‘Rise like Lions after slumber, in unvanquishable number’. Not bad, but it’s no ‘Up Town Funk’.

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, ordinary mum

Please, somebody pinch me. I fear I’m actually enduring a living nightmare. Theresa May-Not-Be-PM-Much-Longer clings to power by forging an unholy alliance with the DUP. And so the dismantling of our society by creeping privatisation and the forces of globalisation is allowed to continue unabated. I am appalled by this, although I will admit that until this week I thought DUP were the people who delivered parcels for Amazon (I much prefer to shop locally, of course; we must all do our best to sustain nearby business, but it’s just so convenient, isn’t it?).

This DUP deal is despicable, even for the Conservatives, giving, as it does, a place at the table to the radical right. The DUP positions on the environment, reproductive rights and gay marriage are so regressive that Green Party leader Caroline Lucas branded them ‘dinosaurs’ which they hated. Because they don’t believe dinosaurs existed.

Worse still, we actually have to pay them for the privilege. They’re going to get a billion pounds of taxpayers’ money for Northern Ireland. At least now I know what the words “NI contributions” mean on Snezhana’s payslips! (She’s our au pair. She’s Bulgarian, but she’s marvellous. In fact she’s such a treasure, I’m going to have her registered so I can keep her after Brexit).

Someone else who got a massive windfall this week was HRH Queen Elizabeth, who is going to receive an 8% pay rise. Now, as all my friends and comrades in the ‘Kingswells Mums for Social Justice’ Facebook group (we’re anti-austerity, pro-prosecco) will know, I am no monarchist. To me the royal family symbolically perpetuate a medieval hegemony, which oppresses the many for the benefit of an undeserving elite, and I can never find any of Kate Middleton‘s gorge outfits in my size. So naturally, my initial response to the news that Liz is getting an extra £6 million, to pay for essential repairs to Buckingham palace was horror – what a massive waste of our precious resources. But on the other hand, we’ve just had some roofing work done on the stables and – let’s face it- specially imported premium Spanish roof slate doesn’t come cheap. But I was most taken by Her Majesty choosing to deliver the Queen’s Speech dressed as the flag of the European Union. That’ll teach them not to make her miss the first day of Ascot!

The only light on the horizon was seeing the reception Jeremy Corbyn received at Glastonbury at the weekend. The crowd went crazy. It was heartening to see the generations come together to listen to the words of a bearded man on the wrong side of 60. Though I must say, I never new he had such a good singing voice. His rendition of ‘Staying Alive’ was something else.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s been a sanitational wik in the village. I wiz reading that ‘optimism is growing’ in Aiberdeen, as the city’s Union Street is getting some specialist ‘deep cleaning’ tae remove the foliage noo growing oot of its mony neglected lums. Michty, fan you’re reeling fae the financially disastrous effects of an oil and gas downturn, it disnae tak ower muckle tae mak you feel better, dis it?

I’ve aye wiz thought it seeing betties of greenery sticking out a’wye gave Union Street a nice, green, foresty kind of a look; and had assumed it wis pairt of the city’s relentless campaign tae be crowned Britain In Bloom Ultimate Chumpions for Life. Of course, fowk here have decided that a deep clean of Meikle Wartle is also lang overdue. Indeed, even a shallow clean wid be fine. The village square is aboot twa meters higher above sea level than the Ordnance Survey boys ken aboot, thanks tae the longstanding build up of fossilized sharn. Aye, there’s been a pucklie decades of fowk tramping aff the fields wi’ it still clinging tae their beets, and so it has built up a bittie.

Ab’dy in the village agrees that the best wye tae boost wir ecomony is tae attract vees’tors, and that the wye tae dae that is to nae hae a village square fit is several feet deep in mineer. But it’s gan tae tak mair than a scoosh of het watter fae a special wand tae deal wi’ it, and so Moira his been rooting aboot in her shed for her flamethrower.  I’m nae sure that warming it up is the best plan; yes, it will be easier tae shift, but I’m nae convinced that we’ll get mony vees’tors efterwards. Cheerio!

‘Ken ‘is? Some nights there’s jist nithin’ on the Telly.’

J. Fergus Lamont – arts critic and author of ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil – Beechgrove Gothic’

The received wisdom is that we are currently enjoying a ‘Golden Age’ of television wherein the artistic merits of productions for the small screen are reaching previously unattained heights. I myself have never been persuaded that the form is worthy of much attention, and although I own a ‘set’, its cathode ray tubes have scarcely been called upon since the dystopian masterpiece ‘Triangle’ was on air. Nevertheless, this week I took the plunge into the realm of shirtless 19th century miner owners, heavily fictionalised monarchs and grumpy Scottish time travellers. However, it was on Tuesday that I discovered that the rumours are true – we are indeed in a televisual Golden Age, and the idiot box in the corner can still produce stunning work when one knows where to look!

