Granny’s golden rule for when the clocks change: ‘Spring Roll, Fall Over’. Of course, she was dottled.

TANYA SOUTER – Lifestyle Guru

I da ken aboot yous, but every time the clocks change I get right confused!  Firstly, it happens twice a year. Fit’s that aboot? My Grunny had a rhyme fit telt you fit wye they go each time. “Spring Rolls and Fall Over” she used tae say – no, hud on, that’s nae right –  “Spring Up and Fall Doon”. “Spring Up” means fan they change in the Spring ye hiv tae get “up” in an affa hurry.  “Fall Doon” is fit happens if you’re in a bar with a 2 o’clock licence fan they pit the clocks back, and you end up spending another hour slamming tequilas! My Grunny had a wee saying for athin. “You can’t take it with you” She used to say. Weel, that was rubbish for a start, as she proved the day she cleaned out Granda’s Post Office account and done a shoot to Magaluf.

Secondly, there’s nae doot that the worst bit of the hale jing bang is the scutter of changing all the clocks in the hoose.  That means your alarm clock, your oven, your micro, your video, and all the bairns’ videos.  The tricky bit is working oot fit time tae change them til, since all the clocks are wrang.  I’ve found this phone line called “The Spikkin Clock”.  Ring it up, pit it on speakerphone and then wander aroond the hoose re-setting everything. It’s nae cheap mind, so best to dae it using the mobile of the lad you brought hame fae the Priory

Last of all there’s that anxious moment when you get tae work on Monday morning.  Hiv ye got the change right or hiv you rocked up an hour late?  Or, worse than that, an hour early?!  Never fear, you can use your telly for a safety check.  If  “Everybody Loves Raymond” is on fan your eating your cornflakes, you’ll be fine.  If it’s  “Jeremy Kyle” – you might be a bitty latchy.

If you’re still confused, jist be thankful you dinna bide in America.   The clocks there change fan you ging fae one city tae the next!  Imagine – if you bide in L.A. een of your pals in New York could tell you fit happens in Hollyoaks afore you’ve even watched it. Nightmare!

 

RON CLUNY, local government spokesperson, speaks out in defence of Halloween

It’s Halloween again, the season of jack o’lanterns, dookin for apples, and the Education department being bombarded with letters and phone enquiries from killjoy parents moaning that Halloween celebrations promote their childrens’ interest in the occult.  More arrant nonsense from a public that does not deserve the calibre of local authority what they have got, and who probably have all seven volumes of the Harry Potter trilogy on their bookshelves at home.  But no, no: their childrens’ interest in ghouls and ghosties can’t be anything to do with that or the Twilight saga – blame the Cooncil!

Previous administrations have sought to “accommodate parents’ concerns” and “dampen down” the celebration of Halloween.  Not us.  This administration is committed to ensuring that Halloween remains at the centre of our civic life for generations to come.  Why?  Firstly, it is a long-standing part of our culture, tracing its roots back to the Celtic festival of Samhain.  It is not to be cast aside by the objections of a few loud mouthed weary wullies.  Secondly, it is a festival of the dead, allowing us an opportunity to reflect both on our own mortality and the fine line that separates the quick from the dead.  And finally, it provides us with an unrivalled opportunity to see lovely, glossy photos of all the hot totty from the telly done up as scantily-clad witches and sexy vampires.

 

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

It seems like a dark cloud has distended over sport following the recent revolutions about Lance Armstrong. The US Anti-drugs Agency says, they says, it was the most sophisticated, professionalised and successful doping programme ever seen in sport. What a shame it is to see that someone who has been an idle to so many has had feet of clay on his pedals all long. I’m no expert, but I always had my suspicions. I mean, it’s one thing to win 7 Tour de Frances, but to do it 40 years after being the first man on the moon? That is mental!  What’s even more mind-blogging is that apparently, although he did all that,  he only had one testimonial. I have got one up on Lance in that respect – I had 2, and they were both massive. One from Longside Juniors and one from Hall Russells

Drugs in sport is a right Dutchy subject. I’m not proud of it, but I once falled foul of performance enhancing substitutes myself. When I was captain of Inverurie Locos we was playing a grunge match against Kintore, and I wasn’t feeling one hundred and ten percent. When the referee wasn’t looking, I quickly touched a wee bit of something to my nose. Sadly, I also touched my eyes so I had to be subbed off. And that was the last time I went near Vicks Vaporub.

