At this rate, there’ll be no celebrities left for Ant and Dec to send to the jungle.

Entertainment news with showbiz insider SHELLEY SHINGLES (Miss Fetteresso, 1993)

2016 continues and the celebrity death-count just gets higher and higher. It’s enough to make you think that the Grim Reaper has traded in his scythe for a combine harvester.

When I heard the news about Prince I thought, “what a shame, that’s bound to cast a shadow over the Queen’s 90th birthday celebrations.” But then I found out that it wasn’t Prince Philip at all, but Prince Prince, of Purple Rain fame. At current rates there’ll be nobody famous left in the world by Spring 2019. I just hope that Bruce Forsyth’s eating his five a day and that David Attenborough is taking the right amount of gentle exercise.

But the saddest loss this week was the fantastic Victoria Wood. I bumped into her once, down in Lancashire on a promotional tour for Spink’s of Arbroath, bringing some much-needed glamour to the smoked fish industry. I was dressed as a sexy smokie (stockings, suspenders, foam-rubber haddock’s head) and wanted something to read in back of the bus on the way back up the road. I got the driver to stop at a corner shop in Bury, and Victoria and I met when we both reached for the last copy of the Woman’s Weekly. Victoria took me from head to toe and said “I’ll leave that for you, love. I’m guessing your need is greater is mine.”

Wise words, from a lovely lady.

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

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions, such as “Will increasing global temperatures really raise the sea level?”, “Can computer algorithms find me my perfect partner?” and “What was the name of Oasis’s debut album?” To which I answer “Yes, no and definitely maybe”.

But this week they’ve mostly been asking me about UK astronaut Tim Peake running the London Marathon on the International Space Station, and the challenges presented by sport in space.

Running in near weightlessness presents problems, as every time Tim bounded on the treadmill his body began to float around the space station as if he were doing the moonwalk (that’s the Neil Armstrong kind, not the Michael Jackson kind). To combat this he was strapped into a harness that kept him “grounded” and completed the marathon in a little over 3 and a half hours at an altitude of 200km. Now I concede that this is quite impressive, but not as impressive as the bloke I saw who ran it on the ground with a fridge strapped to his back! Beat that, NASA!

Peake’s efforts got me thinking about how we could adapt other sports for extra terrestrial competition. Darts would work quite well, until one of the astro-arrows pierced someone’s spacesuit. whilst weightlifting would have to become weightless weightlifting, which is just lifting if you think about it.

One of my favourite sports is snooker, and the absence of gravity would indeed be a challenge for a game that requires balls to rest on a table. This could be combated by spinning the snooker table around an axis at a rate of 2500rpm, which would create the requisite centripetal force to keep the balls on the baize. However, the players would be subjected to G-force that would make them feel dizzy, be violently sick and then drift into unconsciousness, which would both challenge the loyalty of even the most die-hard snooker fans, and nostalgically recall the exploits of Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football columnist with a tricky run-in

So it looks like Leicester City is going to hang on by the teeth of their fingernails and win the Premiership. A lot of folk has said they is an unfashionable team, but I think their strip is smart enough. Their manager, Claudio Winkleman, is a changed man from when he used to manage Chelsea, and also looks very different without the heavy eye make-up and fringe. He seems to be a really nice cheery guy, kind of like your grand-dad, if your grand-dad came from Italy and spent a lot of time out in the sun without a hat on. “Dilly ding dilly dong!” was his latest quotable quote in the press conference.

The lessons for Aberdeen from Leicester is clear. Buy a pair of absolute beasts for centre halfs and get a great ball-playing wide-man and a striker that can run like a whippet. And get an ice-cream van to do the half-time team-talks.

 

See us live in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen, June 2-11 

Let’s just be grateful it wasn’t Forres & Buckie

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

Now look here, the job of a politician is not an easy one. Every day we are thrown an absolute barrage of facts, figures, dossiers and briefings. It’s not easy staying on top of all that complicated info, especially when one also has to wine and dine Party donors and get sozzled on golf days at Trump on the Tax-payer’s coin!

