Four words which perfectly sum up what the London 2012 Olympics mean for the North of Scotland: “Torch Relay – Expect Delays”

STRUAN METCALFE – MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

Once again, I find myself compelled to apologise unreservedly for the outlandish – and frankly, out of character – comments I posted on-line last night concerning the carrying of the Olympic Torch between Dinnet and Aboyne this morning. As a famous philosopher once said, ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ and I should not have trivialised the experience via the medium of Twitter:

“Crikey, that Cornetto weighed a ton! Last time I held something that big with a flame at the end was in Dinky Dirk’s Happy Cafe in Amsterdam”.

I am so very sorry for any offence caused to the International Olympic Committee, fellow Torch Bearers, and that formidably wonderful Head of all Head Boys, Lord Sebastien of Coe. Bit of a man-crush on old Seb, if honest.

Let me be clear, I appreciate that the flame is a sacred symbol of the Games and I take my role as Torch Bearer incredibly seriously. That’s why I took the decision to fully embrace this most ancient of Greek traditions and run my section in a toga and Jesus sandals. A decision profoundly influenced by both the writings of Socrates and half a bottle of Ouzo.

MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter, JOCK ALEXANDER

Weel, fit like ab’dy! It has been a special week here in Meikle Wartle, thanks to the surprise arrival of the Olympic torch. A surprise, at least, to the organisers fan we forced the relay to take a wee detour through the village by the strategic deployment of Tam Minto’s cattle on the A93, B9119 and A96.

The honour of grabbing a haud of the flame and carrying it through the village went to the person in Meikle Wartle fa looks maist like an Olympian; Feel Moira on account of her uncanny resemblance to a young Geoff Capes. Fit a sicht, as she came thunderin’ doon the high street, pursued by the Metropolitan Police Torch Security Team, bellowing in fit we thocht was triumph, but turned oot to be pain; a wasp having lodged itsel in her gargantuan sports bra. That’s fit caused her tae trip, sending the torch soaring intae the air and landing on the thatched roof of Lily Grant’s Chemist Shop-come-Distillery. I doot the official Opening Ceremony could match the firework display we got! And indeed, as we wait for the conflagration tae subside, we’re verra much looking forward tae the forthcoming Village Rebuilding Ceremony. This will mean many oors ootside in the summer weather, with the happy side effect that we winna hae tae watch ony of the endless Olympics rubbish on TV. Cheerio!

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

I will be busting when I take my place in the Torch relay this evening.  Totally busting with pride.  When I look at the list of notable celibates who have also carried it too, like Patrick Kielty, William Iams from off “The Voice” and Jedward, I have to punch myself to be sure I’m not dreaming. I’m carrying the torch from Queen’s Cross to Holburn Junction, a route I often take of an evening, so I’m well known in all of the bars along it.  I asked the Olympics boys if I could pop into The Albyn for a pint with the Torch, but they says to me, they says “no”.  They’re probably right to be cautious.  If I did I might be busting in another way by the time I get to The College.

I was going to tell you about the last time I ran through the streets with a naked flame in my hand, but ever since I got off of all that charges after Enforcer’s Wine Bar in Inverurie mysteriously burned to the ground back in 1994 my brief says I should never tell that story never again.  So I won’t.

TANYA SOUTER – Local Lifestyle Guru

I canna wait til my little bittie o’ the Torch relay!  I’m daein the stretch fae the Haudagain up Anderson Drive. Mind you, fit a time I’ve tae get up – 7.40 a.m. In the morning!  They must have picked the time special for when the roundabout is maist quietest.   It’s a fair hill, the Drive, so I’ll need a’ my energy.  Thankfully there’s a petrol station handy so as soon as I’ve got a start I can nip in there for a Ginster’s. I think fit I’m looking forward to the maist, eence I’ve passed the torch to the next runner, is taking a wee moment tae let the momentous moment sink in, reflect on the prestige and honour fit has been  bestowed upon me and check foo much my torch his fetched on eBay! It’s hoverin’ aboot 5 grand of noo!  But dinna worry, that money’s going tae a good cause. Seeing as the Olympics was their idea, I’m going to use the cash tae dae my bit for the Greek economy. Ayia Napa here I come!

The average Aberdonian is blissfully contented to the very core of their being. Well, it must be deep, if the faces on the folk on Union Street are anything to go by.

The Office for National Statistics has revealed that Aberdeen is the happiest city in the UK.  We asked some of our regular contributors to tell us what it is about Aberdeen that makes them happy.

SHELLEY SHINGLES – showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

– I love soap operas and biding in Aiberdeen I’m spoiled for choice.  The Western Peripheral Route saga  has been going longer than Corrie and Third Don Crossing trumps River City every time!

Community Policeman PC BOBBY Constable

 – One thing that a lot of folk have cited as a reason to be cheerful is Aiberdeen’s low crime rate, and I’m very proud to have played my part in that by dint of my skill, diligence and, perhaps maist importantly, only noting down about half the stuff that goes on.

