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It’s the book you simply can’t put down. In case someone clocks what you’re reading

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

I wiz afa pleased tae see in the press that the novel, ’50 Shades of Grey’ his selt o’er a million copies. It’s heirt-warmin’ tae see that in this age of offloadable e-streams and electric kindling, something so traditional can still prove very popular: i.e., getting your jollies buying naughty books. Aye, it fair taks me back tae my youth fan Lady Chatterley wiz a’ the rage and the single copy in the Meikle Wartle library wis the only book in the ‘heavy-demand’ section.

I hope that my ain literary opus, penned on and aff files the weather’s been dreich (that is to say, every day since September, Twa Thoosand and Siven) will also dae great business. Oh aye, I’m nae jist a broadcaster and cultural commentator, ye ken. Ahind this ruddy, horny-handed exterior lies the soul of an artist. And the liver of Oliver Reed.

Entitled  ‘7 Shades O’ Sharn’, my debut novel is the torrid tale o’ Moira, a naive fairmer’s quine, fresh oot o’ Craibstone Agricultural College working the fields during the Meikle Wartle heatwave of 1977. She’s swept aff her feet by Jock, the suave and sophisticated orra loon, fa seduces her in the swish surrounds of his pent-hoose bothy at Fyvie. It’s my first bash at erotic fiction, but if I do say so mysel, it is affa mucky. Particularly Chapter Six, fan the temperature hits 34 degrees and a’ the beasts come doon with an affa dose of Bloat.

You can buy my book exclusively fae the Meikle Wartle Village Post Office and Bakery. Jist ask Esma behind the coonter and she’ll gie ye it in a plain broon paper bag. But be quick, they’re selling lik hot cakes. ‘Cos the first twa hunder copies are free fan ye buy a hot cake.

Unlike the work of E.L. James, this is nae sae much  ‘mummy porn’ as ‘dubby porn’. I’ve been storing them in my ain coo-shed, so if ye scratch and sniff the pages, it’s like you’re really there. But for ony sake, mind and wash yer hands afore you eat yer cake.

 

OOR AIN FOLK – This week, LORD COSMO LUDOVICK FAWKES-HUNTE, thirteenth Earl of Kinmuck, on the proposed reform of the House of Lords

Nothing but nonsense under the guise of modernism seems to be produced by the despicable shower of oiks and parvenues who currently call themselves our Government.  The country hasn’t had a leader of substance since Sir Anthony Eden.  As usual, knee-jerk populism seems set to triumph over tradition and stout British common sense.  Yes, of course the House of Lords is undemocratic, but answer me this: if hereditary peers such as myself are to be excluded from Parliament, where are we going to hang around, waiting for our clubs to open?  No doubt the powers that be expect us to sit in the public parks, aggravating our rheumatism – at massive cost to the already hard-pressed National Health Service.   As per usual, they simply have not thought it through.

My Great-Great-Great-Grandfather didn’t fight tooth and nail in the Crimea to see centuries of tradition cast aside like an unprepossesing chambermaid.  He didn’t fight tooth and nail in the Crimea at all; he was doing some watercolour painting in Tuscany at the time.  However, he did send the ghillie and some of the beaters from the estate to fight tooth and nail on his behalf.  They had wonderful teeth and nails, those men.  I know this because after they’d done their bit, “The Charge of the Light Brigade”, they were collected off the battlefield, and, as a tribute to their great sacrifice and unstinting inability to think for themselves, we keep them, to this day, in a little silver bon-bon bowl in which I also have the cricket ball with which I bowled the Nawab of Pataudi to take the winning wicket in the Varsity match of 1931.

But I digress.  With the things that made Britain great banished by this Bolshevik administration, with tradition now counting for nothing and the country going to the dogs – it is quite plain that what we need now is an armed struggle, to throw off the oppressive yoke of this modern fad for democracy.

So.  Who’s going to do it for me?

 

JONATHON M LEWIS, Head-teacher at a local secondary school, marks the departure of some colleagues:

The end of term is such a sad occasion in a school. The pupils have to ponder 7 weeks without structure, discipline and rules whilst the teachers have to somehow fill their days without the infectious personalities of their pupils.  Another emotional aspect of the end of term is that it frequently coincides with some of our esteemed colleagues departing for pastures new.

All at Garioch Academy will sorely miss Mr Thwaite, from the Physics department.  Though I’m sure many parents will have read about his “sabbatical” that may last up to 6 years, I can assure everyone that he deeply regrets wiring pupils up to receive electric shocks when they couldn’t solve an equation of motion.  He promised the judge this practice would desist upon his release.

The Drama department will simply not be the same without Miss Forbes over the next 9 months.  Her bubbly personality has proved very popular with our 6^th year boys and I know they will be lost without her.  Some parents have alleged that the boys will need to find someone else who will buy beer for them in the local off license – I have been advised by our solicitor not to comment.