On top of all that, how on earth can we be expected to get the names of places right, whether they be in our constituency or from the areas we grew up.

So, give Gove a break!  So what if he got Peterhead and Fraserburgh muddled up and called them Peterburgh and Fraserhead? The man has a lot to think about, not least getting our backsides out of Brussels.

I’ll be honest; I’ve done it myself. Well, these no-mark back-of-beyond places are all the same anyway, aren’t they? I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been heckled by some oik farmer for mixing up my Stoneruries and Banfuff’s. I tell you, it’s a proverbial potato-field!

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

O.M. Actual G!  It’s been a sensational week here on planet showbiz, with one of my absolute fave heartthrobs getting a grilling in the papers.

Jonny Depp has been one of Hollywood’s hottest hunks for years, but right now he is most definitely NOT big Down Under! Him and his wife, Amber Heard, got their knuckles wrapped for smuggling their dogs (the totes adorbs Pistol and Boo) into Australia last year. In fact, they had to film themselves apologizing in order to get off with it.  IMHO Jonny’s performance wasn’t the most convincing bit of acting he’s ever done, but I still enjoyed it more than ‘Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides’.

For a lot of us, this story was a real shocker. Jonny Depp is married? How did I miss that? I thought he was still not-making-and-honest-Mademoiselle of French pop starlet Vanessa Paradis.

I’ve never met Jonny, (or he would have been mine. Mine, I tell you!) But of course, Vanessa and me go way back.  I first met her when she was promoting her single ‘Joe Le Taxi’ on This Morning with Richard and Judy in 1988.  I was doing some modeling work for a fashion piece on faux leather handbags.  We were hanging about the free buffet in the green room during the show, and I’ll never forget what she said to me:

“Si j’étais toi ma chère, je mangerais pas ça. Ca m’a l’air bien suspect!”.

Wise words from a great lady.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports writer who’s not retiring.

I don’t understand modren sportsmen.  It seems that hardly not one of them actually enjoys the sports that they is paid good money to play, despite the fact they is paid good money to play it.  If it’s not Ronny O’Sullivan throwing a cobbler and missing his press conference, it’s Tyson Fury or Connor McGregor saying they is going to retire, despite being at the peak of their powders.  When I heard that, I turned around to the lovely Melody and I says, “What’s that about?  If I’d had the choice, I wouldn’t have retired until my legs was hanging off!”  Melody turned around and says to me she says “Well, after playing against you, a lot of people had to, because they was!”

Of course, in the end, retirement comes to us all.  I knew myself when my time had come.  Partly because I’d lost a yard of pace; partly because I didn’t not have the same touch on the ball; but mainly because I got banned for life by the SFA for putting the heid on Banks o’ Dee’s goalie.

Charles Farquhar McCain, Editor-Proprietor, The Foggieloan Times – All the news you need, every single second Tuesday

There has been much hilarity this week about The West Highland Free Press’s decision to downplay Kanye West’s visit to Skye by relegating it to page 16, alongside news of a kayaker rescuing some sheep.  Media types have congratulated those involved for not playing the fame game and declining to burnish West’s gargantuan ego.

Well, they will receive no such praise from me.  This is the oldest trick in the book.  It is a cheap ploy that has garnered the editor of that newspaper a vast amount of undeserved attention.  It brings the industry into disrepute.  And I wish I’d thought of it first.

See us live in ‘Dreich Encounter’ HMT Aberdeen June 2nd-11th

“Ask not what Meikle Wartle can do for you, ask what you can do for Meikle Wartle”

 View from the Midden – Rural affairs with Jock Alexander.