 

 

 

You say ‘Potato’,  we say ‘Tattie’ (Holiday)

JONATHON M LEWIS, Head teacher at Garioch Academy

Whilst I prefer to avoid the media spotlight, recent comments levelled at myself and my colleagues necessitate a public retort.  On behalf of all members of Garioch Academy’s extended family, the current October break is not, as some unenlightened parents have suggested, “yet another blimmin’ holiday”. No, it is a much-needed, hard-earned respite for all of us, staff and pupils alike, after 8 frenetic weeks of ceaseless toil (weekends, 2 in-service days and the local holiday notwithstanding). Two teachers were literally on their knees when the bell rang for end of term, and I can assure concerned parents that this was due to the fatigue engendered by imparting knowledge – not, as was alleged, because they spent the lunch break downing celebratory Jagerbombs in the staffroom. Some of the dedicated educators on our team push themselves so hard during term-time that they fall ill during the holidays.  Sadly, Mr Bridge in Modern Studies has suffered another relapse of his spondylitis whilst visiting his niece, Consuela, in Torrevieja. Needless to say, he was devastated to have to let us know that he has to convalesce on the picturesque Costa Blanca for the first 2 weeks of the coming term.  He is in our prayers, and I solemnly vow to root out the individual who daubed his classroom door with “Donde esta, Señor Bridge?” When I discover his or her identity, I will not hesitate to award them the school prize in Modern Languages.But no matter how exhausted the staff, it always fills me with delight to see the pupils at the end of term.  Drained from their hectic day of watching ‘Harry Potter’ or ‘High School Musical’, somehow they overcome this lassitude with a boisterous exuberance, reaching never-before-seen levels of energy, noise, and good-natured damage to school property, reaching a crescendo as they pour out of the school gates – something I’m sure our parents will thank us for throughout the October break.

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER, the football pundit who kicks back

Scotland Supremo Craig Levein has come in for a fair bit of stick since the national team crashed out of conception for the World Cup in Reno. In football, it’s never fair to lay the whole blame at the footsteps of one individual, but I will say this: his tic-tacs was mince.I never played against Craig Levein in the whole of my extinguished career.  Some of my old mates at Tynecastle says he was a gentle, quiet bloke – apart from that time when he punched one of his teammates in the face during a friendly and broke his nose.  We’ve all done it.  I’ve done it three times. After last week’s Scotland results, Craig must have felt like he was the one getting a doing.  I couldn’t believe what my eyes was telling me when Wales got that penalty. Everyone who seen it seen it was a dive. Apart from the Ref. And both the Linesmen. Then on Tuesday the Tartan Army was in Brussels to see Levein’s squad play the Belgiums.  Unfortunately for the supporters, that game didn’t go no better, and our World Cup dream came to the end of the road with a bump.  They look to be a good side, though, and Scotland was outclassed. The last Belgium I seen carving open a defence like that was Hercules Parrot in Murder on the Orient Express.

View from the midden – JOCK ALEXANDER on the unique challenges of Tattie Fortnight in Meikle Wartle:

Weel, it’s been a solanum tuberosumy wik here in the village, for it’s that time of year fan traditionally a great load of scruffy kids descend upon us to earn a few bob howking tatties. Of course, the Tattie Holiday is nae fit it wis. For some reason, the youngsters today is jist nae interested. Nae doot they’re sae busy with their X-wiis and their i-twitters that they hinna time for twa wiks of back-breaking manual labour fae dawn til dusk. It’s a peety, cause fit better wye for young folk to learn aboot the meaning of ‘hard work’ and, indeed,  ‘the exploitation of labour’. Here in Meikle Wartle, however, the Tattie Holiday is still a very special time. As weel as howking  and roguing tatties, we also select the biggest een to run the village for a fortnicht. This year we have a verra impressive 5 pound Kerrs Pink, fit is currently sitting on a big reed cushion in the village hall.  And I must say it’s doing a grand job. We hid a pucklie tourists fae the far flung Metropolis of Aiberdeen visit the village last wik, and fan we telt them a great big tattie wiz in charge, they said it fairly reminded them of hame. Sadly, that was jist aboot the only tattie that’s been picked this year. A combination of hard soil, high acidity, and clement Spring weather, followed by biblical flooding, has resulted in the poorest crop in mony a day.  Fit tatties we’ve managed to harvest had to be howked fae a very difficult location indeed. Aisle four of the Tescos at Huntly. Cheerio!

