Down and Out in Woolmanhill

Union Terrace Gardens continues to divide opinion across the City.  Here, city-centre resident ARCHIE FRASER explains why he is a ‘YES’.

As a life-long user of Union Terrace Gardens I have followed, with keen interest, the debate on its future, and the remarkable passion it has engendered. I am overwhelmed by the community spirit, civic spirit, and, from my associate Ronnie MacKenzie sitting here next to me beside the statue of Edward VII, surgical spirit.

Throughout my colourful and eclectic career as a vagrant, I have travelled far and wide and spent the night in many a Town Centre. And I can honestly say that there is not one, not one my friends, which is as sad and bedraggled as ours. Dundee included. Gasps? Do I hear gasps? As you were, that’s just Ronnie hacking away on the tab end of a Lambert & Butler.

So that’s why I am in favour of replacing Union Terrace Gardens with something new, something exciting, something vibrant. Something with fly-overs, beneath which I can sleep off that bottle of Croft Original, and a world class Cultural Centre designed by leading architects Diller Scofidio & Renfro in which I can surreptitiously consume the steak-bake I’ve liberated from the bin behind Gregg’s the Baker, before the security men work out where that awful smell is coming from.

Many is the time I have toured the Union Terrace Gardens, marvelling at their blood-spattered steps and needle-bedecked paths, and wishing, fervently, for a grove of mature upland pine trees behind which I might evacuate my aching  bladder without the risk of PC Bobby Constable catching me in the act.

To those concerned about the proposals, I say; ‘Be not afraid of change’. I have spent many a happy day staggering around the Castlegate since it was pedstrianised and then, much like myself, entirely ignored for a number of years. But the splendid opportunities for bellowing incomprenhesible obscenities at strangers presented by the Mercat Cross pale in comparison with the potential for startling passers-by offered by the acoustics of a dramatic outdoor amphitheatre.

Right now, the rheumy eyes of the world’s Gentlemen-of-the-Road are on the tramps of Aberdeen. For this bold vision, this vagabond Shangri La, we must stand upon our calloused, fungal-ridden feet and be counted. Years from now, in my final moments, as I lie in a ditch, a gutter, or if I’m lucky, the doorway of a vacant shoe-shop, reflecting on all the golden opporunities I have allowed to pass me by, I refuse to look back and think that I missed my chance – my one chance – to experience a dynamic new parkland drawing people into its heart through connecting pathways, and regurgitate White Lightning all over it.

So please, get involved and vote for the City Garden Project. I can’t vote; I’ve been of no fixed abode since 1973.

TANYA SOUTER – lifestyle advice with a local flavour.

This week offers a chunce fer a lassie tae tak control o her life.  Since it’s a leap year, us quines can get doon on one knee and pop the question on the 29^th o February.  So, if your boyfriend disnae look like he’s ga’n tae pull his finger oot onytime soon – read my guide tae the perfect proposal!

First of a’, ye hiv tae be sure he’ll accept. If yer onythin’ like me, there’s a stream o desperados fa ye’ve callously knocked back in Tiger Tiger on a Setterday night.  If ye look beyond the tremendous feelin’ o’ self-worth it gives you, apparently it’s a devastating blow for him.  Experiencing that yersel widna be fine.  So tae be certain he’s going to say “Yes” or at least “Aye, fitiver”, why not get yer tartiest mate tae gie him the glad-eye fan you’re at yer Zoomba?  If he keeps his hands tae himsel’, he’s yours!

Next ye’ll hae tae pick a venue.  Maist quines wid prefer tae be asked in a romantic setting – wi’ candles, music an’ bonny flooers.  But if your man’s been dragging his heels lang enough tae mak you resort tae fit is, let’s face it, his job – best mak your proposal somewhere public, preferably full o his mates, so he canna back oot later on.  Try surprising him at work or even in the pub fan he’s watchin’ the fitba.  A’body there will ken that ye love him, but that you’re deeply disappointed in him an’ a’.

Finally, assumin’ it’s a’ gone smoothly, ye hiv tae think aboot goin’ public.  There’s 3 simple steps tae makin sure ab’dy kens your news.  First of a’, get een anither’s names tattooed on yer necks. Nithin’ oozes class mair than that. Top tip, if yer nae a hunner percent sure you’ll keep him, get your een daen in arabic. Saves on the laser surgery efterwards. Secondly, book a swanky venue fer a party!  Ye canna ging wrang wi’ the Abergeldie Bowlin’ club – cheap drink an’ staggerin’ distance fae the Albyn.  Oh aye – an’ mak sure ye get a photie o’ yer shindig in the Evenin’ Express.  Preferably wi’ yer spotty 14 year aul cousin stunnin’ wi’ his spaver doon! Lastly, an’ maist importantly, pit it on Facebook. It’s the modren wye tae get yer news oot tae abody ye ken. And abody ye dinna ken an’ a’!

