After House of Lords defeat, Osborne goes back into bat.

Cosmo Ludovic Fawkes-Hunte, the 13th Earl of Kinmuck

The 26th of October 2015: a day that will live in infamy. The day the House of Lords took leave of its senses and engaged in disgraceful rebellion. Yes, the Lords have voted against the Government before – the Fox Hunting bill, for example – but that was we Tories trying to protect our people from the machinations of Labour. This was them trying to do it to us, which is completely different.

Immediately after darkness fell, George Osborne emerged from his crypt at No 11 to announce his displeasure. Some imagine he is now going to seek a review of the powers of the Upper House, but George is too canny an operator to get dragged into lengthy consultations on constitutional change. He’ll simply transform into a bat, hang by his talons in the eaves of Parliament to swoop down and bite the heads off those who opposed him; picking them off one by one until the Government can be sure of a comfortable majority.

Never have I been more ashamed to be Peer than when my colleagues voted against Her Majesty’s Government’s sensible, measured and reasonable attempt to grind the poor into the dirt – I mean, balance the nation’s books. One loony lefty – I forget the fellow’s name, Bishop something or other – wittered on about those already in need being forced to shoulder a disproportionate burden of the cuts. Well of course they are! That’s what they’re for! You can’t take dosh off the upper classes; they’ll just slip the mooring rope on the family ketch and set sail for Monaco. But the beauty of soaking the poor is that very few of them actually own a yacht, so when you sting them for £250 a month they can’t afford – they just have to sit there and take it! And as for this business of people having to choose between being able to eat or heat their homes – what an insult to the yeomen stock that make up the British working classes. What these bleeding heart liberals fail to take into account is the sheer resourcefulness of the proletariat. Only last year, a junior ghillie failed to have my gun cleaned for the Glorious 12th. I dealt with the matter in the traditional way and had him bricked up in the attic for six weeks. When we came to release him he was perfectly happy, having subsisted on spiders, rats and rainwater that had dripped in through a cracked lead flashing. Really, I did the fellow a favour. Probably a damn sight safer than the sausages and bacon he used to eat.

Jonathan M Lewis, Headteacher at Garioch Academy

Members of the Garioch community might expect that our increased focus on extra-curricular excellence would be universally championed by all stakeholders; but, alas, no. Once more I find myself on the receiving end of unwarranted criticism from some parents, hostile to my use of cutting edge educational methods.

Take our 15-year-old computer whizz, Lyall Burkhill. Ever since he started here, young Lyall’s talents have been apparent. His classwork stood out, yes, but more striking still was his achievement in ‘hacking’ the 2nd year reports – replacing teacher comments with the lyrics to Sir Mixallot’s “Baby Got Back”. Some of the ‘old guard’ among our staff called for Lyall’s exclusion but I thought it better to harness his talents and put them to good use.

The school website, for example, was created by Lyall whilst he served 2 week’s detention for the reports transgression. There were teething problems, yes. A loop of the first line from Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” was perhaps not the best choice of audio for our home page, but he assures me that it was entirely accidental that clicking on my biography redirects the user to a Dutch adult entertainment site.

One of Garioch Academy’s many, many mottoes encourages pupils to “aim high”, and no one embodies this ethos better than Lyall. The lad has put in a power of work on his latest project, spending hours on his laptop (and most impressively, utilising the power of the school’s servers, without even being given the password)! It now transpires that the project was hacking the secure database of a multi-national telecommunications company. And then demanding a ransom while threatening to sell the information to credit card fraudsters. But, boys will be boys!

In the circumstances, I reject suggestions that my disciplinary sanctions were “soft”. Trust me, he won’t forget that stern talking to and educational trip to Satrosphere in a hurry!

Aberdeen beach in October? – it’s the bomb!

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

Like all ordinary mums, I do my utmost to encourage my children’s hobbies. Emmeline has her horses (2 Arabian stallions and a colt sired by Kauto Star; so adorable) whilst Fidel has developed a totally healthy fascination with World War 2. He has some very interesting items in his collection, including an old ration book and a gas mask all housed in an authentic Anderson Shelter, but as you would expect from a 13 year old boy, he craves some more exciting memorabilia to go with his Bren gun, hand grenade and the Iron Cross his daddy bought for him at a very exclusive auction in Buenos Aries.

How serendipitous, then, that a 70 year old German naval mine should wash up on Aberdeen beach on Sunday. Fidel was beside himself, so we hopped in the Land Rover and headed east. Sadly, his dreams were crushed by the oppressive, fascistic regime of our nanny state. The beach was completely cordoned off, with police officers barring anyone from getting within 50 feet of the ordnance. No amount of pleading with the constabulary, nor offers of cash incentives, nor the normally persuasive entreaties of Snezana, our au pair (she’s Bulgarian, but she’s marvellous) would change their minds. What kind of world do we live in, where a 13 year old boy is prevented from handling and storing a historically important lethal explosive device? It’s health and safety gone mad.

