Poor old Putin; you annexe one neighbour and people start comparing you to Hitler.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, 13^th Earl of Kinmuck

Some are saying that Prince Charles has disgraced himself by comparing Putin to Hitler and thus demonstrated that he is not fit to be King.  Prime balderdash encrusted with truffled piffle and served with a side-order of buttered humbug.  What the chattering classes forget is that the aristocracy marches to the beat of a different drum.  Sitting through endless state banquets and continually saying “What do you do?” gives a fellow a different cast of mind, and he starts to court controversy as a means of giving some kind of meaning to the day.  And anyway – what is royalty for, if not to needlessly tweak the nose of the mighty Russian bear?

Of course, we Kinmucks have long enjoyed good relations with Monarchs named Charles.  The Third Earl was a bosom buddy of Charles I, in fact, it was he who encouraged him to stand up to Cromwell, on the basis that he was a low-born, plooky, oaf and anyway, what was the worst thing that could happen?  That approach didn’t go so well for old Chazza, as it turned out, but relations between the King and the Kinmucks were restored by the Fourth Earl, who used to go out roistering with Charles II.  With this in mind, I have recently been reaching out to the Prince of Wales, reminding him of the old familial link and offering my counsel on affairs of state.

I’ve given him some advice on how to deal with Putin when they meet up in Normandy next month.  I’ve told him –‘Don’t flim-flam or shilly shally about. Go straight up to him, extend the hand of friendship, then draw it away at the last moment, and flick him an internationally recognised rude gesture. I’m sure that all loyal subjects will agree that this is the way to go. Particularly those who, like me, have a significant shareholding in the munitions industry.

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner – the football pundit who can go no further with the resources at his disposal.

It’s been another tipsy-turkey week in football with one manager handing in their notice boards, another one getting in a fight and a Welshman scoring in the Champions league final. It just goes to show that you can’t not make it up.

I couldn’t believe my ears when I seen the news the other day that the Dons’ first tie in next season’s Europa league will be on the 3^rd of July! That’s a mental date to start a football season! Call me old fashioned, but all footballers should be a stone overweight, sunning themselves on a beach on the Costco Brava until the first of August. Some of my managers used to leave me on the bench until September. They must of thought I still had jet leg.

Gareth Bale nodded one in for Real Madrid against Athletico Madrid to win the Champion’s League on Saturday. So it was commiserations to the Athleticans, and they was dancing in the streets of Real. With their two top teams contesting the final, it looks like anyone who fancy’s a flutter on the winner of this years’ World Cup could do worse than put a few quid on the Spaniels.

Also this week Ex Man United gaffer David Moyes got himself into a bit of a hot water bottle. He was questioned by the cops after a bit of a squirmish outside a wine bar. Apparently some Herbert was hurlting abuse about his sacking and Moyesy lost it.  I find my royalties is divided with this story. As a former footballer I would never have allowed some wee nyaff to give me gyp with impurity, but as a former wine bar owner, I can guarantee that no violent behavior was never condoled at ‘Enforcers’.

The big news of course is Neil Lennon hanging up his shell suit at Celtic. He was always a contraverbial figure during his time in charge, was Neil.  He had a long running vienetta with the referees and had an alteration on the touch line with that Hearts fan. In the media, speculum is rife about who will be his successor with Henrik Larsson the bookie’s favourite. I think it’s risky for playing legends to return to a club as a manager. They always run the risk of varnishing their image. That is why, if the Pittodrie hot tub ever becomes available, you won’t never catch me throwing my ring in the hat!

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands most eligible bachelor

Frankie ‘ten chins’ Ivers wis telling me this week that the oil company he works for is opening up their new premises in Dundee. And some of their competitors is moving fae the Granite City tae places like Forres, Bathgate and even Newcastle. He wis saying it’s because they’ve been through aa the recruitment agencies and suchlike and discovered that Aiberdeen his a serious lack of talent.

 I ken we are nae the biggest city in the world but that canna be right, surely? I cant help thinking these folk are looking in the wrang place. Faniver I’m in Amicus Apple on a Friday it’s absolutely hoaching wi talent!

