What will they call it on C4? ‘The Great British Fake-Bake Off’?

Shelley Shingles, Miss Fetteresso Winner 1987 and Showbiz Correspondent

OM actual G!  It’s the end of an era, with the last ever Great British Bake Off on the BBC, and Mel, Sue and Mary’s refusal to jump ship breaking up the gang.  It’s like the Beatles breaking up all over again, only with spatulas instead of guitars.  For £25 million a year Channel 4 have managed to get the format and Paul Hollywood.  So that basically boils down to a tent with some ovens in it and a partially shaved silverback gorilla.  I hope I’m wrong but I just don’t think it’ll be the same with all the adverts and without Mary’s spangly tops and killer stares.  And for contractual reasons there’ll be no Bake Off at all next year.  I just don’t know how I’m going to get through 2017 without my baking fix.  I might have to pop down to Gregg’s and stare through their oven window, watching their steak bakes brown and rise.  Mind you, who am I trying to kid?  I do that already.

I think it’s Mel and Sue I’ll miss the most.  Of course, they and me go back a long way.  We first met when I was successfully forging my media career; I went onto their Light Lunch show as a spokes-model for California Tan on Rosemount Place, to demonstrate a new ‘stand and tan’ machine.  I’ll never forget what they said to me, as they shut me into it and whacked it on for 3 minutes at full power:

“On your marks.  Get set.  Bake!”

Wise words from two great ladies.

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

As a scientist, people frequently ask me questions such as “When did the universe begin?” “What is Andromeda?” And “when and where was Star Wars set?” To which I answer, respectively, “a long time ago”, “a galaxy far, far away” and “a long time ago in a galaxy far far away”.

But recently people have been asking about time. In particular, they ask about the forthcoming end to BST and our return to GMT, which happens in the wee small hours this weekend. This biannual event causes confusion and panic in equal measure, particularly when setting alarm clocks. My aide memoire is simple and much easier to remember than the other one. When asked whether it’s forward or back, I exclaim: “Vernal vanguard, autumnal abatement!” So memorable it is that no one has ever asked me twice!

Of course, changing the clocks has no impact on the length of daylight. As soon as we pass the summer solstice in mid-June, the sun rises 1 minute later and sets 1 minute earlier each day. Hence it’s both scientifically accurate and absolutely hilarious to say to on the 21st of June “Aye, the nights are fair drawing in!”

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander.

It has been a democratic wik in the village.  I wiz saddened tae hear that in the heaving Metropolois of Ellon, this year’s festive celebrations face cancellation, efter the toon’s Community Cooncil resigned en masse, fan their numbers fell to 8.

I canna see the problem here – if ye ask me 8 fowk is mair nor plenty. Here in Meikle Wartle we believe in smaller government, and hiv a verra effective Community Cooncil (Or ‘Care in the Community Cooncil’ as some wags cry it), Consisting of me, Skittery Wullie and Feel Moira.

We convene in the snug area of the pub, so there widna be room for ony mair folk. I, myself am Secretary and hiv the twin responsibilities of taking the minutes and ordering the pints. Wullie is Treasurer, looks efter the siller and gets the nips, and Moira his adopted the title ‘Dear Leader and President for Life’ and is in charge of nuts, crisps and scumpi fries. We generally pit matters tae a quick vote by acclamation, accompanying each council decision wi’ anither round. Proceedings are highly convivial and interest in joining oor Community Cooncil remains high, nae least because the landlord has been known tae throw in free pies an’ a’.  Sometimes at heid height and high speed if the democratic process looks like it might be about to get oot o’ hand and hurt someb’dy

But we resist an increase in numbers. Because files governmental expansion micht introduce wider community representation, it wid also impact adversely on oor descision-making efficiency. And mak the rounds baith dearer and less frequent. Cheerio!

You’ve got to fight for your right to wee-wee!

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

I see that we have had a sudden, and no doubt temporary and localized, outbreak of common sense in the Scottish legal system, with the news that all charges have been dropped against Rohan Beyts, the retired Social Worker who had been accused of breach of the peace after answering the call of nature among the dunes of Donald Trump’s Menie Estate. Rohan was quoted as being “absolutely relieved”, although it was not entirely clear whether she was talking about the dropping of the charges or the initial incident itself.

While I am sure that the authorities have acted with complete impartiality, there is, I think, some considerable symbolic value, this week of all weeks, in the news that a woman has been held entitled to widdle with complete impunity upon The Donald’s property. As the official council spokesman for Aberdeen – the city, let us not forget, that learned to loathe Trump long before all these Johnny-Come-Latelys, like Michael Moore, Professor Steven Hawking, and the Pope, jumped on the bandwagon, – I am proud to see Rohan added to the roll-call of women – the Hillary Clintons and Michelle Obamas of this world – to have looked this nightmarish caricature of a man in the eye and stood up to him. Or in Rohan’s case, squatted down among the marron grass to him. It is now time to recognise Rohan for the heroine she is, and to get behind her. Preferably while holding out a towel to protect her modesty, and wearing wellies.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s been a conflagratory wik in the village. We far thocht we wis enjoying an Indian Summer the ither evening, but it turned oot it tae be jist the wind blawing fae the sooth, and the heat we felt wiz the auld Glen o’ Dee Hospital gaan up in flames. It wiz a sad end for a venerable auld building fit has been a luxury hotel, an army billet and a Typhoid sanatorium in its time. Though in mony wyes it wiz a miracle it lasted as lang as it did, bearing in mind that it wis built oot o’ wid and the the shire his mair nor it’s fair share of gypes fa’s idea of a good time is setting fire tae things. Noo, it’s a’ sub judice and I’m nae saying that, but police suspect that the fire wis the work of youthful arsonists. Or, as they are cried in Meiklewartle, vratches wi’ matches.

