CAMBRIDGE; Weelum and Kate (née Middleton) are delighted to announce the safe arrival of George (Dod). Great-Granny chuffed to bits.

I dinna ken aboot youse, but I wis affa pleased tae see Wills and Kate get their bairnie this wik. Being born at the end of July, means that just like me, he’s a Cancer. So he’ll hae a strong sense of tradition and is destined tae rise tae the top of his field. Which must be a relief tae his mum and dad. If Kate had hud on for just a few mair oors he’d have been a Leo, and Prince Philip would’ve dangled him aff the balcony at Buckingham Palace for a chorus of ‘The Circle of Life’.

I really like the name an a’. I didna at first, but it’s grown on me. At first I thought ‘George’? Gads. But the mair I thocht aboot it, the mair I liked it. There’s a lot of great George’s oot there these days, Clooney, Galloway, Zippy’s pal. But wee Prince Dod isna named for ony of them. My royal insider (Big Sonja, eence seen Camilla buying fags in the Co-opie at Ballater) tells me he’s been cried George efter the magic clothes range at Asdas. I buy a’ my summer dresses there and I’m gled that Kate obviously dis the same. I wonder if she’s still the same size, noo she’s dropped een and a’thin’ll be oot of shape?

I must say, though, I dinna agree with the folk moaning about the blanket coverage. In all the reports I seen, the blanket hardly got a mention.Mind you, there wis an affa lot aboot it on the TV on Monday nicht. My Darren said it wis great, fit surprised me, but then he said it meant he didnae hae tae sit through ‘Long Lost Families’. It wis a bit much though. The BBC should’ve let peer auld Nicholas Witchell awa tae his bed lang afore they did. I wis feart he’d keel o’er. The big problem wis, efter they’d telt us ‘It’s a boy, pound 6, ab’dy fine’ there wisna much else tae say. Fit we really wanted wis tae see the big event in all its glory. Like their wedding, but withoot the Archbishop of Canterbury and with mair gas and air. Efter aboot twa oors I switched aff the rolling news, cut oot Wills and Kate’s faces fae this month’s OK, stuck them onto my telly and watched an auld episode of ‘One Born Every Minute’

And did ye see the media scrum outside the Hospital? The bairnie wisnae even a day auld fan he’d tae appear at his first photocall. Shame. I ken exactly how Wills & Kate must feel- I had the press camped ootside my door for days an a’, that time I left my seventh bairnie ootside William Hills.  It’s nae fine!

CAVA KENNY CORDINER, the football pundit with the crunching tackle

Sometimes even an old stager like me who has literally saw it all, has to read a headline twice to believe it.  That was the case this week when I seen that a Cristiano Ronaldo free kick had broke a young lad’s wrist during a match between Real Madrid and AFC Bournemouth. I never knew that Bournemouth was in Spain.  Mind you, I went there once on holiday with my folks and the weather was quite topical.  That Ronaldo must have some shot on him though to break the poor little loon’s wrist.  I have often said that, footballing-wise, me and Ronaldo are simulator in many ways, and seriously injuring innocent fans is just one of them.

I’ll never forget that match.  It was a December evening, in baking hot sunshine, and Longside was losing 3-0 to Maud in the McLeman cup.  Their winger had been giving me the running round for the whole of the 90 minutes and when he nutmegged me for the third time in a row he shouts at me, he shouts “Ole!” I was surprised and angry. Angry that he was making me look like a conker and surprised that Maud had signed a Spaniel. 

The next time he got the ball I decided enough was enough and I slid in on him hard.  Even old Kenny will admit it was a bad one.  His left boot came clean off, spirographed through the air and hit a young spectator right in the testimonials.  He went down like a sack of tatties and he stayed down for a long time.  When he finally did get up he looked like a puppet what had had some of its strings cut.  His mum and dad was raging.  The ref was raging.  I tried to tell them it was the Spanish lad’s boot what done the damage but once again I was unfairly sent off.  Diabolical.

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Finzean in the Rain’ at HMT Aberdeen 7th-16^th November

The Open Championship – it’s open to everyone, as long as they don’t have two X chromosomes

STRUAN METCALFE, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North-by-Northeast – An Apology

Fore! Get in the Hole! Howzat?