Poor little Fidel’s hopes were smashed along with his interest in WWII history. Now he only wants to play with his chemistry set. He says he’s making something called ‘crystal meth’ which apparently everyone at school is into at the moment, like Minecraft and Ed Sheeran. Bless.

Kevin Cash, money saving expert and King of the Grips

I wiz tickled pink to hear that an Aiberdeen charity shop hid recently received donations o’ designer claes worth thoosands. Fit a lovely story that is! The idea, that even in this straitened financial climate, folks wid be willing to gie valuable assets awa fair warmed the cockles o’ my hairt – but nae half as much as the fact that the place they’d gien them to wiz noo selling them at a fraction o’ their value! Me and my mate, Mick the Pill, wiz camped outside that shop overnight and in like Flynn at opening time! And afore onybody says it wizna fair for us to pick the place clean afore onyone else got a chunce, dinna worry – we did leave some stuff ahind for ithers to buy. There wis a Vivienne Westwood frock that wiz covered in coffee stains and fag burns, so we decided nae tae tak it. Imagine my horror later on fan I checked online and seen it wiz supposed to look like that! As for the rest, never fear. We will be giein’ abody a fair opportunity to buy it fae us. Aff ebay, at fower times the price we peyed for it, plus post and packaging at £10 a pop. That’s the value!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports writer who’s always glorious in defeat

We was robbed. Make no trombones about it, Scotland should have gubbed that Austrians big time in the rugby on Sunday. Sadly, yet another refereeing howler left the Scots with their tails between their knees. The ref gave them Ozzies a dodgy pen in the last minute. Incredulously, he never asked the boy with the video replay remote to check the Sky Plus to see if he’d had a mare. Which he had done. Criminal.

I must say, I’ve got right into the rugby during this World Cup and I reckon, in a parable universe, I could have made a half-decent egg chaser myself. They mostly go about clattering folk instead of playing the ball, which is right up old Kenny’s street. Plus, there’s 15 players on a team, which straightaway gives you a 4-man advantage on your opponents. The ref looks like a wee loon compared to the players, but when you see him giving them a telling off, they just stand and take it, instead of shouting “what game are you watching you clown?” right in his face, like what old Kenny always done.

When he blew for full time on Sunday, the ref legged it off the pitch instead of shaking hands, which a lot of the experts said they never seen before. I has seen a ref running off the field plenty times. Usually when I was chasing him with the sharp end of a corner flag.

Why the fuss? It’s hardly the first time someone’s been tanked up in Torry.

View from the midden; rural affairs with Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s been an ironclad wik in the village. Some of you micht have seen that a great muckle tank wis spotted trundling up Wellington Road in the distant royal burgh of Torry. Noo, if onybody had looked closely at the driver, they would have seen a muscle-bound thick-set figure, wi a lantern jaw and eyes close-set in concentration, nae unlike Sly Stallone in his pomp, chawin’ on a massive cigar. At’s richt, it wis naen ither than Feel Moira taking her new run-aboot for a spin. It truly is amazing fit ye can find on Gumtree. She’s delighted wi the purchase; the caterpillar tracks are ideal for the rough terrain aroon aboot Meikle Wartle, and the 30mm L21A1 Cannon comes in real handy for clearing a path through the roadworks at Oldmeldrum.

As regular readers will ken, Moira is nithin if nae public spirited, hence her descision tae drive her newly acquired mobile artillery doon tae the Red Road flats in Glasgow tae help the City Cooncil there “finish aff the job proper”. Nae doot she’ll mak a helluva mess, but at least she winna be the only een. Cheerio!

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands Most Eligible Bachelor

Jimmy wiz shocked, stunned and saddened to see that Playboy is to drop nuddy women. At first, I picked it up wrang. I thought the plan wiz to drop them delicately onto a feather-bed to observe the effects of gravity on the female form, and tak mucky pictures o’ the result. But no! It turns oot they’re going to stop publishing pictures of wifies in the buff. Well, Jimmy canna get his heid roon that ava. Playboy withoot nudes is like the sky withoot stars, Morecombe withoot Wise, or a Pittodrie pie withoot meat. Actually, scratch that last een.