Look after yersel’s!

The Butter-Fingered Philanthropist

Union Terrace Gardens continues to divide opinion across the City.  Here, local tycoon GRAEME SMART explains why he is a ‘No’.

I would like to set the record straight on why I am against the redevelopment of Union Terrace Gardens.  It has been suggested that my opposition stems from some kind of personal enmity between myself and Sir Ian Wood.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

Sir Ian and I go way back. We schooled together at Gordon’s, where I was the Dux and captain of the First XV, and Sir Ian tried hard.  The mischief-makers have referred to an incident in the rugby changing room in 1962, but this has been misconstrued.  Yes, Ian inexplicably dropped the ball in the final minute of the Schools Cup Semi-Final (he was a gangling youth and poor sportsman).  Yes, this gifted our bitter rivals, the Grammar school, the game.  And yes, I, as captain, would have dearly loved to lead the team out in the final at Murrayfield.  But when, after the match, I took ahold of Ian by his gawky shoulders and frog-marched him to the toilets, it was purely out of kindness.  The whole team had been infuriated by Ian’s breathtaking, staggering uselessness – I mean, how hard is it just to keep ahold of a rugby ball!? – and I could see that Ian was upset by their jibes.  Pushing his head into the toilet bowl and flushing it was not an attack, but an act of compassion designed to disguise his tears.  To contend, as the rumour-mongers have done, that this incident resulted in a bitter rivalry between us, and gave Sir Ian the steely determination necessary to make a success of himself, makes no more sense than to claim that I am still smarting, 50 years later, from Eleanor Maitland’s decision to snub me to attend the School Leaver’s ball with Ian.  Yes, my sporting and academic prowess made me the more obvious suitor; and yes, she was a smooth-skinned, doe-eyed beauty possessed of a laugh of such surpassing loveliness as to melt a young man’s heart – but is it really credible to imagine that I might still be nursing a grudge, half a century on?  Is it?  Really?

Is it really 50 years since last I saw her?

Let us be clear: I have nothing but admiration for Sir Ian.  He has done tremendously well for someone who previously found keeping a secure grasp on an oval leather object an insurmountable challenge, and who never got above the second-top maths group.  I wish him well.  Eleanor, too, for that matter.  Wherever she may be.  Lovely Eleanor.

Sir Ian’s success – his remarkable, one might say undeserved success – provides a shining example of what may be achieved by a man of modest abilities who finds himself in the right place at the right time.  As such he is an inspiration to many in the modern world, like Alex Salmond, Andrew Considine, and Dappy from N’Dubz.

“CAVA” KENNY CORDINER – the football pundit who kicks back!

The beautiful game has been on the front pages as much as the back this week.  I is dead against anyone dragging the good name of the sport what I love through the byre – but I feel dead sorrow for my old pal Ally McCoist.  Ally and me go way back.  When he signed for Sunderland in 1981 I was down there too, on trial.  Me and the boys from Forres Mechanics had played a pre-season friendly against a local side and things got a little bit out of hand in the bar after.  Ally thought he’d landed his dream job as Rangers manager, but it has turned out to be a bad dream. What a nightmare. Rangers’ Administrators has already laid off some staff to cut costs – 2 referees and a linesman. Still, it’s not every club can get 10 points chalked off without affecting their league position. It reminds me of the time that the men in suits got in the way of my career. The council sent everybody home from Kaimhill Primary School the day before our Champion Street quarter-final because of an outbreak of nits.  The game was rearranged for the next weekend but I was away at my Granny’s caravan in Burghead.  I was greeting like Gazza.

After Fabio Calippo got his jotters from the England job, I was straight on the phone to the FA to throw my spanner into the ring. They seemed well impressed with my Curriculum Vitamin – I was third in the Parkvale FC Fantasy League two seasons running – and the lady I spoke to said I wouldn’t be required to attend an interview, which can only mean I’m a shoe-in.  That will be a blow for my old mate Harry Redknapp. The English papers reckon he’d be perfect for the top job now he has got off with all that tax invasion. I know all too well how it feels to have the crooked finger pointed in your direction.  When Enforcer’s Wine Bar in Inverurie mysteriously burned to the ground back in 1994, I had just insured it for a tidy sum. Luckily. I was accused of all sorts in the press.  Like Harry though, I just gone about my business without letting it get me down.  The new Jag and the holiday in Barbados never hurt neither.