What a splendid time I had down at Muirfield this weekend. The Open is always an excellent chance to catch up with some old faces in the 19th hole and to sink a few swift ones with new friends. On that note, I do need to apologise to Nick “tubby” Faldo. I’m ashamed to say that when I spotted him at the bar I was a little bit forward. Urged on by my host, Fatty Blenkinsop (former Gordonstoun tuck-shop monitor, now something big in Imperial Tobacco. Btw – cheers for the tickets Fatty!) I tapped him on the shoulder and said “Mr. Faldo?”

“Yes?” He replied, quick as a flash.

“I’ve been watching you for 25 years, and I just wanted to say, thanks…”

“Well, that’s very kind”

“Thanks for making my golfing look good nowadays, you has-been! Ha ha!”.

He didn’t see the funny side. In my defence I had spent an afternoon in the “Bollie Tent” quaffing champers with one eye on the big screen leader-board and another oggling for totty. Which leads me to my latest apology. After a few too many sherberts I really ought to learn to keep the android in my trousers. I must sincerely apologise to Muirfield Golf Club after my tweet of Saturday afternoon:

“The Open. What talent there is on display. Am talking about Woods and Westwood, not the eye candy. Hardly a girlie to be seen. Boring! #nogirlsallowed #likebeingbackatschool”

In no way did I mean to imply any disrespect towards the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers. Their ancient tradition of barring women from membership at Muirfield has nothing to do with sexual discrimination. It simply reflects the fact that the club dates its constitution from the mid 18^th Century. So little from that period has survived – smallpox, child labour, the slave trade, – Muirfield should be applauded for trying to preserve a little of the past!

TANYA SOUTAR, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken aboot youse, but I am so totally over the bonny weather. I’m scunnered with a’ this “summer” we’ve been getting. Het? The ither day I wis that plottin’ I needed to change my boob-tube fan it wis nae even ten in the morning! Regular readers may hiv daen a double take fan they read that last bittie – but dinna fear, I wis still in my bed!

But it’s nae fine is it? As I write this my oxters is dripping and my decollage is like the Falls of Feugh. But since it looks like the weather’s set fair for the next few days at least, here’s Tanya’s guide tae getting by in the sun.

Firstly, ab’dy kens you’ve tae be careful with yer skin.  These days, we dinna rely on exposure tae potentially harmful radiation tae get that sun-kissed glow. Instead we get the same effect by carefully applying to oor skin a solution of bisto gravy granules. But the real sun is still hinging aboot in the sky like a great big orange bampot. So even fan your skin is a delicate shade of stewed tea, you still need tae tak care tae avoid getting burned. Sadly, nae only does sun tan lotion block up your pores and bring you oot in plooks, it costs an arm and a leg.  Fan I pay fifteen quid for a bottle of something exotic, it’s nae the UV I wint tae ken aboot, it’s the ABV! So, rather than shelling oot tae get a pizza face, clart yersel in salad cream instead.  It’s a fraction of the price, looks the same and it smells much finer!

Secondly, ab’dy will be looking’ at yer summer ootfit.  So mak sure ye work oot fit style suits ye best.  This summer, all the fashion conscious quines I ken are working denim shorts and tiny tops. This is a great look, unless you are a fat pleiter, in which case you will appear to have accidentally pit on your bairn’s claithes. If you’re an auld mannie, wear brilliant white socks with your sandals, a knotted hankie on your heid, and a short sleeved shirt under your Harris Tweed jaiket.  If you’re a skinny ned, malnourished by a diet of Irn-bru and Monster Munch, whip yer top aff and tuck it doon the waist band of your 3/4 length Adidas trackie-bottoms so’s folk can coont your ribs and hae a chucke at your farmer’s tan.

Lastly, hot weather is the only time of the year fan ye dinna get disapproving looks fae strangers for drinking in public.  Right noo, the swanky beer gairdens and funcy sit-ooteries of the toon are hoaching with middle class folk sipping Prosecco and pear cider. So mak full use of this cultural shift by cracking open a bottle of Thunderbird or a can of White Lightening at een of the city’s mair lang established al fresco venues; like the Castlegate or the top of the St Nicholas Centre.

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Finzean in the Rain’ at HMT Aberdeen 7th-16^th November

Never mind Glastonbury or T in the Park, it’s Meikle Wartle’s answer to Woodstock – Livestock!