Playboy’s editor reckons that wi a’ the nudity available free on the Internet, they should ditch bare skuddy nakedness and sell an aspirational lifestyle message instead. Well I’m sorry to disappoint him, but the lifestyle the average Playboy reader aspires to involves hinging oot at the Playboy mansion surrounded by gorgeous dolly-birds, and let me tell you, we do not aspire to have them standing roon in their duffle-coats.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports columnist who’s still in a job despite disappointing results

What a week it’s been for Niall McGinn. Not only has he seen his international team, Northern Iceland, qualify for the finals of the Euros, but he has also won the Ladbrokes Player of the Month. That puts him one up on me. I never managed to not do neither of them things. Mind you, I have won a few off Ladbrokes, in my time, including the 5-horse accumulator what paid for my Jag. I is really chuffed for Niall, who is a great lad and has been pure stalagmite up front for the Dons this season. He scored or was involved in every goal the Dandies scored last month. I can claim a similar stake about January 1992 when I was playing for Longside, because that particular month we was mince and only scored the one. I remember it like it was yesterday, the corner come over, up went the heads and I bulleted it past the goalie. It was our goalie, admittedly, but still, I fair showed the boys where the net was.

I wouldn’t not swap the career I had for no-one’s, but last weekend, watching our rugby team win that 69 point thriller against the Samosas, I did wish that I’d had the chance to resent my country. I must admit I feel a prang of jealously for McGinn playing at a major finals. The closest I got was Mexico 86. I was in great form with Inverurie Locos at the time, halfing strikers for fun and elbowing folk off the ball without getting caught like you wouldn’t believe. I think if Big Jock had still been manager I would have been on the plane. But of course Jock was tragically taken from us and Fergie took over. Me and him hadn’t not spoke since I left Pittodrie near the start of his rain. Even so, I hoped we could bury the hat-stand and let Bygraves be Bygraves, but he picked Stevie Nicol instead. When I next seen Fergie I couldn’t not let it lie. I says to him, I says, “What’s he got that I haven’t?” “Three first division titles and a European Cup.” he says. And that’s football.

See us live next year in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen

Heathrow Terminal 5 – the final frontier.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Far be it from me to revel in the discomfort of a political rival, especially one such as Alex Salmond, with whom the Council has always enjoyed such a constructive relationship. But I did have a wee chuckle when I saw that British Airways had refused to allow Big Eck to board one of its flights after he made his reservation under the name of ‘James T Kirk’. His choice of moniker does little to live down his reputation as a man puffed up with his own importance – it won’t surprise anyone that he considers himself to be captain of the ship – but I should have thought ‘Scotty’ would have been a more appropriate alias. In that respect, Nicola Sturgeon is an undoubted improvement on her old boss. It’s hard to imagine her trying to book onto a flight as one of her childhood heroes, like Princess Leia or Supergran. Overall, though, the surprise is that Salmond would countenance flying by any airline with “British” in the title.

It turns out that, for security reasons, Salmond always travels under an assumed name. I’m not sure who he imagines would be intent on doing him harm: maybe he thinks MI5 are keen to see him come a cropper. But he needs to be careful: as a well-known trekkie, his choice of pseudonym shows a lack of imagination that will pique the interest of internet hackers. Even now, great batallions of them are no doubt trying to access Salmond’s online banking, trying passwords like “WeAreThe45”, “WillieWallace1305”, and “DavidCameronIsAPudgyFacedNeep”

Hector Schlenk, Senior Research Fellow, Bogton Institute of Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist with a foreign-sounding name, people are always asking me questions, like, “Are you an immigrant, whose presence here is preventing us from building a cohesive society?” the answer to which is, of course, ‘”No. You’re thinking of the systematic demonising of the poor and weak, the dismantling of the National Health Service, the BBC, and the Welfare State – very institutions that bind this nation together – and xenophobic rhetoric. But it’s an easy mistake to make.”

This week, however, I have been addressing what is undoubtedly the question on everyone’s lips – does Burger King’s spooky, black-coloured Halloween Whopper really turn your number 2s green?

Like all good scientists, I sought to answer the question through a carefully controlled experiment. I had nothing but Halloween Whoppers for a week (imported by courier from the US), while Mrs Professor Schlenk acted as a control group, subsisting on regular Whoppers and the occasional Chicken Royale. After a while, we repaired to the smallest room and compared notes. I will draw a discrete veil over the fine detail of our findings. Suffice it to say that the results were explosive. The conjecture has been proven; the immigrant foodstuffs had no negative effect on cohesion, and our local Co-opie has run out of toilet duck.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who always makes it out of the group.

When your team is riding it’s high horse on the crest of a wave there is not no feeling like it. But when the bobble bursts, you come crashing back down to earth with a blimp. Just ask my old club, the Dandy Dons. It seems like only yesteryear that they had won 8 games on the spin, but after defeats to Hibs, Icy Tea and St Johnstone, oh how the turntables has turned.

