Who says the council aren’t crowd pleasers? On Broad Street they’re bringing the House down.

J Fergus Lamont – Arts Critic and author of “Sarah Mack – Lust for Glory”

This week, at Aberdeen’s Broad Street, a mesmerising piece of performance art unfolds at a stately pace. Daily, the daring agit-prop artists’ collective known as “Safedem”, expose new perspectives on the city as, in the style of Foucault, they ‘deconstruct’ St Nicholas House. A broken sliver of concrete and glass stands, doomed but proud, atop the rubble, with Provost Skene’s House in muted counterpoint. It is sculpture; it is song; it is a paean to the dance we dance following the Pied Piper of progress and renewal. It is a perfect symbol of our disposable age, and the knowledge that this building is to be replaced by another, largely identical construction fashioned from concrete, glass and steel provides a deliciously comic lesson in futility.  I was moved, both by the scene and the digger driver, who colourfully threatened to run me over if I didn’t get out of his way.

Also in Aberdeen this week a pod of dolphins erupted in joyful colour onto our streets. You may have seen them outside the Arts Centre, or on the Castlegate, although not, ironically, outside the Dolphin chipper, who may have missed a trick, there.

My personal favourite is at the harbour. Mute, quizzical, studded with pebbles that speak of the sea, and bejewelled with a mosaic of mirrors that reflect back one’s own image, distorted, changed, in reminder of the transformative power of art. So deeply impressed was I that I could barely tear myself away. Even after I drove off I was compelled to return, and when I left for a second time, again I felt the need to drive back and consider afresh this inspirational cetacean. A third time I left, and a third time I returned. At which point, I was arrested for kerb-crawling.

I wept.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands’ most eligible bachelor.

I hiv had some great nights at The Marcliffe ower the years. My second cousin’s wedding, with a hipflask in my sporran. A fitba fundraiser with Georgie Best as the headliner. Yon night I got friendly with an American lady ower fae Houston for a conference, fa took me back tae Pitfodels and showed me her accommodation. ‘How do you like your eggs in the morning, Sugar?” she says to me. ‘Scrambled’ I says, ‘and sitting next tae twa rashers of bacon, a sausage, grilled tomato, mushrooms and a wee slice of black pudding.’

So I wiz sad tae hear that The Marcliffe is being sold and even mair sadder tae hear it’s going tae be knocked doon and converted intae luxury hooses. The developer – naen ither than F-bomb dropping AFC Chairman Stewartie Milne – is building a swanky housing development because “there is a shortfall in terms of high-end executive housing in the Aberdeen area”.

Eh?

Noo, I am nae a hugely successful hotelier. I am nae a hugely successful property developer. I am merely hugely successful with the ladies. But… am I mental, or is this nae jist aboot the only kind of development Aiberdeen disnae need?

Local property prices are a’ready through the roof. By ‘local’ I mean, in the nice bits of toon. Property prices here in Sandilands remain – much like mony of the residents – depressed. Fit wye div we need anither dose of multi-million pound hooses on the North Deeside road fan we hiv an infrastructure that maks Spaghetti Junction look like a masterpiece of urban planning and a city centre that’s been on the slide since Bruce Forsyth was a loon?

Dinna tell me we hiv a “shortfall” in massive mansions only millionaires can afford. Come on boys. Get a grip. There’s fifteen thousand folk waiting on a council hoose in Aiberdeen, and getting onto the property ladder here is harder than the bouncer’s stare at chucking-oot time at The Broadsword.

And that, (besides the fact she maks a cracking Lasagne and disnae charge me ony rent) is fit wye this thirty-eight year old love guru, still bides at hame with his ma.

Cava Kenny Cordiner – the football columnist who’s box to box for the full ninety.

Aloha!  Kenny here with my latest update from the World Cup in Brazil. The football has been gooder than ever, but there is not no doubt what topic has been domineering the back pages.  I’m talking of course about Euro-Guy’s cereal biter, Luis Suarez.  If you ask me it’s a storm in a tea-bag.  So the lad’s sunk his gnashers into an opponent’s shoulder like an angry futret, but like I always sometimes say, it is a man’s game and when you enter the field of play the goalie gloves is off. Personably, I feels sorrow for Suarez.  I realise that might raise a few highbrows, but I see a lot of myself in the lad.  Like him, I have also been called a “Torcher Genius”.  Him for his great skills but dodgy behavior, and me on account of that business with the fire at my wine bar and the big insurance pay out.