View from the midden with Jock Alexander

It’s been a bacchanalian wikend in the village. It’s nae jist the massed ranks of music fans at Kinross that hiv been enjoying themsels, here in Meikle Wartle we hiv hid oor ain equivalent tae T in the Park, oot on my boggy field aside the Sewage Works. Oh aye, Balado diznae hae a monopoly on mud and insanitary conditions – we’ve hid them in Meikle Wartle for years. Oor festival is all about the music, it’s nae sponsored by a brewery or a multinational corporation (though we hiv hid some interest from the makers of Dettol, efter they noticed the event coincided with an upswing in sales of their antibacterial products fae the Tescos at Huntly). So we had a happy crowd of nigh on 40 toonsers with a pressing need tae recapture their youth, and a similar number of local worthies. Fa needs young lassies in pink wellies and denim hot pants fan ye’ve got Skittery Willie in tackety beets and rolled-up dungers? And fit acts! T in the Park may have hid Emeli Sande, Travis and Kraftwerk, but we hid Sandy Emslie, Tarves and Croft Work. We had Feel Moira operating the burger van, serving a wide variety of meat-equivalent snacks. These were a resounding success, as significantly fewer folk were cowking efterwards than last year. Taking wir lead fae T in the Park, fa charge a verra reasonable £5 tae use their luxury showers area, I hiv been charging only twa pounds mair than that for onybdy that winted tae use my ootside lavvy. Of course, with all that toonsers in their Hunter’s molloching aboot, the hale place ended up looking like a plooed field, which is handy, as it’ll save me having to ploo the field. Cheerio!

Davina Smythe-Barrat, Ordinary Mum

One feels under such pressure these days to holiday in Scotland.  There is the environment to think of, of course (I cannot tell you how much time I have spent over the last year, driving round and round in the Landrover, dropping off leaflets advising people on how to reduce their carbon footprint).  And one so wants to both support the local economy and to provide the children with a valuable glimpse of what a working class person looks like.  But recent attempts at “stay-cationing” have not met with great success.  Last year’s stay in a Mongolian Yurt by Loch Tay came to a soggy end when it rained so hard poor Emmeline was hospitalised with trench-foot.  Our camping break on Arran the year before ended no better, when our Teepee took off while Fidel was trying to erect it in a gale. Ultimately it was designated a hazard to aircraft and got shot down by a couple of Tornados from RAF Leuchars.  So we have decided to ring the changes this time, and to holiday on the continent.  Well, it is important for the children to improve their language skills and to gain some first-hand experience of where the best cheeses and French country wines come from.  So this year, instead of sitting inside a glorified shed in the middle of nowhere, obsessively checking the weather forecast to see if it is going to be at all better tomorrow; we will instead be sitting in a gite in Provence, obsessively checking the weather forecast to make sure that the temperature here is higher than in Aberdeen.

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner, the sports writer who goes in studs-up

As my royal readers will know, it takes a lot to shock old Kenny, but something happened in the world of sport this week that has made me sit down and take notice. I’ve never been that big a fan of cycling, I was 15 before my old man, Billy Cordiner, could take the stabilisers off my Chopper, but I’ve been following the Tour de France ever since Britain’s Arjo Wiggins won it last year. But it was another Brit, bicyclist, Mark Cavendish, who hut the headlines last week. The fans cry him ‘Cav’, which is not very different from my own Monica, “Cava”. They also sometimes always cry him “the Manx Missile” – because he comes from from the Brotherhood of Mann. Sadly, he got the ultimate insult from the crowd during the race the other day when someone chucked a bottle of urine over him. He says to the press, he says, “at first I thought it was water, but then I could tell what it was from the taste”, which kind of raises more questions than it answers. I know all too well the dangers presented to us sportsmen from disjointed members of the public. Back when I was playing for Longside I always suspected one of the local farmers was deliberately letting his cattle onto our pitch at night. Many’s the time old Kenny went sliding into a tackle only to get a pat on the back.

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Finzean in the Rain’ at HMT Aberdeen November 7th-16th

Unusual and dangerous weather condtions for the North-East. Three consecutive fine days!