Perhaps the deepest void to fill has arisen as a result of Mr Wilson’s sudden early retirement from the Maths department.  Pupils in 4A will be especially affected, given the detailed statistical assignment they had carried out for Mr Wilson based on horse racing.  I’m quite sure there is no connection between the pupils’ hard work and Mr Wilson’s 6-fold accumulator on the Newmarket card last Friday.  We wish him well in his new career as an international playboy.

The people of the North-East have spoken, and they have said ’Ppfff’!

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

I was in two minds when Roy Hodgson got the England job last week.  On the one mind, I felt sorrow for my old mate ‘Arry Redknapp but on the other mind, when he had that spot of  bother with the taxman, I had stuck twenty notes on Roy at Ladbrokes.  It is a bit of a shocker though for ‘Arry, who most people thought was a shoeing.  The papers is all saying the suits chose Hodgson because of his experience with national teams like the Swizz, but my mole at the English FA tells me the other day the real reasons why they done it.  Apparently David Bernstein, who is the one what makes all the decisions, is a massive fan of Steptoe and Son.  Every time he heard Roy doing an interview he couldn’t not think of Harry H Corbett!  So he had to choose him – I suppose that’s why they cry it “Hodgson’s choice”.  It wasn’t on, though, the way the Sun didn’t not waste no time in taking the mick out of Roy’s speech impeddlement. Unfair play, I say. The tabloids has to give a new manager the chance. They shouldn’t be having a go at him until England has been knocked out of the Euro’s at the Quarter finals.

Scotland has never had that many world champions in sport. Chris Hoy, Jocky Wilson, and Eric Lidls, out of Chariots of Fire, are the only names what spring to mind. So when Stephen Hendry announces he’s hanging up his cue everyone must be thinking the same thing – why is he hanging it up? He should probably unscrew it and put it away in it’s case. Or maybe put it in a rack with some other cues. You’d think he’d have one of those in his house. Any road, not many people can say they’ve had a career like what Stephen has had.  World champion 7 times, 11 maximum breaks and sponsored by the Sweater Shop.  Of course, me and him has got a lot in common.  We both broke onto the scene with a face like a pepperoni pizza and we’ve both accumulated more than our share of straight reds.

 

OUR AIN FOLK – The people who make the North East what it is today. This week, retired gas-fitter ERNIE CHALMERS gives us his take on the local elections

In the run up to last week’s council elections, there wiz a mannie come to my door, seeking my vote.  He wizna fae ony o’ yer usual parties, he wiz standin as een o’ yon independent candidates.  And, given that The One Show was on, I chose to engage him in political discourse.

Fit he wiz saying wiz that the Council Tax freeze, that a’ the main parties is for, proceeds on a mistaken premise.  Files it appeals tae the voter in the short term, it’s really jist a recipe for unfilled potholes, school closures and Christmas decorations fit are hazardous in a high wind.

Fit he wiz saying wiz that fan ye think aboot it, increased local taxation should result in improved public services – presumin’ the additional revenue is wisely spent.

Fit he wiz saying wiz, if ye proceed upon a Keynesian model, greater public spending leads not only to the maist logically proximate good (the enhancement of local amenities) but can also help stimulate an itherwise ailing private sector ecomony.  Thus, counter-intuitively, not only aiding recovery, but simultaneously bringing  us closer to the establishment o’ a true social democracy.

So did I vote for him? Did I Haudigan! The theivin’ radge winted tae pit a tenner a month on tae my council tax!  That may not sound like a lot of money, but fan ye think aboot it in a wye that the common man can understan; in fags – with 20 Regal King size at £6.97 – at’s 28 fags a month! I mean, in February, that’s a fag a day, and that’s a month fan ye’r a’ready runkit efter Christmas! I says to him, ye come roon here, wi yer rosette and yer funcy talk, and try to steal the fags oot of my moo?  So I kicked him in the chuckies and I chased him doon the street! And then I collapsed. ‘Cause of my emphysema. Wi’ my smokin’.

So on pollin’ day itsel’, I looked down the list of candidates and did my best to pit them in order of preference, but I have to admit, I wiz stumped. Weel, there a’ jist as bad as each ither, are they? So, determined to fully register my dissatisfation wi’ the hale political scene, I calmly, and deliberately, soiled my ballot paper. It wisnae til I wis recounting the story in the Grill on Thursday night, for the benefit of Alfie Mutch and Bill ‘The Barker’ Barclay that I discovered my mistake. Though I dare say I made my point.

It wiz a great day for democracy, but a gadsy een for the returning officer for Linksfield and Seaton.