Meanwhile, England had a stinker and flew back home with their legs between their tails.  The glory days of 1966 seem longer ago after every World Cup.  Never mind, no matter how far back it is, I’m sure that whenever England is playing, we’ll get to hear about it all over again.

Until next time, adidas!

 

See You Jimmy!  Flying the Flag for Scotland, and threatening to knock someone’s block off.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the pundit who kicks back!

I’ve been glued to the telly every evening this week.  Serves me right for not washing my hands after helping Zander with his school sculpture project, I suppose – the leaning tower of Pizza, made out of bog roll tubes.

Luckily, while I’ve been glued to the telly it has been on, and this World Cup is turning into a truly momentous tournament!  We is being treated to a very table feast of football in the carnivore atmosphere of Brazil.

The biggest shocker has been raining champions Spain getting knocked out after only 2 games.  Oh how the mighty have felled.  They looked a shadow puppet of theirselves.  The last time I seen such a bad performance against Chile was when I swapped Alex McLeish’s usual korma for a vindaloo at the 1980 end of season curry night.  The face was red but the language wasblue!  All the punnets was saying that the Spaniel’s didn’t have a Plan B.  I’ve never seen that singer boy play football and I didn’t know he was from Spain but my motto is if you is good enough you is Spanish enough.

France is beginning to look omnivorous after a 5-2 demolition of the Switz.  If they’d scored any more their opponents would have needed to see if they had an abacus on their Army Knives!  What I couldn’t understand was that even when taking a thumping like that, they didn’t start flying in studs up.  Anyone can lose 5 goals, but for all 11 to stay on the park while it’s happening?  They should be ashamed of theirselves.

But there’s no question that the biggest talking points has come from group D.  I was routing for wonderdogs Costco Rica when they stuck Italy on Friday.  Not because they would knock out England if they won, but also to restore some Scottish pride.  Sure enough they done it and they’ve allowed every Scotsman to cast their mind back to Italia 90 in Genoa when they beat us 1-0.  Doesn’t look like such a bad result now, does it?

And of course there his been a lot talk about that boy with the Jimmy hat wearing the Scotland away kit celebrating with all them Euro Guy fans!   Melody says to me, she says “That’s the closest any Scotland fan’s going to get to the World Cup for 50 years!”  I have to say though, I thought him that was shocking.  That away top’s bowff, he should definitely have worn the home strip.

England getting booted out after 2 games will be a sore one for Roy’s boys, who will be as sick as a carrot.  Still, every cloud has a silver bullet.  They can now tell them themselves that they is just as good as Spain!

Struan Metcalfe MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

It’s been quite a week for gaffes from me and my fellow politicos!  Tony Blair’s pronouncements on Iraq show he has clearly been taking lessons in cause and effect from a naughty toddler. “Just because I am standing here with chocolate all over my face, and just because there is a large face-shaped hole in that chocolate cake proves nothing” never cut any ice with my nanny, Tony!  And poorly judged tweets have been flying around like champagne flutes and chairs at a particularly lively session of the Bullingdon!

Labour’s pledge to give everyone a free owl made the world of Twitter ooh (I’m sorry, I had to!) and led me to tweet the following from the hospitality tent at Ascot (Ladies’ day, natch.  Ding dong!).  I must admit, I’d had a couple of sherries.  And a jeroboam of fizz.

“Labour promises everyone a free owl LOL!  Still, no dafter than their other policies, like staying in Europe and not privatising the NHS!”

The whips’ office was on to me to delete it within 20 seconds of it appearing, which was a new p.b. for them, so congrats for that.  They were v unhappy with your humble correspondent, though, and Super Dave also far from pleasedville as it is possible to get without getting your feet wet.  Turns out Europe a bit of a sore point just now, (I’d missed that – oopsie!) and our plans for the NHS supposed to be a secret!!!

Well, I’d not been this deep in the soup since I accidentally stepped in a tureen at Gordonstoun when trying to lace Podger Palmerstone’s dinner with laxative.  I thought this time it really could be curtains – until Michael Fabricant stepped into the fray with a playful josh along the lines of wanting to punch a female Guardian journalist in the throat.  Good old Fabbers!  Well, what with him having the political nous of Sally Bercow and the hair of – well, Sally Bercow, actually, he drew the heat away from me beautifully!  Case of Bolly for that man!