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Mind how you go!

That’s summer over – if that’s the right word for three months of freezing fog, howling wind and floods.

TANYA SOUTER – lifestyle guru, on the Autumn trends

I da ken aboot yous, but I’ve been feeling affa caul of late.  The central heating at mines is back up to ‘full’ and I’m preparing to hand over my first born to British Gas fan the bill arrives. It’s nae hass, I wis never that fond of the little radge onywye. And I’m nae saying the weather’s been weet, but on Friday past I seen a mannie with a massive beard gathering twa o’ ivry animal intae a boat.

Noo that the’ nights are drawing in and frosty morning’s is starting, you’ll a’ be needing tae spruce up yer wardrobes a bittie.  Autumn is een o’ my top four seasons so look nae further fer some style tips tae help you stick oot fae the crowd.

First of a’, this season’s ‘must have’ is something retro. Think of Autumn’s big look as mixter-maxter of highlights fae the 40s, to the 70s. And fit could be mair iconic than the classic belted rain coat.? I’d been on the look oot fer the perfect een fer a couple o’ wiks until I clocked it on Setterday fan I wis standing ootside the Crown & Anchor fer a fag.  It wis a wee mannie wis weering it, so I taps him on the shooder an’ asks him far he got it.  He turns roon and tries tae show me the inside label, but the feel gype hid forgotten tae pit his breeks on!  Peer thing, til that moment I hidna realized just fit a caul nicht it wis.

That got me thinking, us lassies also hiv to worry aboot fit wye we can adapt wir usual “night-oot” attire tae suit the cauler evenings.  The answer is simple ladies.  Weer exactly the same outfit you wore for clubbing in Aya Nappa in July, but team it wi’ an additional layer of fake-tan. This autumn, the classic ‘tangerine’ skin tone is considered passé, as darker hues come mair tae the fore. Think teak, walnut or mahogany. There’s a number of excellent products on the market, but I recommend Ronseal’s quick drying woodstain.

Finally, the best wye tae beat the chill fan yer oot on the toon is tae get torn intae the Jaeger bombs!  Efter five o’ them ye canna even tell if yer inside or oot. Ciao!

It’s political conference season, but it wasn’t just the Tories who had their annual shindig last week.

DODDIE ESSLEMONT, Radical Independence campaigner and Chairman, Leader, Treasurer, Chief Whip and Social Convener of the Independence for 39G Seaton Drive Party.

I have just returned from giving my keynote address to the Annual Conference of the Independence for 39G Seaton Drive Party.  This was an important speech, which came at a crucial time in the party’s development.  Last year, sections of the party had been unimpressed by the venue for the conference – a prominent bakers on George Street – and by certain key pledges.  “Yes, we agree that there should be free butteries and Tennent’s Lager for all citizens of 39G Seaton Drive”, said the Treasurer, “but how is this to be funded?”  This led to a spirited defence from the Leader of the Party and fierce allegations of penny-pinching by the Social Convenor before the proprietor of the conference venue, a simple man unversed in the cut and thrust of political debate, asked me to leave his shop. Apparently, me shouting at myself was upsetting the other customers. Radical political ideas can have that effect on the ignorant (I happen to know that in 1922 Trotsky was ejected from the Minsk branch of the Tasty Tattie in almost identical circumstances). In any event, the proprietor of the bakery was insistent, despite my threat to impose sanctions upon the sale of meat and pastry based comestibles when ultimately I am recognised as a sovereign nation.  Truly, there is no reasoning with some people.

Following that farrago, the party spared no expense for this year’s venue – a junior suite in a local dockside hotel, which I had booked for a full three hours.  I spoke – without notes, or a jacket and tie, but with passion and verve – about my vision for an independent 39G Seaton Drive.  One Nation, at ease with itself.  One Nation, with no great disparities between the conditions of the poorest or richest citizen.  One Nation, with one person living in it.

As I concluded, I drew gasps of appreciation from the Party Chairman and the Chief Whip and a thunderous standing ovation broke out which lasted a full 20 minutes and would, I am sure, be still ongoing had a hotel manager not chapped on the door and told me to hop it so fellow who had booked the room for the next half-hour could pop in for a spot of lunch-time adultery.

