Tam Cowan: "Dad plans to leave the house to me and my sis but the council might object."

GOOD news, folks. According to reports, the two cavalry horses injured after bolting through the streets of London have been discharged from an equine medical centre.

Or, as the old joke dictates it SHOULD be called, a horsepital.

As I insisted last week, my dad could have stopped the two runaway horses in their tracks simply by putting a fiver on them.

My auld man has been the bookies’ pal for most of his 90 years (as he prefers to put it, he gives generously to sick animals).

I remember my mum asking us years ago if we’d had a good day at the zoo with my dad.

And my wee sister said: “Yes, it was great fun. Especially when one of the animals finished first at 8/1.”

Sure enough, when he took ill a couple of weeks ago, the panic-stricken manager of his local Coral betting shop sent him a defibrillator, two canisters of oxygen and a free subscription for BUPA.

All kidding aside, though, why would you even THINK of going private when we are blessed with our brilliant NHS?

(Hands up, guilty as charged. But hey, I’ve done alright for myself and you can’t f*** about with your health…)

Tam Snr has spent the last two weeks in Ward 9 at Wishaw General Hospital and I know he’d want me to take this opportunity to thank the doctors and nurses who’ve been absolutely brilliant.

These angels go WAY beyond the call of duty and I’ll tell you what, dear reader, while this column steers well clear of politics (a bit like the Lib Dems, I suppose), any party that promises a wage hike for our NHS staff will definitely get my vote at the next election.

Seriously, if Lord Sutch of the Monster Raving Loony Party vowed to give our hospital staff an extra few quid, I’d put my cross in his box.

He’s long since dead, of course. I only know this because he hasn’t been quoted as the next leader of the SNP.

(I keep hearing every man and his dug describing John Swinney – the favourite to succeed Humza Yousaf – as “a safe pair of hands”. If that’s the case, surely Celtic should make him an offer to replace Joe Hart?)

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve made a daily pilgrimage to Wishaw General. The way I’m carrying on, you’d think my old boy had money (he’ll love that joke) but he hasn’t got a pot to pee in, which might explain the catheter (he’ll like that one even better).

He did tell us he wants me and my wee sister to have the house, but I’m sure the council will have something to say about that…

I’ve been up at the hospital every morning for 8am (well, visiting starts at 3pm and I have to find a parking space) and, when I left yesterday’s Daily Record at the bottom of his bed, I leaned over my dear old dad and said: “Do you want me to give all the staff in Ward 9 a wee mention in tomorrow’s column?”

His faint response from beneath his oxygen mask was barely audible, the poor soul.

So I leaned in even closer and said: “Will I give the nurses a thumbs up in the paper?”

With a frail hand, he ushered me towards him and weakly muttered another few words which I couldn’t understand.

So I very carefully removed his mask.

And he said: “You’re standing on my oxygen line, ya ****!!!” Get well soon, Da.

PS. Talking of the auld yins, a special mention for 89-year-old Record reader Mrs Margaret Eyre from Irvine who, according to her son Ian, never misses this column and is my No1 fan.

Ian asked if it would be possible to send his old dear a signed photo.

Sorry pal, that’s how it starts. Haven’t you seen Baby Reindeer…?

PPS. Even older than my dad and the lovely Margaret is a coin that was up for auction this week.

One of the first ever struck in Scotland, it was produced in the reign of King David I between 1124 and 1153. One other claim to fame. It’s apparently the same coin the ref tossed at kick-off the last time Rangers conceded a penalty at Ibrox…