TIM BEE, blogger and very conscientious objector

 – I really object to this type of meaningless survey. We have a ridiculous ethos based upon the pursuit of happiness in this society and for some reason we see contentment as a validation of our lifestyle and well-being. So it is my personal mission to put a stop to anything that might contribute to this ill-thought-out grandstanding in the name of ‘The Common Good’ (Whatever that might be!) So I say “No” to the regeneration of the city centre (which will create road disruption), “No” to live screenings of opera in duthie park (a disgraceful cause of inner city noise pollution) and “No” to the International Youth Festival (bunch of happy clappers stopping the traffic dancing and prancing down our busy streets or crossing the road without looking the correct way. I very nearly missed my train!). We don’t need them and we don’t need the ‘benefits’ they are likely to bring to this great, grey city of ours. No change. Nothing. That’s what makes me happy.

ARCHIE FRASER, Gentleman of the road, currently summering on the benches of Union Street.

– What is it that makes me happy to live in Aberdeen? Well, these days it takes at least two bottles of Thunderbird.

 

KEVIN CASH, money saving expert and king of the grips, on the row over cash payments for tradesmen.

So paying tradesmen cash in hand is “morally wrong” according to Treasury Minister David Gauke.  I’m nae exactly sure how that last name’s supposed to be pronounced, but I’m going to ging wi “gowk” – and gowk by name, gowk by nature.  Sadly the nation’s new moral guardian didna ging on to gie us his views on the ethical implications of using public money to build a duck island, taking cash to ask questions in Parliament or appointing a non-domiciled tax avoider as your party’s Deputy Chairman, so we’re jist going to have to come to our own conclusions on those ones.

Fan I heard fit he said, I wiz fizzing.  I wiz that angry that I dropped my past its best-before date custard slice (bought for 10p jist before Aitken’s closed for the wikend) right onto the discontinued line, sharn-broon tiles on my kitchen fleer.  I’ve nae kint rage like it since I slept through my alarm and missed the start of the Debenhams Blue Cross sale.  This isna jist the biggest case of bare-faced cheek since Richard Griffiths and Christopher Biggins did a synchromised mooner at the BAFTA’s efter-show perty – it’s a direct threat to Aiberdonian culture.  The ‘Casher’ is one of the oldest and maist proud traditions of the North East. There may be Human Rights issues here.  Asking a joiner fae Torry to put a job through the books and pay VAT and income tax on it gings against everything he stands for.  It’s like makin’ a Romany stop travelling and settle doon in a twa bedroomed flat or tellin’ my mate Dave to stop shouting abuse at Chris Moyles fan he comes on the radio. And this is but the thin end of the wedge. If it’s immoral to negotiate a discount with a self employed tradesman roughly, and coincidentally, equal to the current rate of VAT;  what about the ancient North-East tradition of the ‘Homer’? A local tradesman, in full time employment with a business, might while away his free time by doing very reasonably priced work for friends, relatives, and boys who ken a boy who were in the jail with his uncle. He might utilise the skills, and methodologies he has learned from his boss. Along with the works van and a couple of hundred quids worth of materials. Is this now, in some way, ‘wrong’?

I’m so angry aboot the hale thing that I’m willing to pye twa grand to anyone who can give me ony dirt on David Gauke.

Fifteen hunder, for cash.

‘Nick Buckles’ : Not so much a name as grounds for a dishonourable discharge

Oor Ain Folk – GEORGE FORBES, freelance security consultant and retired Colour Sergeant with the Gordon Highlanders with an insider’s take on the G4S debacle.

Name? George Malachi Forbes! Rank? Colour sergeant in The Gordon Highlanders (retired). Number? 6060842! In terms of the Geneva Convention, I am under no obligation to provide further information. I’ll tell you nothing. Sling me in the cooler if you like. Stake me out over a field of growing bamboo, I’ll never talk!

This position makes sound operational sense, but can prove counter productive in the civilian arena. For example, at a Pub Quiz, or job interview.

I recently reported for such an interrogation with the private security firm G4S. It was not fruitful. It is not for me to comment upon the weaknesses of a superior officer; but if directly ordered to speak freely I would describe the CEO of the company, Nick Buckles as a long-haired peacenik, unable to grasp even the basic tenets of security.

Having heard reports that their next assignment, securing the Olympic games for Queen and Country (God bless you, Ma’am) involved the deployment of surface to air missiles atop nearby buildings (rightly ignoring the protestations of the tofu-bothering hippies dwelling in the communes within) I had high hopes, but I realised immediately I was dealing with an amateur.

I had been told in the pre-interview briefing (a telephone call at 09.00 the previous day) that because of recent recruitment difficulties they had experienced, I, like a number of other ex-servicemen, was to be parachuted in to help the security effort. I learned that they had been speaking figuratively only after swinging in through a plate glass window.  “Now George,” Buckles said to me, as he picked shards of glass out of his suspiciously luxuriant hair, “how would approach the question of security at the Olympics?”

I gave the foppish, lentil-loving dandy the full benefit of my experience.  The risks posed by guns, knives and high explosives are known about; but the dangers posed by clothing have too long been ignored.  A belt, shoe-lace or neck-tie can be used as a deadly garrote; and consider the trouser, with their zippers that could blind a man.  Even a simple shirt can, in the hands of a 10^th-dan Origami ninja, be folded so as to make a serviceable cosh, a rifle capable of firing .22 caliber bullets, or a convincing swan.  No, I told him: the only secure course was a policy of total spectator nudity.