Indeed, this is the reason that nae new buildings here in the village have been made of that particular combustible material, iver since Haldie Winton’s ootside lavvie went up fan he settled in for a good long seatie, tried tae licht his pipe and dropped his match. Yon wis a tragedy. Fit a mineer we lost that nicht.

Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who always plays the man.

Some of the sporting headlights from this week has only gone to show that sometimes, fact can be stranger than friction.

I enjoyed watching the Olympics parade in Manchester, but I had a wee chuckle to myself when I found out that two imposters managed to sneak onto one of the buses! It’s a testicle to the number of British athletes who had success in Brazil that a pair of chancers that nobody recognises was able join in the fertilities. But dressing up as a sportsman to bask in reflected glory is nothing new. I’m just surprised John Terry wasn’t there in his Chelsea strip.

There was a lot of chat about referee Anthony Taylor before the Liverpool v Man Utd match. Apparently the whistler lives right next-door to Old Trafford and Liverpool fans was complaining that he might be pious in favour of Mourinho’s men. But it’s obvious that Taylor would be totally neutron. These days the closest any Man Utd fan lives to Old Trafford is inside the M25.

Mind you, I understand what it’s like when you feel like the ref has it in for you before the match has even kicked off. Back when I was playing for Locos we found out the man in black what had been chose for our top-of-the-table 12 pointer with Rothes was someone who had sent me off in the past. We asked the SFA to find an official who hadn’t previously shown me a red card, but they never done it. They did try, but it turned out there wasn’t one.

Be afraid of the creepy clown!

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding nether regions

As regular readers, my family, Conservative Party Central Office and my pesky constituents will know, I am no stranger to having to make an apology. Cripes, old Struan has ‘been there and done that’ when it comes to saying sorry. I must have spoken, written or mouthed the word a bazillion times by now. I have lost count of how often I’ve woken up after a tremendous night on the sauce with BoJo, Seb Coe or The Great British Bake-Off girls (what a 24 hours THAT was. Woof!) and found that some unfortunate utterance or candid video, casting me in a less than perfect light, has somehow managed to go viral. And what do I do? I apologise. Sincerely. And hope some other poor idiot catches it the next time Lady Scandal comes a-calling.

But it looks like Elton John was right after all, about what constitutes the hardest word (although I’ve always had a lot of problems with ‘escalator’, as I once discussed at some length with Elton as we enjoyed a hedonistic night on the Morgan’s Rum and his baby grand). Because now, it seems, apologies for bad behavior are no longer required. ‘Sorry – not sorry” (as, I am given to understand, the kids are saying’) – is now the way to go.

In America, the Republican candidate for President has weathered storm after P.R. storm, without ever saying sorry for anything (or at least, not like he means it) and remains in contention. It absolutely beggars belief, but he has said, tweeted and been video-recorded doing things which would have ended the career of any other politician. Never mind the Leader of the Free World, we wouldn’t let a breakfast TV host get away with half of this stuff. He has, by his own words and deeds demonstrated conclusively that he is utterly unfit for public office, yet a sizable chunk of the US population simply don’t appear to give a hoot. There is only one thing for it. Emigration. Say hello to prospective Governor Struan Metcalf, Y’all!

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It has been a coulrophobic week in the village.  Reports hiv been coming in fae a’ ower the country of pranksters dressed up as clowns lowping oot at folk and gi’eing them a fleg. These ‘creepy clowns’, are yet anither unwelcome import fae the USA, like school proms and cheese in a can, and files we in Meiklewartle are nae usually ameen the first to pick up on crazes, (weve jist seen the the back of deely-boppers) even we are nae immune.

Last nicht, as Skittery Wullie wiz staggering hame fae the pub, he wiz maist alarmed tae see a grotesque figure lurking by the dyke aside his piggery. Noo, Wullie his lived a life and seen some sichts but even he wis feart o’ the strange pale face, wild tufts of hair, mad, staring een and the horrible rictus grin; so he pegged it straight back tae the pub, far he insisted on a lock-in. Naturally, the rest of us decided tae help oot wi the care and sensitivity for which the village is renowned, and, eence the lock-in wis ower, I gathered a wee mob of aroon a dizen folk wi’ pitchforks and flaming torches tae accompany Wullie safely hame.  So it wiz relief a’ roond fan the aforementioned scary clown stumbled across wir path, and turned oot tae be naen ither than a somewhat worse-for-wear Feel Moira. She had got herself a’ dolled up for a blind date but had showed a bittie mair enthusiasm than expertise wi the foundation, blusher and lipstick, and had then had an accident wi some hair straighteners.  The date itself, though, had apparently been a great success, the gentleman in question being a big Batman fan fae Badenscoth, fa thocht she hid come as the Joker.