 

Len returns to the wrestling ring, but Barney suffers the Technical Knockout.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

This has been a bruising week to be an Aberdeen political heavyweight, and I’m not just speaking about Len Ironside’s appearance at The Beach Ballroom. The dunts Len took grappling with his opponent may be painful just now, but the ones Barney Crockett suffered at the hands of his colleagues will take the longer to heal. Poor Barney. He is not the first politician to find that the comrade who seemed to be clapping him warmly on the back was actually clutching a dagger.

Barney’s time in office has been marked by some notable achievements. Stalling the development of Union Terrace Gardens; the pulling down of a modernist nightmare of glass and steel and approving the erection of something entirely different, which will have the added benefit of closing off traffic on one of the city’s main North-to South thoroughfares and – most important of all – some epic spats with Alec Salmond. He will, of course be disappointed to leave prematurely. There was still much to be achieved. I am sure he would have dearly loved to resolve the Haudagin situation and to get through a whole day without baring his teeth at someone from the SNP. But he should not be downhearted. He has accomplished more in politics than has ever previously been achieved by someone who sounds like either a character in the Flintstones or a friendly purple dinosaur. No mean feat at all.

The removal of Barney Crocket as Leader of Aberdeen City Council represents the greatest setback for a politician in the North-East of Scotland since Michael Gove failed his Cycling Proficiency test at Kittybrewster Primary. We asked some of our regular contributors for their reaction to the news:

Archie Fraser, Gentleman of the Road – As someone who spends an unusually large portion of my day walking the streets of Aberdeen; seeking out un-emptied wheelie bins for an alfresco luncheon, or a commodious skip in which to catch 40 winks, I have first hand experience of the discord which has lately underscored civic life. The new leader of the Council has an opportunity to bring harmony back to the Town. That’s why their first act should be a ban on anyone playing guitars, accordions or, crucially, bagpipes in the City Centre without also holding a Grade 6 certificate from the Royal College of Music

Jock Alexander Mtv (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter – With a power vacuum in Aiberdeen City, some folk believe the time is right for a radical shake-up. So fanFeel Moira left the village on Tuesday, after announcing she wiz ‘Gaan tae mount a Coup’, I winzae aa that surprised. However, fan Tam Wilson’s prize Charolais turned up in the village square on Setterday, startled, skittish, but itherwise unharmed, we realized that Moira’s ambitions mebe werena political efter aa.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands Most Eligible Bachelor – I’ll be honest, I niver kent Barney Crocket wis leader of Aiberdeen Cooncil. I ayewis thocht he wiz King of the Wild Frontier. Ye ken? The Broch.

Struan Metcalfe, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North & Surrounding Nether Regions – What would I do if I were leader of Aberdeen City Council? That’s easy. I’d kill myself! ROFL!

PC Bobby Constable, community policeman (retired).

There wis shocking scenes this week with a full-scale riot taking place at the new HMP Grampian in Peterheid. I awyse said that the move to a so-called “Super-Prison’ would cause problems, but of course, the powers that be didna listen. They wid sooner listen to some spotty wee nyaff of a Penologist with a PhD, a great heap of data and a passionate interest in re-integrating offenders into the community than pay ony heed to a grizzled veteran of a thousand cracks ower the heid wi an extendable baton like me. Say fit you like about HMP Craiginches, but there were very few incidents of serious disorder there. Because, when a jail has a thriving black market in heavy-duty sedatives and nithing in it worth breaking, you find that prisoners just canna be bothered to trash the place. Another thing that contributes a lot to the likelihood of prison riots is overcrowding. Squeeze them in fower tae a cell and they dinna hae room to swing a chair. Leave folks unbefuddled and gie them en-suite lavvies and the idea that they might be human being with rights and a that sort of caper and yer jist asking for trouble. It took them a fair bit o time to get ahud o the riot, and a. I jist wish my old sergeant, Dunter Duncan, ,hid still been around. Dunter wiz a 20-stone colossus fa cut his teeth – and smashed abody else’s – in the Gorbals. He didna haud back. I mind eence, it kicked aff in the holding cells at Queen Street and him and me hid to ging to sort it oot. Dunter grabbed the person closest to him, pit him in strungle-hold, and shouted that he wid keep squeezing the life oot of him until the riot stopped. They aa calmed doon straight way and went back to their cells, quiet as lambs. Which wiz a great relief, cos I wiz jist awa tae pass oot.

 

17th place at Eurovision for the U.K.? Fair enough, we weren’t the Wurst.