He stopped me there, before I could even mention the dangers posed by the human tooth.  Immediately, I sensed unease.  Eventually the poltroon laid down his Hob Nob– not, you might think, the biscuit of an officer or a gentleman – and told me that my services would not be required. Now, I am no quibbler or gainsayer of orders, so I simply snapped to attention, saluted and hummed the retreat through a paper and comb while taking my leave.  Mark my words, though: they’ll rue the day they failed to secure the services of George Malachi Forbes when the watching world sees Usain Bolt brought to the ground by a man-trap fashioned from an underwired bra.  Stand Easy!

 

Independent Local Councilor, RON CLUNY, spokesman for the new ruling administration, explains his recent U-turns on pre-election policies.

I take my inspiration from the great American political leaders. And I have a particular affinity with Mitt Romney, presumptive presidential nominee of the Republican Party, who last week clarified details of his previous business dealings and career. He explained that whilst he worked for the private equity firm Bain Capital until 2002, he had, in fact “retroactively retired”, leaving the firm in 1999, before it started a concerted effort to asset-strip every company unfortunate enough to cross it’s path, resulting in the laying off of thousands of American workers. Thus demonstrating that he possesses not just political nous, but also a slippy shoulder and a time machine.

With this in mind, I can now announce, retroactively, that I was not, in fact, in attendance on the cross party junket to Florida in 2009 to investigate ways we might improve Codonas and surrounding seaside attractions.  Accordingly, it could never be alleged that I had any involvement in the “Malibu beach and bunny girls” incident. Furthermore I have retrospectively removed my previous effusive support for the Union Terrace Gardens project. I would not have put my weight behind it had I known then what I know now, like the fact that controlling group members have to do what they are telt to if they want get an extra buttery at fly-time.

And I am not alone in adopting this strategy. I understand that the actor David Jason is planning to retroactively retire from his role in the Royal Bodyguard, that the directors of Rangers Football Club are to retroactively retire to a time prior to setting up that EBT and that Nick Clegg has announced his retirement as at the day before the last General Election.

60 years in the same job with no chance of promotion. Mind you, the tied house is a bosker.

This week we find out what the Diamond Jubilee means for some of our regular contributors.

KEVIN CASH – money-saving expert and king of the grips with tips for a cut-price street party.

Nothing swells the heart with patriotic pride mair than a bit of bunting.  But with the cheap stuff coming in at £2 a metre, even the tootiest cul de sac will  lay oot a lot of jubbly on the Jubilee.  The answer?  Keks. Reed, white and blue ladies briefs tied on to a length of dental floss maks a perfect alternative. Lowping ower wa’s to nick them oot of ither folks’ backies gives you a cost-effective cardiovascular workout into the bargain.

You need a bit of bubbly to celebrate ony big occasion, like a Jubilee, Royal Wedding, or passing a paternity test (kids is expensive), but dinna pay silly money for Champagne. I mak my ain celebration fizz, fermented fae dandelions, Lidl’s grape juice and the dregs fae ither folks’ recycling boxes. It’s a sophisticated number, with a pleasing astringency on the palette. But mair than twa will turn the sky turn purple and leave you shivering naked in the stairwell of Chapel Street Car Park.

Folk’ll be needing fed, so fire up the barbeque, but dinna ging ower the top, buying best cuts of this and topside of yon. Ye’re jist going to cremate it, yird it with ketchup and smother it with a Kraft cheese single. So for a cost-effective barbie, it his to be sausages. Get the eens with a lot of gristle, folks can hae hours of fun tryin’ to work oot fit bit of the animal they’re eating.  With a bit of luck, some of yer guests will be vegetarians. They will enjoy ‘foraged foods’, i.e. fitever you can find growing in woodies and lay-bys.  Mind though, wild mushrooms can be dangerous, so do mak sure you try them oot first on somebody ye dinna like.

DAVIE ANNAND – lifelong servant of the Parks and Recreation Department

Many people see nothing of vaule in retaining a Constitutional Monarchy. Well more fool them!  A day away from the pressures of work to spend time with your loved ones (in my case, the regulars and staff of the St Machar Bar) is most welcome. I wish her Majesty many happy returns, and Charles, Wills, Harry and all the rest long, healthy, complicated lives involving as many weddings, births, christenings, coronations and abdications as they can throw at us.

DODDIE ESSLEMONT -Radical Independence Campaigner

Many people are surprised that I am a monarchist.  They think that my own brand of radical independence (in which freedom for Scotland is welcomed as a first step towards my ultimate aim of independence for 39G Seaton Drive) is inconsistent with retaining Her Britanic Majesty as Head of State.  But as is made clear in my manifesto (“Leave Me Alone: The Isolationist Agenda”, available from all good bookshops.  They don’t actually sell it, I just keep nipping in and slipping them onto the shelves when no one is looking), I remain irrevocably wedded to the Queen.  Or would be, if she, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Duke of Edinburgh would only recognise the legitimacy of the green-crayon marriage certificate saying so, which I possess.

GEORGE FORBES – Secuirty Guard and ex-serviceman.

HRH ER II was, of course, my Commander in Chief when I served in the Gordon Highlanders. A finer body of men never formed ranks. The Gordons are gone now, and I have been re-deployed to civvy street. Here I find lax and slovenly attitudes. Young men in ill-fitting trousers. Young ladies, abroad in the hours of darkness, unchaperoned. And everywhere, field telephones in use by non-essential personnel.