All which leaves only the question of a suitable apology for my misplaced quip.  And I am honestly say that I am every bit as sorry for this as I am for the last thing I did that I had to issue an apology for.

Pip pip!

“It wis a tragedy: I could niver get my cuddly ex to go the full Salmond”

Tanya Souter, Lifestyle Advice with a local flavour

Research wiz published this week saying that there his been a huge increase in overweight men. Fit is to say, mair mannies than iver is obese, nae that mannies fa wiz previously a bittie over weight hiv noo gone the full Salmond. My ain research – carried oot mainly in Club Tropicana and the queue for the Dolphin chipper – comes to the same conclusion.

The study, fae researchers at Aiberdeen, Stirling & Bournemouth, his also established that mannies who actually try to eat less are mair successful at losing weight than mannies who dinna. Ken ‘is? It niver ceases to amaze me fit those clever boffins manage to come up with. They’ve also found that if men wint to shift the pounds, menu planners and aa that guff arenae the answer, but support groups are good, and the eens attached to fitba clubs dae particularly well. Louping up and doon and singing “Peter Pawlett baby” for 90 minutes uses up a surprising amount of calories, especially if ye mak sure you’re 3 flights o stairs away fae the pie stall.

They also found that humour is a good wye for mannies to beat the bulge. They’re right aboot that an aa. My ex, Tommy, wiz a larger gent. Fan we wiz thegither I cried him ‘cuddly’, and I used humour to incentivise him to lose weight. We hid a laugh. I wiz awyse telling him I winted him to be mair stud-muffin than muffin-top. I’d grab ahaud of his gut, gie it a wobble and ask “do ye wint ice cream with that jeely”? And fan we wis in bed I used to him if there wis onything he winted me tae dae for him, like describe fit his feet looked like, seeing as he hadn’t seen them for years! We used to cry with laughter. I did the laughing and he did the crying. And it worked, ‘cause sure enough, efter months of keeping in at him, there wiz a sudden and dramatic weight loss. All eighteen stone of him, fan he dumped me and moved in with Big Sonya.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

The World Cup – a festival of football – should be a time for comradeship and joy for all. But not for the perpetual malcontents who continually slander the good work of this administration. This week I have received a number of sleekit, catty emails pointing out the lack of civic events marking the competition. Why no fan parks at the beach, they ask, or big screens in Union Terrace Gardens?

How little they know of Aberdeen. Each city marks these events after its own fashion. Let other, flashier, municipalities celebrate with fireworks and razzmatazz, let the brash and ostentations metropolises hold carnivals and samba parades, and let Aberdeen stick to what it does best – marking major events by producing an eclectic selection of limited edition World Cup themed sausages. What could possibly tell the world more clearly of our cosmopolitan outlook than the availability of a vodka, emmental, chocolate or coffee flavoured sausage? Sour cream advisory with the Mexican pork and jalapeno ones. Ayah beastie.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football columnist who’s wall chart gets filled in after every game.

Hoopla! Your raving reporter Cava Kenny here, bringing you the first of my World Cup digestives this week from the place where all the action is. The flash-henrys on the telly is reporting from Copa Cabana beach so I’m at the next best thing. Colpy Caravan Park. Melody says to me, she says, “Kenny, you’re not watching all the matches on our telly, I’ll miss Corrie and Big Brother!” so I’m installed in her mum’s 2 berth Vanmaster for the duration.

The tournament got off to a standing start with Brazil triumvirate over the Creations. Then on Friday night we had the moth-watering prospect of Spain v Holland, which was the teams what was in the final last time. When the Spaniels went ahead off of a penalty, I says to myself, I says “For the Dutch, this must be like hound-dog day!“ But I could not have been more wronger. The Never Neverlanders tore Spain apart in a tarantulising display of pace and power. 5-1 it finished, which is also the odds I got on Saturday when I lumped on Holland to win the tournament at the bookies in Turriff.

Of course, I was also watching England’s group very closely. What a surprise the Euroguys got when they got turned over by the plucky little Costa Reekers! Like me, they probably never even knew that Coffee shops get to play in the Cuppa Del Monte. I felt sorrow for England though; they gave it a good go against Italy but came up short. What a shame for their physio what broke his ankle in the piley-on after the England goal! It’s not often you see a member of the coaching staff get injured during a game. Not since I retired, anyway!

 

Obama’s views on the referendum weren’t entirely welcome. Well, what do Americans know about Independence?