VIEW FROM THE MIDDEN – Rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter, JOCK ALEXANDER

It’s been a thermogenic wikend in the village. It reached 22 degrees on Setterday, and as I sit here, plotting, in my seemit and long johns, I am well aware that we in Meikle Wartle are simply nae equipped fer this kinda thing. Fan enjoyin wirsel beneath a bakin hot sun, it is all too easy tae forget aboot the hazards of prolonged exposure; dehydration, sunburn and heatstroke, but there are also other dangers. The incidence of road accidents gings through the roof fan fowk stert strolling aboot strippit doon tae their bare necessities. We’re only human, and it’s hard enuch tae concentrate on the road fan ye see Dottie Scottie the village totty in her teeny-weeny tweed bikini. Worse still is fan you’re temporarily blinded fae the glare bouncing aff some auld fairmer’s pasty torso.
But the village diz look affa summery of noo. The flies are buzzing languidly aroon the midden, and amongst the locals there is a torpor, a unique Meikle Wartle quality fit can only be descrbed as Canna-be-ersedness’. There’s a heat haze in the air. Though that may jist be the alchol evaporating fae oor Meikle Wartle summer cocktails; Sex on Balmedie Beach, Tullynessle Sunrise or my ain favourite, Pimm’s and neep. The grass in the square is sterting tae look a bittie parched, so we’ve sent for Skittery Wullie fa has a big hose plumbed in at the sewage works. Those of us fa survived the Cholera ootbreak of 1976 are jist hoping that, this time, he minds fit een’s the watter main and fit een’s the works’ outflow pipe. Cheerio!

STRUAN METCALFE, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North-by-Northeast – An Apology

 As you well know, I am a fair and kindhearted soul who means no harm to man nor beast (apart from the odd fox, hunted in my youth; but let’s not dwell on that blood-thirsty, if hugely enjoyable, episode). So I was deeply saddened that my latest foray into the Twitter-sphere has caused such upset. 

I had the good fortune to attend Wimbles this week – as a guest of my pal Sir Cliff Richard– he of Bachelor Boy and Devil Woman fame.  Of course, a lifetime bachelor, the Cliffster is still to meet his Devil Woman, but we live in hope. Anyhoo, after watching the particularly vigorous women’s final – I was appalled to see that a certain BBC commentator had suggested that the new champion was ‘not a looker’. So, by way of riposte, I tweeted the following:

“Oof! Gah! Hi-yaa! I don’t care what John Inverdale says; Bartoli can volley my dropshot into the net anytime! #Centrecourtcuties”

 Of course I am deeply sorry that my tweet has been misinterpreted.  Obviously my intention was not to suggest that I found the exertions of the players arousing, or that these wonderful, fascinating, complex, talented athletes should, in their adorable little white outfits, be reduced to objects of desire. Heaven forfend.  I was, of course, attempting to highlight the issue of sexism in sport and the media. Until we eradicate these lazy and outdated attitudes, women are never going to be able to walk down the street without being wolf-whistled at, shatter the glass ceilings of our corporate boardrooms, or win major sporting events without their faces being compared to either an oil painting or a bag of spanners.

 I can’t help feel we as a society have gone backwards since Maggie Thatcher was our PM. Now she’d have taught Inverdale a thing or two. She’d have put him over her knee and given him a good thrashing I bet you. Imagine that, eh? Just imagine…that….Crikey!

 I, of course, would never make such a remark. I have utmost respect for all the ladies in my life – from the little woman at home, to the leggy researchers who bring me coffee in the office, and even the pretty little cocktail waitresses serving me G&Ts in Boodles.  Absolute sweeties, all. Even the plain ones.

 DODDIE ESSLEMONT, radical independence campaigner.

 At time of writing, I do not know if Andy Murray is going to be successful or unsuccessful in the Wimbledon final.  But I do know that the vexed question of whether he is “Scottish” or “British” will, as usual, be determined by whether he wins or loses.  Well, speaking from my position as Head of State, Prime Minister and Chief Cook and Bottle Washer of the People’s Democratic Republic of 39G Seaton Drive (official recognition from the UN still, mystifyingly, pending), I can assure Andy that we (by which I mean, I) in the Republic do not recognise such petty distinctions.  He will always be Scottish to me. And as such, as unwelcome in the People’s Republic as anyone else.