I have heard, however, that clowns remain a major issue in Aiberdeen. In fact, Somedee wiz telling me there’s a hale building-full of them, nae too far fae the Marischal Square construction site. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, total football pundit

It’s always hard when an old mate becomes an escape-goat for the failings of an entire nation’s footballing hopes and dreams. But that is the houseboat my old team mate Gordon Strachan finds himself hitched to.

A lucky draw against Lithuania and a 3-0 defeat by Slovakia leaves us with a mothball’s chance of qualifying for the 2018 World Cup.

Wee Gordo, which is what I sometimes always call him, is copping a lot of flapjack for his team selection, his formulation and also his tic-tacs. I think that is unbelievable. How come he’s not getting no pelters for the bogging pink strip as well?

Sure, Raphael’s a great painter, but he’s no Kynoch & Robertson.

 View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been an asthetic wik in the village.  Artistic passions have been stirred by the news that a previously lost masterpiece by Raphael has been uncovered at Haddo Hoose. Michty! I wis impressed fan the Teenage Mutant turtles could just spik and dae Kung fu. Raphael is considered a genius o’ the Renaisance, and een o’ the finest pinters fa iver lived, and the portrait fit is noo being cried ‘The Haddo Madonna’ is a bonny picter, richt eneuch. Though between you and me, I dinna think it looks onything like her.

Fit wiz truly eye-opening wis seeing the great heap o’ stuff sifted through by a team o’ highly trained posh nosey folk on BBC4’s ‘Britain’s Lost Masterpeices’  last nicht on the TV. it wis like a car boot sale at Downton Abbey. Clearly, this is a highly prestigious production, as it wiznae on during the day like a’ the ither antiques shows I sleep through.

Here at MTV (Meikle Wartle Television, your local community station) we’re ayewis on the look oot for new formats tae inspire oor ain efforts, so we wasted nae time at a’ in ripping aff this een.

Of course, Feel Moira got affa excited, and wid have been awa doon the road tae Haddo wi her lump hammer if I hidnae stopped her and gently pointed oot that they’ve been daen a’ready. Instead, we stairted oor ain treasure hunt somewye nearer tae hame, so we’ve been tracking doon valuable heirlooms at Tommy Benzies’ bothie. Twa reasons for stairting there; firstly, Tommy niver throws nithin awa, so if he’s iver hid a priceless work of art, there’s a good chunce it’ll still be here somewye in ameen the hunners o’ bars o’ Imperial Leather and the auld copies o’ ‘Look In’. Secondly, he’s awa his hol’days for the next fortnight, sunning himsel’ in the exotic climes o’ Cairnbulg, so we’ve got a clear run.

For speed, Moira’s still using the lump hammer. She jist winna be telt. Onywye, despite the irreversible structural damage, within twa hours she wiz duncing wi’ joy efter discovering fit we think is something very exciting.  It seems that Tommy’s taste in art tends tae the modren, as Moira his found a piece of sculpture in metal and paper that looks very much like Andy Warhol’s famous Campbell’s Soup Tin. It wiz hidden jist ahind a box of ruskoline in Tommy’s kitchen cupboard. Easily missed by the casual observer, but obvious to Moira, eence she had knocked siven shades o’ sharn oot o’ the cupboard wi’ her lump hammer.  Exciting times are ahead for sure, fan Tommy gets back his holidays. I canna wait tae see his face! Let’s jist hope that Moira disna get peckish files we’re waiting.

Cheerio!

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

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions.  Questions like ‘I’m a Sagittarius, what effect will the inclusion of the constellation of Ophiuchus in the zodiac have on my horoscope” To which I answer, ‘Astromomer. AstroNOMer.” But one question I am now bound to be asked is if I know Nobel Prize winning physicist J. Michael Kosterlitz. As can be deduced from his traditional Aberdeenshire surname (I believe he is descended from the Kosterlitz’s of Oldmeldrum), Michael was indeed born and brought up in the Granite City. He can therefore take his place in the roll call of Aberdeen’s greatest scientific minds; R.V. Jones, Hugh Pennington and Jim McColl from the Beechgrove Garden.

Kosterlitz, who now teaches at the famous Brown University in Providence Rhode Island, has been awarded the prize for his work on the strange phases of matter. Put simply, the phases of matter with which we are all familiar, (namely when things change from solid to liquid to gas) are only part of the story. When matter is in extreme conditions, such as when it’s very cold or very flat, scientists start to see unusual behaviour.

Now, correlation is not causation, but it seems to me it’s highly likely that Prof. Kosterlitz’s first experience of witnessing unusual behavior in exceptionally cold and flat conditions came as a child being taken to winter fixtures at Pittodrie.

Of course, the most impressive thing about Prof. Kosterlitz is not his Nobel prize, but the fact that at an early age he did as all truly successful Aberdonians have done; got the hell out of here to somewhere with better weather!