Eating deep-fried confectionary doesn’t get tougher than this!

KEVIN CASH, resident Money saving expert and king of the grips, on city centre conveniences.

I loves a bittie value, so I wiz horrified fan I heard the Cooncil’s thinking o’ upgrading the Union Terrace lavvies at a cost o’ 2.5 million notes.  How much!?  I’ve recently daen up my en-suite (well, the pail that I’ve pit in the eaves o’ my hoose) so I ken a thing or two about chuntie improvement programmes.

Funcy urinals – waste of money!  Mak dae wi the auld Pittodrie system instead: a great muckle trough running the length o the fleer.  Or we could ging a’ Continental, and jist dig a dirty great hole in the grun.  Thrifty!

Wash basins – there’s nae need for movement sensor operated taps.  A basic twisty-twosty job fae Poundland will dae ye.  And half the cost, and save yer watter heatin’ bills, by only fittin the cauld een.  Oor peely wally North East bodies are acclimatised to one temperature – Baltic – so play it cool.  That’s the value!

Hand-dryers – nithin’ bit a needless luxury.  If yer haunds are weet, just rub them oan the jaicket o’ the boy next to ye.  Or, if hot air is absolutely necessary, get Barney Crockett tae lecture ivery chunty-user and hand-washer in the place.  He’s got enough o’ it for abody.

 

J. FERGUS LAMONT, Arts and Restaurant Critic, speaks on a recent gourmet experience.

I was most intrigued to watch the final of Celebrity Masterchef on Friday.  I cried “bravissimo!” at the sight of Danny Mills’ chocolate fondant and wept with joy at Emma Kennedy’s Isles Flottant.  However, not even Ms Kennedy’s most exquisite offering could hold a candle to the repast I sampled at the weekend. I was en route to a major art exhibition at the Lost Gallery, and – fittingly – I was lost.  In Stonehaven, I stumbled upon a rustic eatery named the Carron Fish Bar.  Inside, I espied signs proclaiming “no endorsement” from Mars for their products.  Struck by this public rejection of the corporate giant, I reasoned the restaurant’s fare must be the kind of fairtrade whole-food that forms my staple diet.  I ordered “the speciality of the house”, and was presented with a Deep-Fried Mars Bar.

It was beyond words. Thick, chocolaty, but with an outer crust redolent of tar macadam, the taste was indescribable, primarily because I burnt my tongue so badly that my tastebuds were destroyed.  But the texture, and the smell!  Suggestive of the cocoa plantations of the Ivory Coast, and promising pleasures naughtier than a tipsy Nigella!  I was moved to order a further five which I ate there and then, forcing them into my blistered maw between whimpers of joy, before seizing the wide-eyed girl behind the counter and embarking upon upon a passionate declaration of my admiration of this wondrous foodstuff.  So impassioned was I, indeed, that I passed out and awoke in hospital.  Be assured, however, that I shall be returning as soon as my blood cholesterol reading has fallen to a safe level, and after I have overturned the interdict preventing me from entering the premises.

View for the Midden: JOCK ALEXANDER, presenter of MTV (Meikle Wartle Television), on the trials and tribulations of rural life

Weel it’s bin a remarkable wik here in Meikle Wartle, efter it emerged that candid photos hid been taen by surreptitious means.  At’s richt, siven grainy oot o focus shots o’ Feel Moira workin oot in the fields durin’ that one hot day last wik, topless. The village has nivver seen the like! It turns oot that she wiz “papped” by local photography expert Billy “the Snapper” Knapper, fa’d been hidin up a tree in Moira’s gairden, overlookin’ the field. A’ the evidence pointed tae him, such as the empty film cases, a discarded wallet, and o’ course Billy himself, fa hid fallen aff the tree and got trapped in Feel Moira’s whirly.  Verra few o’ us accepted Billy’s explanation that he wiz up the tree lookin for spurgie’s eggs but we still freed him and took him doon the Chemist so he could get his cuts and grazes dressed.  And so that we could get the photies developed.  Faith aye.

 

PC BOBBY CONSTABLE, local community policeman, on the City’s Fresher’s Week festivities

Late September is my favourite time o’ year.  The leaves is turnin’ russet, it’s gettin’ caul enough fer Atholl brose an’ me and the boys fae the station hiv usually sewn up the Bowling Club pennant by noo.  Sadly, ‘ere’s jist one thing fit ruins it. Fresher’s wik.

Dinna get me wrang, I’ve nihin’ against students – the boys fae Drug Squad’s awyse seeking oot their company.  But I’ve spent the hale summer enjoyin’ my evenin’ shifts tucking into a vanilla slider doon ‘e beach or rakin’ fer lost gowf ba’s at Auchmill.  Last wik I wis up tae ma oxters in stolen traffic cones, drunk an’ disorderlies an’ fowk flaggin doon the squad car thinking it’s a taxi.  An’ ‘is is supposed tae be the flower o wir youth?

Friday night wis i’ worst.  Belmont Street wiz like the fall o the Roman Empire: fowk peein’ and boakin’ awye!  Fit a work it is tae clean!  Widnae be sae bad if they boaked first an’ then sluiced it awa efterwards, but ye canna teach these young fowk nithin nowadays.

Mind how you go!