. What a great story to tell someday on Jimmy Fallon when my buddy Jimmy asks about my earliest writing credits and discovers they came from a show in Scotland. I’ve never even been there. I didn’t even need to, as I worked remotely.

As soon as I got the job, I started digging for information. First, the easy way, with videos, but I quickly realized I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Also, they had really bad teeth. And some weird mutant animals. On abandoned islands. Partly destroyed by pirates. In the fifteenth century. All the neighbors on those islands knew each other and “supported” one another, especially when rough weather didn’t allow boats to bring them their weekly food supplies. What a nightmare.

Speaking of nightmares, let’s all wish a happy birthday to world legend Monty Don, who turned 70 this week! It goes without saying that bets must have already begun on whether Monty or his dog, Ned, will meet Jesus first. That’s the kind of fascinating news we had to write one-liners about.

Everything in Scotland breathes fun and positivity. For instance, they have a park called the Helix with two dead horses’ heads rising from the grass in a field. Even they couldn’t escape. There’s also a church bell from a World War I battleship brought to the surface after 108 years. It should only take another 108 years for the altar, 108 more for the organ, and eventually we’ll have enough parts to rebuild the entire church.

Just kidding. I’ll have you know that the Scottish language is lovely, even if every word sounds like a llama stuttering. Gaelic speakers are fighting hard to create Gaelic-only language centers in the north of the island, in between two Scotch whiskies. I guess they’ll also be learning Ancient Egyptian, Old Norse, and Latin in the hope of one day communicating with a newly discovered species of pterosaur from 200 million years ago. Who will probably beg to be cryonized again to avoid getting spit-stuttered on by llamas.

Sometimes, when the legend Rod Stewart isn’t performing on Glastonbury’s Pyramid Stage, filling the local town with buses packed with nursing home residents desperate to find their sarcophagi, Scottish local news turns into a whale of a time. Like when the cat from Glasgow that accompanied children on their daily walks to school was named a finalist in the Cats Protection National Cat Awards. Or when Jobby the parrot went missing. I guess we should have checked whether he had turned into a statue next to the dead horses’ heads rising from the grass at the Helix.

But that’s nothing compared to when Royal Mail raised stamp prices again. It is indeed yet another blow to consumers. Especially those who still use stamps. Or who know what a stamp is. Let’s march in protest! But only after buying a crown mug and that set of nine floral soaps at the Buckingham Palace Shop. I mean, we all have to do our part for the maintenance of the official royal residence in Holyrood. No, that’s not a typo. It really is called Holyrood. Apparently, there was already a patent filed for something called Hollywood, so they did their best with whatever letters they had left. They added the “R” to make sure the stuttering llama sound remained accurate.

But what really gets the Scottish going is the myth of the Red Door of Glasgow, which is still sparking fear across Scotland. It is said that there is something strange, secret, or disturbing behind it. I believe some Scots think the red door might lead to their impending doom: scholarly books, social diversity, and sobriety.

Surprisingly, none of my jokes made the cut. I suspected they had never opened my Word files. So I sent them a royalty-free picture I found on Shutterstock. Of a Scottish man in a kilt playing the bagpipes. They answered:

“Sorry, Zoé, we don’t have the possibility of doing visual humour here. It’s a radio show.”

I listened to their latest broadcast and realized they had only picked the other male writers’ scatological jokes. That’s when I remembered that the national Scottish dish is haggis. That it is made of sheep heart, liver, and lungs. And that the dish is widely known to be so repulsive that it was banned from import into the US. Which I thought was a good statement by the US government. We need more sheep detectives.

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Zoé Mahfouz is an award-winning French actress, content creator, screenwriter, and writer whose work spans fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. She holds a Master’s in Screenwriting from the London Film School and has received international film festival recognition for her comedy screenplays, including at Canadian Screen Award-qualifying events. Her work has appeared in over 80 journals worldwide, with pieces translated and anthologized in Japanese publications, notably Ginyu and The Asahi Shimbun. She is the author of the critically acclaimed, PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize–nominated ADHD in D Minor (North Meridian Press, 2026), as well as the chapbooks Harper’s Order (Black Sunflowers Poetry Press, 2026) and Borges Must Be Rolling in His Grave (Dancing Girl Press, 2025).