Struan Metcalf, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding Nether Regions – an Apology

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve had to say sorry to my family, my constituents, the Conservative Party as a whole and even Super Dave himself for a social media faux pas, but this time I’ve really surpassed myself. I find I must unreservedly apologise to US President, Barrack Obama.

Suffice to say I deeply regret Tweeting the following:

“Obama says we probably shouldn’t. Salmond says “yes we can”. Who is the man on Banff High Street to believe? Both of them are capable of droning us into oblivion!”.

Apparently, my inadvertently implying that the Leader of the Free World has a penchant for executing his enemies by remote control might put a spanner in the works of the Sepcial Relationship. You will note that I also suggested Alex Salmond is a bit of a windbag, but the lawyers at Central Office think we’re on safe enough ground there.

In my defence, it was a metaphor (I think it’s a metaphor, never did pay too much attention in Wet-Patch Withers English class) for current voter apathy. I can totally relate to that, btw – I forgot to vote in the European elections myself after a chance encounter with Barney Crockett turned into a tremendous all day bender. Boy-oh-boy, does he have a tale to tell!

But let me be clear, in no way did I mean to devalue the President’s intervention into the Scottish Independence debate. Mr Obama showed erudition, balance and most importantly, insight, when he declared the decision was ultimately “up to the people of Scotchland”.

As it happens, I’ve got my own Special Relationship with Obama – or ‘Brac’ as I call him. We met at the G8 in Paris in 2011. I was part of Super Dave’s entourage and there was a bit of a sesh on the eve of the Summit. Turns out Obes likes a cheeky Vimto or 3 and we struck up an unlikely alliance that night discussing everything from US foreign policy in the Middle East to why their chocolate smells a bit like sick, whilst Angela Merkel – on the wrong side of 3 Vodka tonics – knocked out “99 Red Balloons” on the Baby Grand. He left me at 4am, putting his arm around my shoulders, jokingly poking his index finger into my chest and saying in that warm, powerful and charismatic way of his, “I like you Struan, you’re not as up-tight as I figured you’d be from your emails.” “But I’ve never sent you any emails.” I said. Then he just winked at me. What a guy.

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

So Bernard Jordan, the 90 year old veteran who slunk off to Normandy without telling anyone where he was going, is being held up as a shining example of the indomitable spirit of the bulldog generation. What utter piffle. Going awol, leaving those responsible for his wellbeing worried sick, then dodging off to the continent in order to lark around on a beach and chat up a girl band? He’s just the world’s oldest teenager. The fellow should be clapped in irons, not feted as a hero.

I speak as someone who knows a thing or two about military matters. My father, the 12^th Earl, led a battalion at D-Day. I say “led”; he stayed behind in Dover. He would have loved to have gone, but his drinks cooler was mains operated, so it was quite impossible. Still, he overcame his disappointment by despatching a regular supply of carrier pigeons across the channel with inspirational messages like “Carry on, chaps”, “shoot anything carrying a knockwurst” and “go for the chuckies, that’ll drop them.” Providing his men a series of morale-boosting fillips, as well as a regular supply of unrationed protein. Churchill himself described his methods as “unique” before withdrawing his commission “to save him from harm.” Or perhaps it was “to stop him doing any more harm”. Can’t recall. But suffice it to say that if we’d had a few more like Papa, and a few less like Bernard so-called bally Jordan, the war would have been over a dam sight quicker.

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner – the sports writer who needs to work on his backhand .

With the World Cup just around the corner I’ve been keeping my eye on some of the other sporting eventuals that have been in the news. I was roofing for Andy Murray over at the French Open but he got teached a lesson by Nadal in the semi. Now I’m no horticologist, but the groundsmen over at Roland Argos is not a patch on them at Wimbledon. I’ve never seen grass look so brown. Shocking.

Since he parted company with Ivan Lentil, Andy Murray has been on the outlook for a new coach. He has disposed with tradition and gone for a female coach in Amelia Mesmera. I’m guessing her first task will be to get Andy to work on his grunting. When I hear some of them tennisers heaving and roaring I can’t help but think that Andy could be making more noise. They don’t call it a racket sport for nothing!

 

What’s so exciting about a self-drive car from Google? Mitchell’s were doing them years ago.