It has been a gubernatorial wik in the village. The parish Cooncil elections are looming, and files I hiv previously shied awa fae the glare o’ the political spotlight on accoont o’ my complex personal finances (10% aff for cashers, homers a speciality) it turns oot that disnae matter ony mair. In fact, according tae Weelum Hague, it’s important for oor democracy that a good number of oor elected officials are rogues, swicks and chuncers. Hence my decision tae stand as Chairman. This decision has taken bravery, tenacity, and aboot 12 pints, efter which it seemed an affa good idea. It is time noo tae make my policies clear. As apparently I wisnae makin o’er muckle sense last nicht fan I clambered onto that table in the pub and sterted shoutin’. Luckily, Feel Moira took some notes on the back o’ a beer mat and I can just aboot mak oot the text of my election address.

“Naen o’ the ither mannies standin’ for Chairman are ony use. They’re terrible. Especially wheezy Jim Middleton, ’cause he’s low-energy. On account o’ his emphysema.”

“I’m going to mak Meiklewartle great again, like it wiz in the good aul days. Before electricity, and the smallpox vaccine.”

“Inabootcomers tae the village are terrible. I’m gaan tae ban them a’, and I will build a great dry steen dyke to keep them oot. And mak Rothienorman pay for it!”

“In conclusion, if you dinna agree with me, you are a gype. I’m ready for the challenge. I’m probably the readiest oot o’ ab’dy tae be the Chairman ‘cause, you ken, I’m real swak. “

Nae exactly the Gettysburg Address, I’ll admit.

Ach weel, I suppose ‘at’s jist the sort o’ political platform you wid expect fae a drunk mannie fa’s jist shouting oot the first thing that comes intae his heid!

Cheerio!

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

Aiberdeen Airport his increased their drop-off charge fae £1 tae £2. Normally I wid be up in arms aboot a cynical rip-aff move lik ‘at; but, they hiv also extended the time tae 15 minutes, which gies ye an opportunity tae extract a bit o’ value oot o that extra quid.

First, get yersel a buckshee chauffeur’s uniform. I found my aul school blazer and a peaked hat fae the bairn’s dressing–up box did the trick. Then, fan ye get intae the terminal, pull oot your little wee board wi’ someb’dy’s name written on it. I ging fer “Smith” for a London flight or “Johansen” for the Stavanger een. Sooner or later, some oil executive’ll rock up, chuffed that he’s getting a limo.

Oot tae the car, drap him off at the Marcliffe, hud oot yer haun fer a tip, and bob’s yer mither’s brither. I wis £80 up this wik! Until this morning, fan I picked up that chuncer fa’s hotel wis in Inverness!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit whose wife had a fiver on ‘Rule The World’ at 33-1 because she loves Take That and wont let him hear the end of it.

Football is, of course, a funny old game, Saint. But there was some extremely conical going ons at Dundee United this week. Their player Gavin Gunning took the huff on Saturday against Inverness, grabbed the ball and sat down on the pitch until he got subbed. Then he marched off into the dressing rooms giving the fans some onion bahji on the way. Talk about spitting your toys out of your pram. He got sacked on Monday, and I reckon he should try and sign for Falkirk. Since their nickname is ‘The Bairns’, he’d fit right in.

I felt sorrow for Amercian golfer Jordan Speith on Sunday night. He looked like he was home and dry at the Masters before he hit the ball in the water. To make matters worse, he hut it in the water again and ended up getting a 7 on a par 3. With that one disastrous hole he managed to snatch his feet from the jowls of victory. Melody was watching with me and I says to her, I says “I’m glad I never choked when I was playing”. Melody splootered her cup of tea and says to me, she says “Don’t you remember that time with the young lad that played up front for Formartine?” And I have to say, she wasn’t not wrong. I did choke that one lad.

See The Flying Pigs Live in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen from June 2^nd to 11th

Our new 2016 stage show premieres at an oot ‘o toon preview on Sunday the 15th of May at the Townhall, Inverurie.

We’ll perform ‘Dreich Encounter’ for the first time, three weeks before the start of our two week run at HMT, Aberdeen, with all profits from the performance going to the Friends of Insch Hospital & Community.

The Friends were established in 1989 to promote, provide or assist by voluntary and financial means anything which improves the standard and quality of care or environment of patients of Insch Hospital, Community and Health Centre; supplementing the service provided by Grampian NHS Trust.