 

 

 

This week’s local elections invove a record number of candidates standing as independents. We provide some of them with an opportunity to get their message across:

DODDIE ESSLEMONT, Radical Independence Campaigner, asks for your vote

In stark contradistinction to the small-beer, cheap rent, vision of independence peddled by a certain well-fed First Minister ourt who I COULD mention but certainly won’t, I, ME, Doddie Esslemont of that ilk, offer you all the real deal.  Where others prpose a referendum on the breaking up of the Union, I actually promise to break up the Union, with a series of explosive charges along the line of Hadrian’s wall, down the Great Glen Fault, up the line of the A90, and along the garden wall that forms the boundary between myself and THAT BALLON AT NUMBER 20.

No man is an island?  I beg to differ.

 

TANYA SOUTER, Lifestyle Guru, asks for your vote

I widnae say I’ve eyewiz fancied bein’ a politician – but I think I’ve got fit it takes tae mak a difference.  I’ve nae idea aboot yous, but I’m fed up seein’ wir female cooncillors lookin’ so frumpy!  Yer Jaeger suit might be knockin’ them deid in the planning committee, but yer nae going tae generate much interest in yer hustings if yer covering up yer main electoral assets. Da get me wrang, my grunny sweers by her twinset – but if she tried tae attract the young male vote dressed up like yon, she’d lose her deposit!  And the men are nae better. It’s a choice between baldie mannies in blazers and spotty loons in their first suit fae Slaters. Fit ivery elected chamber needs is a bittie Tanya Souter makeover mugic. So, if elected I’m gan tae bring some much needed glamour tae the cooncil, an’ I’ve got ma canvassin’ outfit back fae the dry cleaners.  I think thigh-high PVC boots, leopard-skin hot pants, an’ a spungly boob-tube will let everyone see fit Tanya his tae offer!

 

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRAT, Ordinary Mum, asks for your vote

I’m sure I’m not the only ordinary mum who has had enough of our ordinary issues being ignored by our local representatives.  Every single day I seethe with rage when dropping Fidel and Emmeline at school.  It’s a nightmare, and not at all safe. Who is responsible for these infernal zig-zag lines that stop me parking the X5 at the door?!  I’m forced to pull over on the only part of the road that doesnt have lines, the zebra crossing.

Obviously, as a lifelong supporter of the underprivileged both here and abroad (We sponsor a little boy in South Africa. It’s only a few pounds a month to us, but what a difference it makes to them. His name is Joost Van Der Beek. Not so little now, as it happens, he’s an engineering consultant.) I was all in favour, in principle, of last year’s public sector strike. It was clearly unjust that the government was forcing a unilateral variation of their terms and conditions of employment. But what they failed to consider is that Wednesday is our recycling day. Our utility room was packed for a fortnight with old copies of the Guardian, empty bottles of fair-trade Peruvian Malbec and Palestinian olive oil. I did consider putting it all into the stables, but Emms would have had an absolute meltdown!

Anyway, vote for Davinia – keeping it real.

 

JOCK ALEXANDER, Host of Mtv (Meikle Wartle Television) asks for your vote

If elected tae Aiberdeenshire Cooncil, I will dae my damnedest tae rid oor village of the scourge that is motorists, tourists and ither unwanted visitors fae the big city, or as we cry it, Inverurie. They jist get Ethel in the village shoppie a’ raivell’t fan they come in askin’ fer directions tae Auctherless. I propose diverting the funds currently being squandered on education, housing and enviromental services intae oor top-priority infrastructure project; movin’ Meikle Wartle 20 mile further inland. There’s a rare lookin’ blasted heath o’ a place at the fit o’ the Cairngorms fit wid be ideal

We shall also be seeking funding fae the private sector, by attracting the world’s top entripeneers. On that topic, I note Donald Trump has been complainin’ aboot bein’ lured tae Scotland under false pretences. I can confirm that the good folk o’ Meikle Wartle did consult wi him on the feasibility o’ bringing his Golf Course here, and yes, we did attempt tae lure him. Weel, it wiz Feel Moira hersel’ that did the actual lurin’, but I wiz ahin’ a dry-steen dyke, eggin’ her on. Unfotunately it didnae work, he showed nae interest in the raw meat she wis birlin’ aroon her heid. She’ll maybe hae better luck wi’ Richard Branson.

HELENA TORRY, The Union Terrace Gardens One, asks for your vote in her own, distinctive voice:

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And finally, in the interests of political balance, here is a brief statement of the platform of each of the main parties standing in the election.

SNP  “Vote for us, it’s all the other lot’s fault”.

Labour  – “Vote for us, it’s been ages since it was our fault”

Liberal Democrat  – “You’re not going to vote for us, this time, are you? Can’t blame you really.”

Conservative  – “Vote for us, please? Someone? Anyone?”