The conference, then, was a great success.  Greatness is within my grasp. It is time to go back to my scullery, and prepare for Government!

 

 

Review – Pauline Alexander saw Flying Pig Productions’ The Silence of the Bams at His Majesty’s Theatre.

Listen very carefully, I shall say this only eence – Aberdeen’s Flying Pigs delivered laughs in spades during their latest Doric comedy offering, Silence of the Bams.

Fit iver ye dae ower the next dizen days, mak sure ye ging tae His Majesty’s Theatre and tak’ in een o’ their shows and ye’ll nae be dissapinted.

The four piece Buckie Drifters provided a strong opening to the show led by Craig Pike. This is quickly followed by the exasperated Mr Duguid, brilliantly portrayed by Greg Gordon, who try as he might could not get anyone at the end of a phone to pronounce his name correctly.

No Flying Pigs show would be complete without the banter between favourite skiving workers Archie and Davie as they put the world to rights. And who needs Elton John when Hilton John is on our doorstep extolling the virtues o’ Rubislaw Den far ye can bide in a hoose that has a lavvie wi’ a door?

Craig Pike excelled himself as Faither, dreading the arrival of nightmare couple and pair o’grips Selma and Eddie who arrived complete with a bottle of tattie brandy.

The Mieklewartle Television sketch featured farming characters Jock and Jim waxing lyrical about their state of the art tractor which runs on North-East sharn is an absolute must for any Flying Pigs’ show – as was the Doric skit revealing the truth behind those lonely hearts columns.

Steve Rance’s hilarious parody on Union Terrace Gardens was superb and really struck a nerve with the audience, while John Hardie excelled as new character The Lurker who happens to be very choosy about who he approaches in men’s toilets.

The air stewards sketch featuring Greg, this time joined by Moray Barber, had everyone in stitches as the retired trawlermen talked everyone through the Doric version of the safety drill – advising everyone to keep their own set of teeth as they would come in handy for identification purposes later on.

Well done Flying Pigs and their superb back-up team of talented writers for another gem of a show.

Evening Express 11/10/2011

They said Aberdeen has its head stuck in the sand. Well, we showed them!

 

ARCHIE FRASER, City Centre Resident

Aberdeen has attracted some negative publicity of late. We’ve been the subject of ridicule; the descisons of our City Fathers regarded by some as shortsighted, lacking in vision, parochial. But recently, the actions of one man have elevated Aberdeen’s profile beyond measure. Now, thanks to incredible advancements in information technology, when the world thinks of Aberdeen only one image is brought to mind.  It’s not an image of granite, oilrigs or an abandoned city centre garden development. It’s an image of one man, a true hero of or time, with his head stuck in a bin.

Willie, or ‘Bucket Heid’ as he is now known to a global audience, has, like myself, been a denizen of the city centre for longer than I care, or indeed, am able, to remember. We’ve shared many a bench, a fair few bottles of Tia Maria and any number of incoherent shouting matches over the years, and no-one is more deseving of the sobriquet ‘ Public Figure’ than he. So I was heartened to read in the discarded copy of the Press and Journal that I had stuffed into my shirt for extra warmth, that he had finally achieved the level of recognition he has always, in all honesty, demanded.

Well known to many, with his humorous catch phrase “Chief! Chief!  See’s a pound?” He is a true renaissance man. A tireless fundraiser for such worthy causes as the ‘Willie Middleton Cup of Tea Fund”, the “Willie Middleton Bus Fare Home Trust” and the  “Friends of Tennants Super”, he is also a trend setter. The recent popularity of Magners, Koppaberg and other cider type drinks in the summer beer gardens of the city can be largely put down to the influence of the style statement he has been making since 2009, to only drink White Lightening on the bench outside the Soul Bar.

He’s also a tireless campaigner on behalf of the homeless, principally (one might say exclusively) himself, and once staged a ‘slump-in’ protest, falling asleep in the reception of his solicitor’s office where he had ventured to escape a particularly heavy rainstorm. Once the weather had improved, his legal advisor, unable to rouse him from his slumber (one might call it the ‘the sleep of the just had a bottle of Buckie’) was compelled to drag him by the ankles out into the street. The next day, Willie re-attended the premises, this time to seeking legal advice as to how to pursue a claim for his mysterious carpet burns.

I know speak for all of Aberdeen’s gentlemen of the road when I say Willie, we salute you! Or to put it another way; hats off to Bucket Heid!