It’s a great local cause, and the Friends are an extremely able and dedicated group. We’re very pleased to be able to assist.

So come and catch the show before onybody else; tickets are available now from Mitchell’s Inverurie and Stephens DIY in Insch.

Good to see at least one offshore industry is still thriving

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding nether regions

Morality, eh? Gosh, it is all very subjective isn’t it? One man’s sensible retirement saving scheme is another’s aggressive and morally repugnant fiscal wheeze. So it is no surprise Super Dave has been caught right like Bambi in the headlights of the tax-haven row this week. #PanamaPapers is trending on Twitter and there’s a lot of really angry people out there. Mostly the super-richwho’ve been rumbled. LOL! Being wealthy nowadays is a dashed tricky business. Being a wealthy politician is a blinkin’ nightmare. Not only do you have to distance yourself from the likes of Bozzo Boris or from ‘totes hilare’ student pranks involving our porcine friends, now you have to answer for daddy’s offshore tax wheezes. Super Dave is even being challenged by The Corbynator to reveal his own tax returns. The impudence! But, come on folks. Why should Our Dear Leader have to be accountable for the actions of a man who has provided him with a lifetime of privilege and entitlement through the chance of his birth? I mean, where’s the fairness in that?

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

Is there anything more nauseating than the self-righteous bleating of the lower orders when they think they have managed to draw a bead on their betters? Well, yes; the 11th Earl’s favourite pudding, trifle served in the still-warm innards of a recently shot stag. But the uppity working classes run it a dam’ close second. Corbyn and his mob are in their element just now with all this Panamanian tax avoidance stuff. Funny that the lefties are so against fox hunting, isn’t it, when they so often resemble a baying pack? Well, they can do their worst. I, for one, have nothing to hide. Any more. What bothers me is that those who would tax people like me until the pips squeak care not a jot for the fact that extreme wealth is built up through solid hard work. The third Earl worked damned hard to gain the favour of the King of Spain, become a conquistador, kill all those Aztecs and steal their gold to build up the family fortune. Not that I am at all bitter with the legal firm who inadvertently spilled the beans. In fact, as a gesture of good faith, I have invited Messrs. Mossack and Fonseca to come and join me for a day’s shooting here at the Estate. I’m even offered to pay for their tickets over here. One way, naturally.

P C Bobby Constable, Retired Community Policeman

I saw in the papers the ither day that there’s been an increasing number of criminals takin’ selfies at the scene o the crime and then posting them on social media, claimin’ responsibility for their crimes. I also saw that there’s been a 35% increase in bobbies going off on the sick due to psychological problems. I think the twa things could be related. I mentioned this to my old sergeant, Dunter Duncan, fan we met for a pint. “Fit maks ye say that, Bobby?”, Dunter said, files takin’ aim at double 16, “Do you think the modern police-officer is facing an existential crisis, and is wondering fit their place in the world is if the criminal is going to publically announce his guilt?” “Weel, no”, I replied, “Fit I meant wiz that knocking a confession oot of a criminal wiz a great wye o relievin’ stress efter a hard day’s paperwork.” Policing is nae so easy as it wiz. If a ned’s nae recording himself, he’s recording you on his smart-phone so some smart-alec lawyer can pick over your every move in court and point oot that you’d nae read the accused his rights, or hidna used reasonable force, or ye’d clearly plunted twa grands’ worth o’ drugs on him, or some ither technicality. Changed days from when I wiz first on the beat. We used to tak a chisel oot wi us on the rounds and if there had been a house-breaking, we would plant it on some peer wino. Abody won: the householder wiz pleased somebody’s been caught; the Bailie hid something to dae; and the wino wiz grateful for a few weeks bed and board in the Torry Hilton. It wiz simpler times back then. I wiz going to say “mair innocent”, but that widna be right; cos naebody wiz innocent back in my day.

See us live in ‘Dreich Encounter’ HMT Aberdeen 2-11th June 2016