But, while the world goes to hell in a handcart, I am simply grateful to have had the privilege to serve Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. One day, she came to inspect the regiment. I, Colour Sergeant Geoge Malachai Forbes, stood to attention on the parade ground; kit, immaculate. Her Majesty moved down the ranks of my platoon, pausing occasionally to compliment a shiny buckle, or admire a perfectly positioned weapon.  I knew that this moment was the culmination, the absolute high-point of both my career and my life. As she drew near to me, my heart raced!  My pride soared!

She did not stop to speak to me.

SHELLEY SHINGLES – showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

What springs to mind when someone says “the Queen”? For me it’s difficult to pick just one thing that sums up sixty years of service to the nation. But if I had to choose, I’d go for their amazing performance at Live Aid!  Or maybe that video when they all dragged up. LOL!  I was lucky enough to meet the boys once, at an intimate gig they played in Hertfordshire in 1986. Of course, Freddie Mercury was famous for his way with words, and I’ll never forget what he said to me that night:

‘Hello Knebworth!”

Wise words, from a true gent.

 

This week has seen much of the country hit by torrential rain and flooding. What we would call ‘Summer’

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Mtv (Meikle Wartle Television) Presenter JOCK ALEXANDER

 Seeing the picters on the TV of a’ the peer young fowk sloshing aboot at T in the Park fair gave me pause for thought, and, of course, a richt good chuckle. But mair nor that, it pit me in mind of the Great Storm that hit Meikle Wartle in 1968, or ‘Hurricane Beldie’ as it came tae be kent. My God, fit a wind. If we’d had any trees, they would have been awa.

Looking back, to say we wiz ill-prepared wid be an understatement, but fa could have predicted persistent heavy rain might hit the North-East of Scotland? At least the powers that be are niver caught oot like that onymair. And it wisnae like today, when we’ve a’ got GPS sat-navs, microwave ovens and My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding tae see us through the worst. Back then we hid tae mak dae with a compass, a knitted balaclava and a hot watter bottlie. Full of gin.

Oh, but there were terrible times in the storm. We had to tether all the bairns in the village thegether tae stop them fae getting blawn awa.  And I can still mind the sicht of Feel Moira hudding shut the doors tae the auld Toon Hall, single-handed, against a great wave of slurry washing doon the main (and indeed, only) street. Like King Canute she wis, had that ancient ruler of the Britons been up tae his kneecaps in sharn.

But on the plus side, it’s nae such a trachle to the village shoppie noo, syne it washed up 5 mile nearer my hoose. And the rain created a very pleasant new feature of the landscape in the shape of Loch Beldie, (formerly a pot hole on the B9001).

It’s a pity Wullie Kemp’s fairm ended up submerged, but on the other hand he was spikkin about getting a pucklie fish and it saved him the cost of the tank. Jist three month later, efter the hairst, he wis able tae to afford a snorkel and oxygen tank, fit wis a real boon. Until then he’d hid tae surface every twa minties for air. But that’s the Meikle Wartle wye. Fitiver the world throws at us, we meet it with a cheery smile, a calm stoicism and a near-suicidal bloody-mindedness. Cheerio!

STRUAN METCALF, MSP – An Apology

 Once again, as MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions, I find myself required to apologise unreservedly for the consternation caused by something I have posted on Twitter. Having been invited to the opening day of Donald J. Trump’s fantastic new golf course at Menie I am afraid that, from the 19^th hole after one too many Bombay Sapphires, I appear to have tweeted the following:

“New set of clubs, £890. Slacks, windcheater and baseball cap, £450. Over-ruling Aberdeenshire Council to get a stonking golf course on my doorstep and a lifetime membership thrown in? Priceless”.

Now, I know what you are all thinking – “he got those clubs for a snip, the cheap-skate”. You probably assume I bought them off eBay, sold by a chap called Shuggie in East Kilbride, on the clear but unspoken understanding that they’d fallen off the back of a golf-cart. But no, let me set the record straight right here. My elder brother Blair is a lifetime member of Muirfield and doesn’t need his clubs anymore. He hasn’t played the great game since he took out Loose-cheek Littleton’s right-eye with a Sand-Wedge in abunker on the 17th.

My innocent and clearly jocular tweet has been blown up out of all proportion. Any suggestion that there is a link between my influence over the Scottish Government vote on Trump’s planning application and either my recent fact-finding mission to New York and Las Vegas or my recently awarded life-time membership at Trump International have been grossly exaggerated. Yes, I petitioned hard for Alex “Sandy” Salmond to look again at the application and put the thing through on the nod but what’s wrong with that? I was simply acting in the best interests of my country, my constituency and my handicap.

Anyhoo, what a wheeze rubbing shoulders with all the proper golfers at Trump International last week! Monty, Pauly Lawrie, Lairdy (no idea who he is). Of course, Sandy Salmond was noticeable by his absence – probably down to his spat with the Trumpster on wind turbines. Nasty business really. Can’t see why Donald J. doesn’t actually get behind the wind farm himself and invest in it as his own business venture. There are obvious advertising slogans he could run – “Trump International Turbines – putting the Wind into Trump”. There you go Donny, you can have that one on me. Cheers!