View From the Midden – rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter JOCK ALEXANDER

It hiz been an international wikend in the village. On Setterday nicht, a’bdy got thegither in Skittery Wullie’s Byre to watch the Eurovision Song Contest. We crackit open Shaky Tam’s vegetable wine, (or the Beetroot nouveau, as he likes to cry it), and settled doon ameen the nowt. A sleeping Aberdeen Angus maks a surprisingly comfy, if flatulent, footstool. I ken fit you’re thinking – fit aboot the smell? Well let me tell ye, the cows didna seem to mind it of aa.

Fit an amazing spectacle it wiz; flashing lights, smoke, and high-pitched screching. And eence we untangled Feel Moira fae the electric fence, we got to watching Eurovision, and losh, it wiz nearly as enertaining. I hid a lot of sympathy for the twa Russian quinies, fa not only hid to suffer some ill-nat’erd booing, but hid somehow managed to get their hair tangled thegither. If only Sheepie Henderson hid been there in Copenhagen, with his shears, he’d hiv freed them in nae time. Interestingly, the Polish entry divided the company alang the lines of sex. Folk fa like it thought they were magic. Although we were aa agreed that yon quine wizna ga’an to get much butter churned working the plunger like yon. There wiz a lot of support in the room for the British candidate, Molly Smitten-Downes, fa we thought wiz under marked. Mebbe she’d hiv got on better if she didna hae a surname that sounds like a disease of the udder.

But of course the surprise of the night wiz the runaway success of Conchita Wurst, the Austrian quine fa won the hale thing. Fit a performance she gave. I’ve nae seen onything so heart-felt and convincing since Tam tried to persuade the Sheriff nae to ban him for drink driving. Conchita’s victory wiz a triumph for bearded wifies awye. It left Feel Moira with tears streaming doon her face, not all of which could be attributed to the Byre’s methane-rich atmosphere. In a spontaneous display of unity and fellow feeling, we hoisted Feel Moira in the air. Which proved to be a mistake, cos she wiz still carrying a positive charge efter yon business with the electric fence. Athegither, an explosive night’s entertainment. Cheerio!

CAVA KENNY CORDINER, the footballer columnists’ football columnist.

I have had a week full of blitz and glamour this week, what has seen me barging shoulders with some real big wigs, not to mention Stewartie Milne. Not only was I at the AECC on Thursday for the Dons’ player of the year dinner, but I also got invited out of my comfy zone to Mannofield on Friday for the One Day International.

The AFC do was a most suspicious occasion. I’ve been at more dinners than I’ve had hot dinners, but this year’s event had a special atmosphere seeing as the Dandies has had such a magic season. Needles to say, there was all sorts of awards being handed out. Jonny Hayes got Goal of the Season, Mark Reynolds was the fans’ Player of the Year but I think the specialist prize of the night went to Peter Pawlett, who was named Players’ Players’ Player of the Year.

There is all sorts of players in football, but you can only be one of them. You can be a fans’ player; a manager’s player, or best of all – a players’ player. Of course, back in my extinguished playing career, I was sometimes always all of them. Down at Brechin I was a fans’ player, because they loved seeing someone who wore his sleeve on his heart. At Locos I was a players’ player because after every home game I used to take the whole team back to my cocktail bar, Enforcers, for a lock-in. But in my glory days at the Dons I was a manager’s player, because Fergie relied on me to lift the team. ‘Cordiner’, he would scream, cheerfully, his chuddy going mental: ‘I can always tell when you’re on the pitch – the other ten lads all have to raise their game’.

As regulation readers will know, football is very much my matinee, so it was an aftershock to the system when I went to Mannofield on Friday to watch Scotland stick England at croquet. I’ve never understood the game, to be honest. All these silly-leg-ons, yorkies and made-in-dovers is way over my head, and some of the guys in the corpulent hospitality suite was taking the mickey out of me; but after six solid hours in the beer tent waiting for the rain to stop, it all started to make sense.

Eventually the skies cleared and they was able to get the ball rolling, but because there was not much time left, England won using the Duck-faced Selfie method. I says to my companions I says, “If only Scotland had thought of that and done it first, they’d have wiped the floor with them!” They didn’t have no answer to that.

Why on earth was Jeremy Clarkson reciting ‘Eeny-meeny’? That is schoolboy stuff.