The Dons was mince on Saturday. Thankfully I missed the worst of it because when they went 2-0 down after 10 minutes old Kenny done a disappearing act. I’m not normally a party-time supporter, but I was needing to get home to watch Scotland stick South Africa in the rugby.

Regulation readers might be surprised that I done that, seeing as how I has always been a football man, right down to bottom of my barrel. I never used to be a fan of the egg-chasing, but it’s a cracking game once you get into it, and I has been watching this world cup deciduously. Some of the stuff they gets away with is mental. If you done it in football you’d get a straight red, and maybe even a police caution. I know I did. The best bit of the tournament so far was watching England getting beat at home twice on the bounce. They is the first ever hosts to not make the It’s a Knockout stages. Just like Charlie Allan at the Bon Accord baths – they couldn’t get out of the pool!

See us live next year in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen

How can they have flowing water on Mars? I can’t even get a mobile phone signal at Clinterty.

Professor Hector J Schlenk, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions such as ‘What is the shape of the universe?’, ‘Will retina scans replace Chip and Pin payments?’ and ‘Are you actually going to buy that magazine, sir?’ But recently, people have been asking me all about water on Mars.   “Well”, I advise, “I don’t know about water, but I love them deep fried in batter!” And then we laugh, both at my witty verbiage and my increased risk of simultaneously contracting type 2 diabetes and obesity-related heart disease.

They are referring, of course, to the amazing discovery of evidence of water flowing on the red planet. NASA, having examined images sent back from the ‘Curiosity’ rover have identified black, salty tidemarks on the side of a canyon, which makes me wonder whether or not Mrs Professor Schlenk might be working for them as an image analyst. She can always detect when I’ve had a bath and failed to clean it properly.

The saltiness detected by space probes is what confirms that these images do indeed show the residue of flowing water, as the salt is what allows the liquid to flow in low temperatures. This is the same scientific phenomenon which allows us to clear icy paths and also explains why Margaritas go down so easily.

Should you wish to ‘taste the difference’ between our own Earth water and Martian water, simply fill a glass from the tap, then top it up with grit from one of those yellow boxes at the roadside. Swirl it all together and if you’ve done it right it should have the consistency of a rice crispie cake.

What NASA believe is that the water flows down the edges of craters and canyons during the Martian summer, when temperatures reach a rather chilly -23oC. All of this is heartening for 3 reasons. Firstly, it suggests the possibility that microbial life might yet be found on Mars (finally answering David Bowie’s 1971 poser in the affirmative); secondly it might be feasible for a manned mission to Mars to access a renewable water supply; and thirdly, because it shows that you need only travel 54 million kilometres to find somewhere with a worse summer than Aberdeen.

Tanya Souter, Lifestyle Correspondent

You might hiv seen in the papers the ither day that hunners of students wiz involved in a “lock-in” at the Bon-Accord and St Nicholas Centre in Aiberdeen! I used to ging oot wi’ a student, years back, but the only lock-ins he iver took me to wiz at the Reed Lion! Apparently it wiz a special offer event, far they get generous discounts in a range of stores. Well, fan I heard that I naturally tried to swick my wye in. I flashed my rent card, and telt them I wis a post graduate at the University of Life, on a bursary fae the School of Hard Knocks. ‘Oh aye’ says the boy on the door ‘Fit are ye reading?’ Quick as a flash I says, ‘Take A Break’, but he wizna fooled. I asks him, “Fit wye do ye gie them a special discount night?” He says, ‘They’re students, they need a discount cos they dinna hae much disposable income.” So I says, “I’m a single mum wi’ three kids living in a Cooncil hoose – I dinna hae muckle disposable income either.” And he says, “Aye – but you dinna hae access to yer daddy’s credit card.” I wiz totally raging. I’ve written to the manager demanding a similar lock-in for folks fa earn less than the living wage. And I tell ye – I’m dead serious aboot it. If I dinna get a positive answer, I’m going to start shoplifting somewye else.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football columnist who doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘unethical’

When I seen the other day that Jack Warner had been banned for life from all football-related activities, I felt dead sorrow for him. I always thought his biology of the Dons was very good. I reckon he’s just been made an escape coat. I bet it’s because he’s from Maud. My pal Dunter Duncan was from there, and he was forever getting red-carded by refs, sometimes for things that was not even not totally deserved. Just because someone’s leg’s been broke in two places does not mean it was a foul. But that’s what you get when you get refs who have never played the game. Or who had to give it up early because they got their legs broke.