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss – but slightly better paid and in a nicer office

RON CLUNY, spokesman for a recently elected Council’s new ruling administration, responds to those who have criticised it in its first few days.
A great deal of nonsense has been spoken about the decision to award ourselves a 5% payrise.  It is certainly not true to say, as some have done, that it was “the first thing that we did on coming to power.” The first thing we did was send out for Irn Bru, two-dozen butteries and a big box of paracetomol. Coming in from the political cold fairly gives you a thirst, a rumbly tummy and a sair heid. The second thing we did was to change all the locks and stick up a picture of the outgoing Council Leader on the dartboard in the canteen, and the third was to run around the courtyard of the new council HQ humming the theme tune from ‘Chariots of Fire.’ Only then did we turn our attention to the very important question of proper remuneration for the public service that we humbly perform for the greater good. So it was the fourth thing thing we did, and after long and detailed discussion, 5% was the most that we thought we could reasonably get away with.The allegation from our opponents that, in a time of austerity, it is somehow hypocritical for us to award ourselves an increase is nothing more than the kind of smear tactics we’ve come to expect from a feckless bunch of has-beens who didn’t even have the wit to feather their own nests whilst they were in charge.  We are deeply upset by allegations that this is a cynical action which will allow us to immediately improve our standard of living while allowing us the scope to dupe the electorate with a highly-publicised pay freeze just before the next election.  I say this for two reasons.  Firstly, because we were hoping that no one would notice; and secondly, because what our decision really demonstrates is the firm leadership which this city has been lacking for so long.  It shows us to be an administration that is not afraid to make hard decisions, even when they prove to be unpopular, ill advised, or, indeed, undemocratic. And we have shown that we are willing to go to great lengths to follow through on promises: on this occasion, the promise I made to my missus to take her away to Gran Canaria for a fortnight later on in the year.And besides, in these days of the crowded centre, when in policy terms the distinction between the main parties is ever more elusive, our decision to award ourselves such an increase serves the crucially important role of allowing the public to easily differentiate between the different administrations. The last lot were self-serving, heavy-handed and politically inept. No one could ever say that about us.
All the latest entertainment news with showbiz insider SHELLEY SHINGLES (Miss Fetteresso, 1993)Just back from Eurovision! That’s right, your roving reporter has been to Baku this weekend for the greatest show on earth. Did you know, that Baku is not just a short Japanese poem that doesn’t rhyme, it’s also a country in Turkey? Me neither!! Travel fairly broadens the mind!!!I said as much to my great chum Graham Norton when I spotted him up in the broadcasting gallery. He couldnt hear me, though, not through all that glass. And with that security guard in the way. Graham would no doubt have been in his element, with all the beautiful young women that were there. He’s quite the ladies man, you know. And very proud of his Welsh roots!Graham of course, replaced the late Geat Terry Wogan in the commentator’s hot seat. I have to say that I miss Terry’s inimitable style. He and I go way back; I presented him with a giant cheque for £350 from the Fetteresso Young Farmers’ sponsored tattie howk on Children in Need in 1994. I’ll never forget what he said to me:”Thank you”.Wise words, from a true gentleman.Then I had a great chat with a lovely old mannie who told me he’d sold 15 million albums. OMG!! He must have worked in that record shop for a looooong time! I’m afraid I just couldn’t catch his name, (I swear, it sounded like ‘Eggy-bread Hyperlink’) but he’d won a competition or something because they let him have a go at singing. Bless!! Those Eurovisionaries are so thoughtful, they even arranged it so that he could go first, so it didn’t interfere with his bedtime.As I was being escorted out of the competitor’s area by Farid, from security, (it was soooo nice to be looked after like that, my own security man, imagine!!!!) who should I bump into but Jedward!? It wasn’t their fault, they couldn’t see anything for their massive floppy fringes and at the speed I was going, Farid’s reactions just weren’t quck enough. They’re a lovely pair of boys, by the way and so alike. You know, they could be twins!!Eurovision gets a lot of stick, but whatever you think about the acts and the songs, there’s no better way for the people of Europe to get to know more about each other’s lands and cultures. As you’ll know, Sweden came out on top, and will host next year, so I’m fairly looking forward to some fondue and Toblerone!!!

We have advanced to the point where our technologies can answer the most fundamental questions: Did the ball cross the line?

PROFESSOR HECTOR SCHLENK, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science.

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions such as ‘Is human cloning achievable?’ ‘What can we do about climate change?’ and ‘Have you paid for all these items, sir?’ But recently, people have been asking me if I can explain the Higgs Boson so that it can be understood by the man in the street. ‘No’. I reply. ‘This is the very cutting edge of physics, the final piece in a fiendishly difficult puzzle made of multi-dimensional ballistics and very hard sums. If the man in the street could understand it, we in the scientific community would be kissing goodbye to all our lovely research grants’. And then they laugh, in the mistaken belief that I’m joking. And after an awkward silence I feel compelled to continue.

The Standard Model of particle physics attempts to unify what we know about the physical world into one coherent picture. The picture has largely been completed, except for one big hole – The Standard Model can’t explain why matter has mass. Accordingly, the great unresolved question of modern science is: ‘Why am I fat?’

The Higgs Boson is the thing which, it is posited, gives mass to other sub-atomic particles by clustering around them. The more Higgs Bosons you attract, the more massive you become. It is, in a very real sense, the Aitken’s rowie of particle physics.

Scientists at CERN confirm that the Large Hadron Collider (a sort of giant Scalectrix) has found what seems to be this ‘God’ particle, the discovery of which was the project’s raison d’etre. Many of the staff there are now secretly disappointed to discover that they weren’t actually trying to create black holes or working for the villain in the next James Bond film.