 

Love is in the air. Either that or it’s the cabbage soup

JIMMY HOLLYWOOD – The Sandilands Smoothie offers some Valentine’s Day tips.

As a man about town, love guru, and Woodside’s maist eligible bachelor, I’m ayewis being asked the same question. “Hey min, Jimmy Hollywood, how come you is such a winner with the chicks?” Weel, in today’s P&J, I exclusively reveal some of the secrets of my incredible success with the quines to those less fortunate and less handsome than mysel’ (which is, basically, a’bdy). Just follow Jimmy Hollywood’s golden rules and you, too, can hae the woman of yer dreams. Every week.

“How to woo a lady”.

1. Change yer punts. Daily. Nae exceptions, even on a Sunday.
2. Niver forget their name. They definitely dinna like that. I once totally blew my chunces of a cheeky snog in the Soul Casino when I kept callin’ Josie – a bonny quinie as I recall – José. Canna think why. That wis the name of a Spanish waiter I met in Magaluf last summer. Weird.
3. Women love tae imagine they’re stepping out with Crockett fae Miami Vice (THE coolest dude on the planet). So a fake tan, sharp suit and a pair o’ espadrilles is essential. Takin’ yer mate Tubbs fae Tillydrone along on your date is a step too far.
4. Jimmy Hollywood always makes a quine feel special. So ask her loads of questions. Such as “Div ye like my shirt?” “Should Jimmy get his hair highlighted?” or “Fit’s your favourite thing aboot Jimmy Hollywood?”
5. Dinna ging too flashy on the first date. Somewye posh – like The Grill or The Rusty Nail – can wait until you’re on a promise. Instead, tak her tae Codona’s for a shottie on the waltzers and yer bit of stuff will be weak at the knees before ye can say “Hey Macarena!”  Just be careful she diznae spew on yer loafers.
6. If ye hiv tae tak her for a meal and she suggests orderin’ wine, dinna! Stick tae cocktails. They taste like juice and orderin’ them maks you look classy. Plus, she’ll be steamin’ by the time she’s had her soup.
7. Flooers. Gie her flooers. Daffies fae the Mounthooly Roundaboot are in bloom fae March tae late June. Outside those months, why not nick some Lilies fae ootside een of the florists on George Street?

 

Dear Donna – relationship advice from DONNA BARNEY, our intense Agony Aunt

In my mony careers as personal shopper, Doctors’ receptionist and freelance make-up artiste, I hiv ayewis been a people person. I see it as my duty to share the benefit of my extensive life experience with as mony peer cr’aters as humanely possible. So, without further a do, let’s wheel oot the losers!

Q: Dear Donna, I’ve finally plucked up the courage to invite a colleague out on a date, but I’m not sure what to wear. There’s not much choice for the plus-sized girl (I’m a healthy size 16). What can I do to make sure I look attractive and alluring?

A: Nae being funny, but that’s nae a wardrobe issue, that’s a job for 10 pints of Stella. Have you thought about taking alang an even fatter freen? You’ll look better by comparison. Failing that, I would recommend een of that crash diets. A while back I’d really let myself go. I wis a helluva size. Nae as big as you, obviously, nae massive, but big, ken? The solution? One word – Ccabbage Soup. Fit a diet! But it’s nae without its side effects. Nae matter foo romantically yer date is progressing, dinna light ony candles.

Q: Dear Donna, I’m due to get married on Valentine’s Day and i’ve been planning the wedding for nearly two years. Now, suddenly, as the big day approaches, I’m getting the jitters. Is this normal? I love my fiance, but how can I be sure that he is ‘the One’?

A: Your nerves is totally normal. And justified, ’cause all men is scum. My first husband, Jason wis a nice as ninepence fan we met, then as soon as we wiz merried he changed. Like that.  Twa month efter the wedding, his idea o’ foreplay wiz taking aff his trackie bottoms. My second, Darren, he wis nae better.  He hid six toes on his left fit. Gads. Niver found oot til we wiz merried. I’d seen him naked before, obviously, it’s jist it wizna his fit I wiz looking at, ken fit I mean?  But on wir wedding night I seen it. Well. I says to him, I says ‘Darren, if you think you’re coming near me wi’ that fit, ye’ve anither think coming!’ Next day, I wis straight doon the court for the divorce papers. But my third, Kevin, he wis ‘The One’. Dinna ask me how I kent, I jist kent. We women hiv an instinct for it.  Kevin hid everything I was looking for in a man. Rippling muscles, a souped up Renault Clio and a massive personality. But tragically he wis taken awa fae me. Oh, but he wiz brave.  He fought so hard. In the end it took four bobbies, an Alsatian and twa tins of CS gas.