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

As a scientist, I often find myself exploring important questions like, does your chewing gum lose its flavour on the bed-post overnight? Is the desire to punch Justin Bieber innate, or learned behaviour? And why don’t nice girls dig a guy in safety glasses? Most recently, however, people have been asking me about vehicles which are Autonomous. To which I reply that they are the goodies, the Decepticons are the baddies, and my favourite is Optimus Prime. Then I laugh, uproariously, in a way that I am told is “A little bit psycho.”

There is no doubt, though, that the driverless car represents as great a leap forward in transportation as the wheel, the steam engine or the Sinclair C5. A car that drives itself! Just think of the possibilities that this opens up for human development, assuming, of course, that we don’t have to continually turn it off and then on again to restore its link to the Internet.

In a robot car, all of the mental effort previously used to keep a vehicle on the road and not colliding with things can be devoted to other pursuits. This would allow the erstwhile driver to be freed up to engage in other in-car activities, such as eating, mooning other road users and playing a full role in family bickering sessions. It will also lead to the end of the phenomenon of the “designated driver”; removing, at a stroke, one of the few socially acceptable reasons for not taking a drink and thus leading, inevitably, to increased levels of alcohol use.

Isn’t scientific progress marvellous?

J. FERGUS LAMONT, Arts critic and author of ‘Angus the Bull – The Wilderness Years’

Connoisseurs of the arts, such as myself, are oft to be found on the hunt for something fresh and innovative. In these days of cultural homogenization one struggles to find a performance or installation that deviates even slightly from the norm.

But on Friday evening I set out to soak up the sights and sounds of the city, and what sights and sounds they were!  As I neared Holburn Junction, a street-theatre troupe alighted from the Number 23 bus and proceeded to stage an impromptu production both thought-provoking and inspiring.

They entered, onto Albyn place, bedecked in two piece costumes of man-made fabric, decorated with stripes and swooshes, evoking the potential of the individual, but counterpointed with trousers tucked into their socks lending them an air of the comical naïf. A sense of mystery was created by simple but effective props; blue plastic bags containing unidentifiable liquids.  Then the performance commenced.  The liquid was imbibed swiftly and liberally, in a clear nod to humankind’s unquenchable thirst for meaning.  And then, symbolic of how easily we can become sickened by our consumer society, the actors promptly vomited the liquid all about them.  Bravo!  How I adore visceral theatre!

When, finally, the vomiting ceased, the troupe headed forthwith to the entryway to one of Aberdeen’s popular nightspots, doubtless with a mind to performing for a larger crowd. However, the doorman denied them ingress, presumably believing that the subtlety of this particular brand of theatre would be wasted on the philistines within. Sadly, he may have been correct.

One of the players, in homage to the famous Chicago ‘Bang Bang’ theatre group, bravely attempted to include the audience in the piece, asking questions such as ‘Fits yer problem, min?’ and “Are ye winting a hiding?” Regrettably, his efforts were in vain.  Aberdeen audiences are depressingly unwilling to engage. I alone stepped forward. “Fit are ye looking at?” he enquired of me, ‘The finest piece of spontaneous street-theatre I have ever witnessed’, I said. And then he took his bow; a bow so swift and forceful that his forehead broke my spectacles.

I wept.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with MTV (Meiklewartle Television) presenter JOCK ALEXANDER.

It’s been a futuristic wikend in the village. Sat oot in the pub’s packed Beer Gairden – or ‘Roof’, as it is itherwise kent. Auld Ned, widely considered the village technology whizz, on account of his ownership of baith a DAB radio and a Soda Stream, wiz saying that boffins in the far-aff metropolis of Dundee have invented a tractor beam. I couldnae see fit the fuss wiz aboot, my tractor his twa beams fit I switch on faniver it gets dark. Then he explained that fit they’d invented wiz the sort of tractor beam that they hiv in Star Trek. ‘It will’, he said, ‘enable them tae attract fowk tae Dundee’.

Like mony fowk in this pairt of the world, I firmly believe that we can dae onything Dundee can dae, so I resolved tae create a tractor beam of my ain.

Weel, efter a hot efterneen doon in the intimmers of my Massey Ferguson all I’d managed tae create was a strong feeling that I should hiv uncoupled the trailer full of mineer afore I stairted my experiments. I didnae manage tae attract onything but flys, but with a sharny fug clinging tae my dungers, I did successfully repel ab’dy else out of the Beer Garden, so I could get back up there and enjoy the remainder of my wikend in peace. Cheerio!