Perhaps it would help to imagine that I’ve got two Satsumas, and the label says they’re ‘mostly seedless’. As a scientist, and someone with a loose upper dental plate, this information is unsatisfactory. I need to know, with certainty, whether there are seeds in my tangerines or not and so in order to establish this scientifically, I accelerate each tangie to a velocity approaching the speed of light and then smash them together in a tunnel under Switzerland. Out of the many tiny fragments of skin and pulp spattered over the walls of the Large Hadron Collider (which is a pest to keep clean at the best of times) I find something that looks very much like the remains of a pip.

That pip is almost certainly the Higgs Boson, although the team at CERN concedes that it might be just a bit of pith. We have to wait and see.

Meanwhile, it’s time for elevenses, but my experiment has rendered my small citrus fruit inedible (as predicted by Heisenberg) so I’m forced to eat a buttery instead. Voila, it has given me mass! QED

 

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

Finally the end is night.  This Rangers pavlova has gone on long enough but at last the SPL chairmen has casted their votes.  Rangers Newco will not be playing in the top flight next season.  Quite right I says.  I mean, it’s great that Rangers has got a new home, but I’m not sure they should still be in Scottish football at all. Last night I checked the SatNav, and it turns out Newco is down in Cornwall. That’s some trek for the away fans. And the home fans.

I have fairly enjoyed watching Wimbledon this last couple of weeks. Andy Murray done us proud. He’s the first Brit for over 70 years to even make it into the final. But did anyone tell his face?  He still looked like a bulldog licking bleach off a nettle. The lovely Melody wasn’t too happy neither when she found me watching the women’s quarterfinals.  She says to me, she says “Kenny, cut it oot!  ‘At’s nae fit i’ pause button on Sky plus is for!”   I’d never really watched the tennis before.  For years I was well confused in the pub when the boys was chatting about Wimbledon.  I always thought they was speaking about Vinny Jones and his Crazy Gang.  Especially when they mentioned ‘forehand smashes’ and ‘new balls, please’.

I see Sepp Bladder has given the green thumbs up for goal line cameras in football.  Apparently they’ll be using them in the Club World Cup in December.  I would be bricking it if I was on the goal line with my camera!  What if you didn’t have any film in it?  Or your flash wasn’t working?  Or your finger was in front of the lens? Anyway, My mole at FIFA says to me that it’s taken ages to get goal line technology started because they wanted to make sure it would always catch the ball crossing the line.  They should just have got those boys what do the speed cameras on the A90.  Whenever I’m away to Stonehaven in the Jag, they catch me every time.

Can you complete a 10k road race without training? Only if you bring your bus fare.

 

TANYA SOUTER  – lifestyle advice with a local flavour.

Oh.  My.  Days!  Yous are lucky to be reading this, efter fit I pit mysel’ through yesterday it’s a wonder I’ve the energy to lift a pen.  Een o’ my pals, Chantelle (you ken Chantelle, bides in Westhill. She’s got sticky oot lugs and a slight squint. Does Anne Summers perties ‘cause she’s saving up for a boob job), somehow she talked me into signing me up for yon Baker Hughes 10K.  I think I was lulled into a false sense of security by the word ‘Baker’. Imagine my disappointment fan I gets to the starting line to find not a buttery, pie or yumyum has been laid on for us. It’s just me, Chantelle and a great load of wiry folk in trainers with grim looks of determination on their faces.

Before I tell you ony mair aboot my life changing experience, I hiv 3 facts tae clarify aboot a 10k “fun run” at the beach

1)    It’s nae fun.

2)    Aiberdeen beach is nae like the ither beaches I’ve been to, in Magaluf and Aiya Napa. It’s got sand an’ watter, right enough, but the wind is Baltic and the sea is even cauler. You’d get the same effect by pitting up yer deckchair in Farmfoods.

3)    The ‘K’ in ‘10 K ‘ stands for kilometres!  That’s ten thoosand metres!  Further than I’ve walked in my hale life!  Pit thegither!

Chantelle says to me “it’ll do you good Tanya!”  Fit a con! I’ve lost een o’ ma toenails and my feet hiv swollen up like a pair of coo’s udders! Honestly, they look like someone’s blawn up a couple of pink Marigolds. If I hidnae hopped on a Number 2 bus fan we got tae King Street I think I’d still be oot there!

Aboot half wye roon, efter I’d nipped onto the golf course for a fag, een o’ the stewards telt me I shouldnae be taking part in a 10k if I wisnae properly prepared.  I says “Prepared? I’ve brought twa lighters in case een of them runs oot and if I’m still going at lunchtime there’s a poke o’ chips in my bum-bag.”  Chick!  I telt him I’d been trainin’ for days!  I even went on the treadmill at the gym.  I didnae turn it on, like. It’s hard enough walking in platform stilettos, let alone running!

Fan I crossed the line, just ahind an 80 year auld mannie fa wis running the hale thing backwards for prostate care, Chantelle cries “Mak sure ye do yer warm doon stretches Tanya!”  So I says, “Eh – I da think so! Warm doon?  I’m plottin’ as it is, I’m nae doing mair exercise!  Me, my nose and my mascara hiv all run quite enough, thank you!”

Needless to say, efterwards Chantelle didna waste ony time taking the mickey oot of my time.  But the fact is I’d hiv been much quicker than 3 ‘oors if there hidna been such a lang queue in the Broadhill Bar.