I sat agog in my living room as the BBC News at 10 presented me with an audacious televisual treat. Huw Edwards looked stern but remained mute amidst random picture montages and no less than 11 swift, stuttering appearances of the ‘Breaking News’ logo, as seconds turned to minutes and nothing happened, I realised that this was a daring a live performance of John Cage’s seminal work 4’ 33’, at the climax of which Edwards wished us all a ‘good evening’ – a stunning moment of deconstructionist TV the likes of which we have not seen since Dennis Potter naughtily plied his trade back in the 1980s. The whole production was a powerful commentary on the unpleasant reality of today’s news; whereby to be silent is the only sane response. I applauded hugely and attempted to contact the BBC to offer my congratulations, but apparently there was a technical hitch and I couldn’t get through.

No matter! I simply switched channels and found myself enjoying another stunning piece of TV. Entitled ‘Love Island’, this was a superbly bleak post-apocalyptic drama where the only humans left on a deserted island paradise must work out which coupling of these dregs of the gene pool might best continue the species. If I have a criticism its that the dialogue was so banal and the characters so 2 dimensional that they couldn’t be truly convincing, but that minor niggle apart, a triumph!

By now it was well after midnight, but still the treasure trove of multichannel TV kept on delivering – an eternally-open shop floor offering incredible value consumer goods to those viewer who interacted with the weirdly hypnotic hosts. Gamely ,I entered into the spirit and rung in.

Several hours later, I found myself utterly spent, and inexplicably the owner of a hurricane spin power scrubber and several sets of ladies’ Brazil Knit Wellness trousers, with pockets.

I wept.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who goes in hard

In Derek we trust! The Dandies got a boost last week when gaffer Derek McInnes sailed his colours to the mast by turning down Sunderland’s overtones. I was worried that Degsy would be on his way South to the North East sending the Dons’ chances West, but he is here to stay and the Red Army will be well chuffed with that turnip for the books.

McInnes’s loyalty is a rare thing in the doggy-dog world of football. Back when I was playing no-one never turned down no big-money moves and I’ll admit that even old Kenny had his forehead turned.

When I was released by the Dons and wound up at Brechin City my agent (my Da’) got a phone call from Dundee United chicken-supremo Jim McLean. Big Jim says to my Da’, he says “I’m wanting Kenny to sign for us so he can provide a bit of steel in midfield”. But my Da’ says to Jim, he says “Kenny canna dae that, he jist gings roon halfin folk.” It turns out that that was exactly what Big Jim was meaning, so he made me an offer I could not defuse. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have played for him, but driving the Jag to Brechin every day for training had made my petrol bill astrological enough as it was, so I did defuse it after all.

Degsy McInnes found out the possible identity of the Dons’ first opponents this season. We’ll either be sticking Ordabasy of Kazakhstan or Bosnian outfit Siroki Brijeg. I mind when the biggest question about the European draw was “How do we play them?” Now the biggest question is “How do we say them?” Mental.

As strong and stable as a new-born calfie in a sharny field.

View From the Midden with Jock Alexander

Weel it’s been a democratic wik in the village, specifically last Thursday nicht, during which we watched agog as cast-iron certainties of life were overturned and the natural order reverted tae the 70s. At’s richt, Skittery Wullie stood his hand in the pub. Incredible. But then oor attention strayed tae the TV abeen the bar chunterin’ on and on aboot the Election. We dinna usually involve wirsels much wi’ matters political, aside fae throwin’ things at the screen fan Michael Gove comes on, but we watched amazed as events unfolded, and Theresa May’s grip on the nation turned oot tae be as strong and stable as a new-born calfie in a sharny field.

Of course, the spectacle of a soor-faced bissom refusing tae admit defeat is nithin’ new tae us. Feel Moira is still in cherge of the local W.R.I., though efter a motion of nae confidence in her bannocks, Moira is only clinging tae power wi’ the support of yon swivelly-eyed wifie fae Tocher fa disna believe in eggs.

Though mony of us felt it served Mrs May richt efter her cavalier admission that as a youth she engaged in crop destruction. Nae a laughing metter in the village. She widnae get awa wi’ running through wheat fields here. Maistly because Wullie has his crops strewn wi mantraps. It’s an affa trachle come the hairst, but he winna be telt. Cheerio!

Struan Metcalfe, newly elected MP for Turriff and East Speyside (Whoop!)

Dear reader, it won’t have escaped your attention that there has been a significant and possibly welcome hiatus in my endless litany of gaffes, blunders and sincere apologies. In truth, I have been behaving myself impeccably, having been unanimously selected to contest the SNP stronghold of Turiff & East Speyside by the local party faithful, and with the Chairman’s fulsome endorsement ringing in my ears; ‘You’re a tattie, Mr Metcalf, but beggar’s canna be choosers’; I have been on the campaign trail, and on best behaviour.

TBH, I thought I had about as much chance of scoring as a toonser at a Cuminestown Young Farmers’ shindig, but when I came to after Thursday night’s somewhat lubricated count, it was to discover that I’m now an M.P.! As, I am told, I said in my acceptance speech, ‘Cripes!’. That result exceeded my wildest dreams, and trust me, I have had some wild, wild dreams. Particularly that one about Amber Rudd I had after I drank the worm from a bottle of Tequila in The Saltoun Inn.