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Finzean in the Rain’ at HMT Aberdeen November 7th-16th

 

 

Graffiti thought to be work of disgruntled council taxpayer – 180,000 suspects in the frame.

J. FERGUS LAMONT, Arts critic and author of ‘John McRuvie – Voice of the People’

I was stunned and delighted as I ambled down Broad Street, deep in cogitation, by the stupendous examples of Modern Urban Street Art decorating our public buildings. Clearly an Aberdonian Banksy is at large. What power! What brio to use, as one’s canvas, Grade A listed buildings. The first graffito, upon the Town House, was the message ‘Weilders of power beware’.  How inspired of the artist, to subtly indicate political maladministration through misspelling. Then it was but a short stroll to see the second message on Marischal College. the even more stunning:  ‘Ye have not yet done what ye ought’. Gracefully constructed to have the appearance of profundity, yet, delightfully, no actual substance whatsoever. I found it both compelling and moving, and a handy reminder to return that copy of ‘Cheryl Cole: My Story’ to the library.

ALEXANDER SANG, Chairman of the Executive Committee of the Licensing Board.

Fan Lap-dancing clubs first made their appearance, I remember saying that they were not the kind of thing that we wanted to see here, in Aberdeen.  Particularly In the city centre, far the CCTV could catch us going in. But times and attitudes change. The news that the Scottish Government is consulting on a proposal to provide licensing authorities with a greater role in the regulation of such establishments his received a warm – one might say, ecstatic – welcome fae the Executive Committee of the Licensing Board. Doddie telt us how much he was looking forward to “looking at” these peer, vulnerable girls – I’m sure he meant, “looking after”.  Dick has a’ready, this last wik, conducted a baseline study of the working conditions in all of the lapdance bars in Aiberdeen, and has undertaken to repeat this study on the first Thursday of every month, fan his wife gings til her Bingo.  For myself, I think it’s a dirty job, but I stand willing to dae it, diligently and rigorously.  My colleagues and I look forward to mony long and rigorous nights of public service.

RON CLUNY, Council Spokesman.

The news that the Council’s awarding of the contract for the redevelopment of Broad Street to Muse is to be judicially reviewed has come as little surprise to us here in the newly-defaced Marischal College.  We live in a cynical and self-regarding age.  Respect for our public institutions stands at an all-time low.  Whether to press their own narrow, self-determined agenda or to advance their private commercial interests, the public and businesses alike never miss an opportunity to have recourse to the law.  I had a dream the other night when I imagined that Tetley had threatened me with a judicial review because I’d decided to make a cuppa using Typhoo tea.  It’s got to stage now that when I go for a pee I half expect some chump with a placard to come rocketing into the khazi and belly-ache on about how I am plainly standing at the wrong urinal.This constant stream of complaint, argument and challenge is wasteful.  It is draining.  It is not the British way.  I urge the people of Aberdeen, and their lawyers in particular, to leave this administration alone.  Give us the freedom to make a hash of things as we see fit, then vote us out so that the next mob can mess things up in their own particular way.  Is this not what local democracy is for?

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man!

Sometimes your old pal Kenny has been called a bit old fashioned – a relic from a bygone area.  But if there is one thing I do not have no time for in modern sport, it is sexualism, and Scottish sport has hut the headlines for good and bad reasons this week with its attitude to women.  Three cheers for Andy Murray, who has said he would stick Selena Williams to a game of tennis.  Most experts is saying Andy is too good for Selena, but he’s still prepared to go to a luxury hotel in Las Vegas to prove it.  But while Andy is flying the flag for sexual quality, Muirfield golf club is bringing Scottish sport’s name into dispute.  Alex Salmond has announced that he’s going to boy-scout the Open because they do not never allow lady members to join their club.  Shocking.  Imagine a golf course in this day and age that doesn’t have lady’s tees!  I never got the chance in my career to not be a male chauvinist towards a fairer sex opponent, but my son Zander did when he made his debut for Port Elphinstone primary’s P6 football team.  They was playing Strathburn who had a lassie up front for them, (and not just one of that loons with long hair and a flappy run, an actual lassie).  Zander was worried at first but he comes over to his Da on the touchline and I says to him, I says ”Son, the proper thing is to treat her the same as every other player on the pitch”. Youse can imagine my pride as I watched him spend the rest of the match kicking lumps out of her.