Stay healthy!

 

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

What a week it has been for Scottish football managers!  Fergie, Big Alex McLeish and even my nameplate, Kenny Dalglish have all had what you can only describe as “a total sickener” in the past few days.

“King” Kenny got his jotters from Liverpool last week.  There is only one word that can describe my response to that news: flabby-gusted. Kenny was as Liver puddley as the Beatles, Jimmy Tarbuck, Brookside and Gerry and the Pacemakers put together.  In fact, I am willing to bet that if you cut him, he would bleed red. He even won a trophy, which is more than Fergie managed this season.  But I will always remember Kenny for his post match interviews – what a way with words!

I was less surprised to see Big Eck get the dunt from Aston Villa.  I have something of an infinity for them, because I actually played for their North-East sister club, Altens Villa.  Big Eck is one of many of the Gothenburg greats who have felt the pressure managing a really big club.  He is following in the footstools of Mark McGhee at Wolves, Gordon Strachan at Celtic and Doug Rougvie at Huntly. Maybe making the switch from player to gaffer is not as easy as it looks. I can’t think of anyone associated with that Aberdeen side who’s ever managed it.

I felt dead sorrow for Fergie when Manchester City scored that late goal what won them the league.  You could tell he was stressed – The commentators said he was masticating furiously. I don’t know about that, but he was fairly going at his chuddie.  Having your local rivals pip you to the punch must really rub sand in the wound, too.  It reminds me of when I lost a massive derby match earlier in my career.  Maud FC beat my old club, Longside, in the Ugie Valley Reserves Shield by a narrow 5-1 margin.  I’m sure Fergie will bounce back next season though.  We certainly did – next time we were ready for them, and we only lost 4-1.

 

It’s a triumph for democracy. More folk voted for Pudsey than turned out for the local elections.

J. FERGUS LAMONT, arts critic and author of  “I Choke’t on a Tattie – A Post-Brechtian Analysis of the Folk Songs of the Agricultural Poor”, watched the live final of Britain’s Got Talent.

Usually, it is with dread that I delve into the cultural abyss of “Prime Time” television. Although I do own a ‘set’ it hasn’t been illuminated since the sad departure of Russel Harty from our screens.  Last week, however, a true diamond in the rough was unearthed. As I was re-reading Katie Price’s grounbreaking novel, “Angel’  (for it’s rich Wildean sub-text), Kafka, my cat, placed an inadvertent paw on the remote control and the goggle-box leapt into boisterous life. Imagine my surprise to find that, rather than a disscussion of French Philosophy (whenever I enquire, I’m always told there’s “Foucault on”),the schedulers at an esoteric broadcaster known as “ITV” (I doubt you’ll have heard of it) had taken the bold step of broadcasting a daring, avant garde transmission, entitled, with what can only be self-consciously ironic tautology, ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.  Most readers will have missed this delight, which received little, if any, promotion, but I can assure you this is the most coruscating satire of contemporary culture I have ever witnessed. And I include in that the Singing Kettle’s blistering ‘Boogie Woogie Zoo’.

The nature of the piece was a parade of Vaudeville style “turns”, to whom a panel of knowledgeable judges, their staggering insight and profound wisdom in striking counterpoint to their youthful, smooth-skinned appearance, provided what was called ‘feedback’ (such a fresh approach – I’m amazed other broadcasters have not already deployed it). Their repetition of the mantra “I love you, I loved you when we first saw you, I thought you took it up a level, you deserve to be in the final, I loved it one hundred and ten percent” deconstructing not only the bourgoise rules of grammar, but the laws of mathematics

Their comments, mercilessly devoid of hyperbole, were immediately repeated by the diminutive shiny-faced men-children known as the ‘Antandec,’ who served as conduit between the artiste and the wider world. Like a Shakespearean fool in duplicate, they were as twin Pucks, dual Trinculos, a pair of Bottoms

All played out before a Greek Chorus who constantly and often inexplicably roared their approval. ‘Ours’, they scream, ‘is the true power, to elevate to greatness the bland, the frivolous, the deluded’. A devastating parody of contemporary democracy.

The performers were not simply gladiatorial contestants, but artistic adventurers, exploring the heights and, crucially, the depths of our culture.

Among them “Nu Sxool” a pre-pubescent dance troupe, exposed the problems facing our failing education system.  Their grasp of contemporary forms of American choreography was flawless, their grasp of spelling – less so.

‘Aqaubatique’, (from the French, meaning ‘acrobatics underwater in the window of a shop’) provided a living, human version of some of Damien Hurst’s most challenging works, recalling, as they did, his famous ‘Cow in Formaldehyde’. Outstanding.

Ultimate victors, however, were, ‘Ashleigh and Pudsey’ – Who could fail to be moved by a canine, walking on two legs, as if to say ‘Am I not, also, human?’ A moving modern ballet which symbolised the eternal quickstep that enslaves us all and served as a powerful metaphor for a country gone to the dogs.

I wept.

 

FAYE CHEYNE, the former Lib Dem councillor for Hazlehead Central, reflects on her recent electoral defeat.