Entertainment News with Shelley Shingles, Miss Fetteresso 1985

OMG! Bad times for all the single ladies out there. Totes dreamboat George Clooney has gone and gotten engaged! I’m delighted for him, obvs, but I don’t understand why he chose a 37 year old Oxford educated human-rights lawyer when Khloe Kardashian is still single. He could have had his pick from the bevy of beauties in the biz, myself included! I had a lot in common with Georgie’s previous squeeze, Stacey Keibler. She was an underwear model and former wrestler, just like me. Her in Maxim and the WWE, me in Kay’s Catalogue and a paddling pool full of Angel Delight that one time at Flicks of Brechin.
Still, there was some good news for us bachelorettes this week with the revelation that Prince Harry is back on the market. Apparently him and Cressida have split up after a row about an air fare. I know what that’s like. My relationship wih Robin Galloway never recovered from his failure to pay my bus home from Balnagask when we went for a smooch at the Torry battery. While I’m soz for Harry, it does mean we’re not going to face the prospect of a Princess named after the green bits in an egg sandwich, and it’s game on again for anyone who fancies a bit of royal ginger. I’m already honing my strip billiard skills. Who’d have thought that the fact that there’s a pool hall next to Private Eyes would make Aberdeen’s Chapel Street the ideal location for a debutantes’ finishing school?
Another man in his 50s that hit the headlines is Jeremy Clarkson. He’s in hot water over footage of him reciting “Eeny meeny miney moe”. Jeremy looked very contrite in his video apology, explaining how he hadn’t done anything wrong. He made it clear how he had used a word that sounds exactly like the ‘N’ word but wasn’t intended to sound like the ‘N’ word. So that’s alright. And wasn’t it great to see James May and Richard Hammond coming out and supporting their pal in his hour of need? It goes to show the camaraderie and friendship you can build while you’re establishing a multi-million pound entertainment franchise. It is a tricky issue though. All the rhymes we used said as kids to choose who was “it” have swear words, racist terms or domestic violence in. I don’t know about you, but I think the whole thing raises some really big questions. Most importantly, what was Jeremy playing at? Kiss-chase, British Bulldogs or high-dellys?

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether regions – an apology

It is with deep regret that I unreservedly offer this week’s apology. Mine comes in a week where one might have expected more apologies from other senior politicians, but, sadly it is only Struan Metcalfe who puts his best foot forward having just taken it out of his mouth. I very sorry for my tweet of Thursday which went thusly:

“So Chairmen Alex says he admires Russian Prez. Putin? Misquoted! Meant to say he Admires Russian Pres. puttin’ the boot into his neighbours! Role model for big Eck? Arf”.

I should make it perfectly clear that there is nothing funny about the Ukrainian crisis. And there are no similarities between that and the Scottish independence debate. In no way is Salmond a belligerent despot, greedy for power. I’m sure it’s just the biscuits. There is also nothing faintly amusing about Putin or indeed any other brutal megalomaniac, such as Genghis Khan, Idi Amin or Adolf Hitler. They were not good blokes who took a bit of rough and tumble too far (like Edward “The Nut Cracker” Cadwallader, my contemporary at Gourdonstoun and the inventor of Shower Wrestling. The smell of Vosene still makes me naseous).

Speaking of vomit inducing stuff, my old pal Nige Farage has had some bother with a few of his party faithful this week. They’ve been foolish enough to tweet what they really think! Pretty dreadful stuff IMHO. Nigel’s reaction was to describe UKIP as having “some idiots”. Cripes, talk about stating the obvious. But, i being an idiot never disqualified anyone from politics.That’s what my guidance teacher used to say to me, anyway.

Kevin Cash, money saving expert and king of the grips.

Power cuts is a right pain, eh? Resetting aa yer clocks and watching telly by candle light? Still, the potential for spurious compensation claims provides a silver lining so lucrative it’s almost enough to mak me wish I didn’t get my electricity by tapping into my doonstairs neighbour’s supply. It’s amazing the wye that naebody’s power iver fails fan their fridge freezer is empty, ken fit I mean? Still, you’ve to be careful. A few years ago, my pal, Mick the Pill, had a power outtage and claimed fan aa the cannabis plunts he wiz growing under artificial light died. 6 months in the Torry Hilton did save him big style in bed and board, but he only gied it one star on Trip Advisor, so it wiz poor value overall.