 

 

‘Sorry’ seems to be the hardest word. Except for politicians, for them it’s ‘resignation’.

STRUAN METCALF, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions – A (Grudging) Apology

Dear friends, constituents and most importantly, Super Dave. It is, once again, incumbent on me to unreservedly apologise for recent comments made – in the heat of battle, one might say – this time to the Turriff Constabulary (namely one PC Archie Findlater) .
I am relieved to report that my latest outburst was not made on Twitter, but orally – through my very own mouth piece – as I was cycling home on my push-bike (a pretty natty Chris Boardman hybrid, natch! None of your “Boris Bikes” for me), following a visit to the local primary school. As a result, rather than being read and re-tweeted by my several thousand followers, my remarks were heard only by a very small number of my constituents. And their young children. I had cycled through the play-ground when the local plod on duty refused to open the gate and let me ride straight through without having to stop. He made me get off my bike and walk 15 metres round to the parent’s entrance. Un-be-lievable. So I let rip.
In my defence it had been a particularly trying day back at HQ. My new researcher, Lexie Tong-Begg (Apparently, in the modern, caring Tory party I am not allowed to call her ‘Sexy Long-Legs’. It’s poitical correctness gone mad.) is proving a slow-study in the most important areas of political life. Firstly, my sausage sandwich that morning was not the usual Cumberland and a spot of HP, but rather involved an inexplicable square of something called ‘lorne’. Next, having failed to acquire, as requested, a bottle of Chateauneuef De Pape 2010 to accompany luncheon she substituted a can of  Vimto. Finally, she hadn’t sorted out the road tax for my new Land Rover Evoque, so it was sitting idle outside the office; hence the bike. All in all, it’s hardly surprising that I was tipped over the edge.
However, I would gently point out that I did not say the words that have been ascribed to me. I fully accept that my language was…choice. One might say fruity, industrial even. I know that the officer in question, and a number of other witnesses, have described it as a disgusting expletive laden hate-filled tirade of foul-mouthed vitriol and abuse. And I wouldn’t disagree with that. However, I’m at least 51% sure that I did not refer to the constable as a “teuchter”. Most people who know me know I would not use words like that in describing anyone. Even total bumpkins like PC Findlater. Having said that, I must apologise for failing to treat the jobsworth rozzer with the respect he deserved.
“Oi, Hamish McBeth! Do you know who you’re dealing with?” I enquired, after he’d threatened to detain me for a breach of the peace “Yes, Mr Metcalf”, he replied. “and thanks to the Police National Computer I also know who that Landrover parked on double yellows outside your office belongs to. Which is why I’m having it impounded.”

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER – The Football Pundit who kicks back!

I was thanking my lucky charms this weekend because I managed to see the whole of the Ryder Cup.  I didn’t go to Madeira, where they was playing it in the actual flesh – but the lovely Melody was away in Manchester with the girls to see a show with Chris Moyles in, ‘ Superstar? Jesus Christ!’, I think that’s the name of it. Any road, the up-swing was that I got to watch it all on the 50” plasma. It was well exciting. I couldn’t help noticing how good a golfer Rory McGrath has become since he shaved off his beard, and I was surprised to hear Tiger Woods had been left out of the foursome on Saturday. By all accounts he’s had a bit of practice at that sort of thing. I’ll tell you what else though, they fairly picked the right place for it. The course at Madiera is pheremonal, and it’s still daylight there even when it’s well after midnight. Mental.If I had not managed to become a professional athlete, I think I would have liked to have been a golfer.  The boys at Pittodrie thought so too because once I seen someone had wrote up on the wall of the plunge bath “Kenny Cordiner’s had more clubs than Jack Nicklaus ”.  And I am not a loner. A lot of my old pals from the world of Scottish football enjoys 19 holes from time to time. I once played in a pro-am with Alan “Tall-Dark-and” Hansen at Royal Deeside.  He was a great player in his day. There’s not many can say they beat Willie Miller to a 50/50 ball. It is just a pity they was both playing for Scotland at the time. He’s a good golfer too, and I was having an off day. After a well rubbish tee shot on the 5th I says to him, I says “Alan!  What am I doing wrong?”  So he says to me, he says, “You’re standing too close to the ball”.  I shoogled my feets and says “Is that better?” and he says to me, “No Kenny”, he says,  “I meant after you hit it!”