It is, of course, sad to lose one’s seat after 12 years of dogged campaigning on vital local issues.  But those of us who believe in democatric representation have to learn to accept the bitter sting of defeat.  The people of Hazlehead Central have spoken, and they have said, “Close the door on yer wye oot.”  Certainly, it was a little disappointing (and perhaps a sad reflection on the public’s current attitude to politics) to be deposed not by a rival from one of the main parties, but by a wild-eyed Doctor Who fanatic whose only manifesto promise was to paint everyone’s wheelie-bin to resemble a Dalek.  And it did strike me as a teensy bit unfair that when canvassing I was met by no-one who seemed even slightly interested in all the work I had put in to keep libraries open, potholes closed, streetlights up and council tax down.  Instead, on every doorstep I was confronted with national issues, and one in particular: “Just how big a hash has Nick Clegg made of it?”  But fairness to me does not enter into it.  This is democracy at work.

Nick was kind enough to phone me to offer his condolences.  Naturally, the precise words that passed between us must remain confidential.  Suffice it to say, however, that if he followed my instructions on what to do with his phone, he will be able to carry both it and two mugs of tea through to the Prime Minister’s Office the next time he is at Downing Street.

I want you, my former constituents, to know how much I have enjoyed speaking to you and learning about your lives and your many, many petty disputes and ill-informed grievances.  Although no longer your elected represetnative I am sure that I will see and remain in touch with many of you as I move into the latest phase of my life, selling the Big Issue and playing a kazoo accompaniment to the Albanian Guitar Wifie on Schoolhill.

 

 

 

 

We have advanced to the point where our technologies can answer the most fundamental questions: Did the ball cross the line?

PROFESSOR HECTOR SCHLENK, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science.

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions such as ‘Is human cloning achievable?’ ‘What can we do about climate change?’ and ‘Have you paid for all these items, sir?’ But recently, people have been asking me if I can explain the Higgs Boson so that it can be understood by the man in the street. ‘No’. I reply. ‘This is the very cutting edge of physics, the final piece in a fiendishly difficult puzzle made of multi-dimensional ballistics and very hard sums. If the man in the street could understand it, we in the scientific community would be kissing goodbye to all our lovely research grants’. And then they laugh, in the mistaken belief that I’m joking. And after an awkward silence I feel compelled to continue.

The Standard Model of particle physics attempts to unify what we know about the physical world into one coherent picture. The picture has largely been completed, except for one big hole – The Standard Model can’t explain why matter has mass. Accordingly, the great unresolved question of modern science is: ‘Why am I fat?’

The Higgs Boson is the thing which, it is posited, gives mass to other sub-atomic particles by clustering around them. The more Higgs Bosons you attract, the more massive you become. It is, in a very real sense, the Aitken’s rowie of particle physics.

Scientists at CERN confirm that the Large Hadron Collider (a sort of giant Scalectrix) has found what seems to be this ‘God’ particle, the discovery of which was the project’s raison d’etre. Many of the staff there are now secretly disappointed to discover that they weren’t actually trying to create black holes or working for the villain in the next James Bond film.

Perhaps it would help to imagine that I’ve got two Satsumas, and the label says they’re ‘mostly seedless’. As a scientist, and someone with a loose upper dental plate, this information is unsatisfactory. I need to know, with certainty, whether there are seeds in my tangerines or not and so in order to establish this scientifically, I accelerate each tangie to a velocity approaching the speed of light and then smash them together in a tunnel under Switzerland. Out of the many tiny fragments of skin and pulp spattered over the walls of the Large Hadron Collider (which is a pest to keep clean at the best of times) I find something that looks very much like the remains of a pip.

That pip is almost certainly the Higgs Boson, although the team at CERN concedes that it might be just a bit of pith. We have to wait and see.

Meanwhile, it’s time for elevenses, but my experiment has rendered my small citrus fruit inedible (as predicted by Heisenberg) so I’m forced to eat a buttery instead. Voila, it has given me mass! QED

 

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

Finally the end is night.  This Rangers pavlova has gone on long enough but at last the SPL chairmen has casted their votes.  Rangers Newco will not be playing in the top flight next season.  Quite right I says.  I mean, it’s great that Rangers has got a new home, but I’m not sure they should still be in Scottish football at all. Last night I checked the SatNav, and it turns out Newco is down in Cornwall. That’s some trek for the away fans. And the home fans.

I have fairly enjoyed watching Wimbledon this last couple of weeks. Andy Murray done us proud. He’s the first Brit for over 70 years to even make it into the final. But did anyone tell his face?  He still looked like a bulldog licking bleach off a nettle. The lovely Melody wasn’t too happy neither when she found me watching the women’s quarterfinals.  She says to me, she says “Kenny, cut it oot!  ‘At’s nae fit i’ pause button on Sky plus is for!”   I’d never really watched the tennis before.  For years I was well confused in the pub when the boys was chatting about Wimbledon.  I always thought they was speaking about Vinny Jones and his Crazy Gang.  Especially when they mentioned ‘forehand smashes’ and ‘new balls, please’.

I see Sepp Bladder has given the green thumbs up for goal line cameras in football.  Apparently they’ll be using them in the Club World Cup in December.  I would be bricking it if I was on the goal line with my camera!  What if you didn’t have any film in it?  Or your flash wasn’t working?  Or your finger was in front of the lens? Anyway, My mole at FIFA says to me that it’s taken ages to get goal line technology started because they wanted to make sure it would always catch the ball crossing the line.  They should just have got those boys what do the speed cameras on the A90.  Whenever I’m away to Stonehaven in the Jag, they catch me every time.