 

Entertainment news with showbiz insider SHELLEY SHINGLES (Miss Fetteresso, 1993)

I see my good chum and Loose Woman (in more ways than one!!) Denise Welch is back in the glossies again!!  I haven’t actually read any of the stories myself, but from teeting at the photos she seems to be having a great time, reunited with cuddly actor hubby, Dennis Healy.  Either that, or she’s heading a toy-boy-lust booze-hell break-up.  You never can tell with Denise!!

I first bumped into her back in 1993 when she took time out of her breakthrough role in “Soldier Soldier” to travel north and judge “Miss Aberdeenshire”.  Never mind ‘ Britain’s Got Talent’, what a panel of judges that was!!  Denise, Theo Snelders and Robin Galloway!!  Champers Nightclub in Maryculter had never seen anything like it!!  I finished runner-up to Miss Oyne – no shame in that, she went on to be the face of the Scottish Pig Breeders Association – and Denise was good enough to stot up to me and slur a few encouraging words, before passing out face-down in my cleavage.  It was the start of a firm friendship that continues to this day. Granted, we haven’t seen or spoken to each other since, but whatever scrapes our Denise gets into, I’ll never forget what she said to me, it remains the mantra by which I live my life today:

“Where am I?”

Wise words, from a great lady.

 

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER – the football pundit who kicks back!

Like most of the crowd, I had went to Pittodrie on Saturday looking for revenge.  12 April 2008 is a date what Aberdeen fans won’t never forget, for all the wrong reasons.  Sadly, when the chance come along for the Dandies to bury the Queen of the South hoodoo, we can only say 3 words – sick as a parrot.  When I look back on my extinguished career, I also have tasted the pain of losing to the underdog too.  I remember it as if it was yesterday.   The gaffer at Formartine had arranged a friendly with the Albyn School for Girls U15s.  There’s nobody can deny we had counted our chickens and was already planning our first goal celebration.  But as my old pal Jimmy Greaves sometimes always said – it’s a funny old game.  They wanted it well more than what we did and stuffed us 3-0. There really is no easy games in football.

I is chuffed to see Aberdeen legend Russell Anderson back at the club.  You don’t get many stalwarts in this day where money does all the talking, like what it does now.  Hopefully Russell will be off the psycho’s couch and back playing soon.  I know exactly how Russell feels – when I left Inverurie Locos, for the bright lights of Brechin City, I says that one day I’d return. Then at the end of my playing days I got a phone call from the club, asking me back.  When I sat down in the manager’s office he says to me, “Fit are you daein’ in my seat?” Turned out they’d just cleared out my old locker after 20 years, and he wanted to give me back my jock-strap.

I hope Craig Brown gives Russell the same support.

 

TANYA SOUTER – lifestyle advice with a local flavour.

Well that’s January awa, and nae doot yer New Year’s Resolutions is a’ready lying smashed on i’ fleer (like I wis, last Saturday in i’ Priory), so here’s a few tips tae help turn yer good intentions intae great results:

Christmas belly still nae shiftin’?  There’s an ower-the-coonter remedy available tae a’body that supresses appetite and his the added benefit of makin’ ye look cool and sophisticated – fags.

My pal Natasha his ayewiz been a smoker and she’s got a figure like Kate Moss.  Her skin’s as wrinkly as Stirling Moss, like, but her body is tae die for.  Soon, judgin’ by that cough of hers.

Of course, if yer a fat pleiter fa smokes a’ready, things is mair trickier. The BMA recommends 20 minutes of exercise, 3 times a wik; but exercise can be very dangerous, especially if yer nae used til it. Gie’t a miss, I say. Naebody’s ever dropped doon deid fae the strain o’ openin’ a bag o’ cheesy wotsits. Often, the problem is that, wi oor busy modren life-styles, wir diet is nae balanced across the 5 main food groups; fat, sa’t sugar, pastry and ingin. But you can cover the hale five in a oner wi a really good balanced meal, like a hot pie and a yum yum.

You maybe seen in the news recently that a’body in Scotland is in danger o’ gettin’ rickets because o’ the lack o’ sunlight durin’ winter months!  Rickets?  GADS!!  Dinna worry though, as ony nutritionist can tell ye, rickets is caused by a lack o’ vitamin D.  Een o’ the best wyes tae get mair vitamin D is tae eat oily fish like sardines and mackerel.  Unfortunately, the Ashvale disnae dae them, so jist dae fit I dae – crush up a Sanatogen and sprinkle it ower yer mock chop supper.

Look after yersel’s!