Now there are a lot of reasons for my triumph, not just the fact I ‘anonymously’ deposited a bottle of Krug at the end of every farm lane between Barthol Chapel and Fochabers. I was assisted by the threat from Wee Nicola Krankie of IndyRef2, an SNP incumbent who was seen in the constituency about as often as Halley’s Comet and Labour putting up an like Ed Sheeran look-a-like fresh out of Mintlaw Academy.
So, here’s to the next 5 years. Or next 5 months. Who knows? Not I. But at this crucial time for our nation, we need certainty. And I pledge to devote myself to representing my constituents in what I know with certainty will be the very finest hostelries, eateries and places of grown-up entertainment London has to offer. Wahey!

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

I give up. Just when the Labour renaissance in England gives us the chance to oust the ghastly Tories at last, my fellow Scots have gone blue. 13 Scottish Tory MPs? It’s harder to stomach than my chum Cressida’s pumpkin, chia and flax seed granola.

So what next? Well, some of my fellow activists in our social justice collective (It’s mostly a Face Book group, but we sometimes meet for cocktails. Great fun!) are salivating at the prospect of Mother Theresa getting the heave-ho, but Tory PMs are like weeds – remove one and another grows in its place. Unless you spray them with chemicals (which our legal team has advised us against. Spineless). But not me, I’m not prepared to sit around and wait while the Tory-DUP coalition of chaos, fund oppressive regimes, undermine our education system and remove essential worker’s rights.

So I’m going to join Milo in Saudi, (he’s now permanently resident there, for tax reasons) Fidel will go to boarding school and Emmeline is going to have a gap year in Switzerland making artisan goat’s cheese at a mountain retreat. Of course, the upshot of this is that our au pair, Snezanha, (she’s Bulgarian, but she’s marvellous) will lose both her job and her home. Another tragic victim of this heartless government.

We’ll be back at Hs Majesty’s Theatre, Aberdeen, for a stott doon memory lane in a show packed full of our best sketches in June 2018! Noo, fit’ll we cry it?

If you’ve got a good idea for a title to follow ‘Desperate Fishwives’, ‘How To Look Good Glaikit’ and ‘Dreich Encounter’, don’t post it here, send it to: jiggerypokery@flyingpigproductions.co.uk

There’s a pair of first night tickets, plus a pre-theatre dinner for two in HMT’s excellent 1906 restaurant, for whoever comes up with an idea we use. But be quick; entries close on Friday 16th June.

We’ll announce the title next month. Good luck!

Trumper’s Rule: If you cant say something nice, tweet Sadiq Khan.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Truly, I am fed up with people who say that Aberdeen City Council has become a laughing stock since Labour ejected the members who chose to form a coalition with the Tories and the Lib Dems. I say this because it is a distraction from the great front-line work that is being done by our hard-working Council officials; because it fails to take account of the nuances of the local political scene; but mainly, because when people point out the obvious truth, my job becomes much more difficult.

Or so I used to think, until I started to scrutinise the methods of other regimes with maverick leaders, like North Korea, Russia, and the USA. I have to say it was something of a revelation. When you are willing to leave considerations of truth and decency outside in the rain, how much easier life becomes. President Trump, in particular, continues to be an inspiration. Without his tutelage, I would never have thought to deflect attention away from my beleaguered administration by mounting ludicrous attacks upon the mayor of a friendly city that has just suffered from a tragedy. So to those of you who say that Aberdeen deserves better, I say this: Andy Burnham eats dolphins for breakfast, and Sadiq Khan is a werewolf.

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

As a scientist, I am continually asked important questions like “Does the discovery of a planet with a surface temperature of 4,000 degrees prove Global Warming exists?” “Can we send Katie Hopkins there?” and “Can we go there for a heat too, it’s supposed to be flaming June?” However, my main concern of late has been the sorry state of British Airways, as I was one of many to have been affected by the recent catastrophic power outage which caused chaos for 75,000 air travellers. I wasn’t on a plane myself, but I was in the Aberdeen Airport car park, offering stranded passengers reduced fare passage on my own patented ‘flying car’. However, I was chased away by a consortium of angry cab drivers and airport staff who claimed I hadn’t paid the drop-off fee and that simply tying lots of helium balloons to my D-reg Datsun Cherry was not a method approved by the British Aviation Authority. Confounded red tape, stifling British scientific invention again! It’s almost as bad as the time they stopped me from creating the self-peeling vegetable by sewing razor blades into a tattie.

So with my vehicle now impounded, I have ended up, like so many others, a blameless victim of the BA affair. I read unconfirmed reports that the BA system had crashed because someone had switched the plug off by mistake. This seems all too plausible. Too often the view underneath my own computer desk is a mass of tangled wires, and it is no wonder that sometimes the wrong one is yanked out midway through very important activity. Why, only last week, my wife accidentally unplugged the Sky box during the Britain’s Got Talent final. Imagine my horror – when she was able to locate the correct one and plug it back in straight away.

Plugs and wires can be a source of great trouble in our modern electronic society, and we must never underestimate the chaos that can ensue. I have therefore taken steps to upgrade my home and solve the problem of multiple wires and sockets. I have clearly labelled every mains lead in the house with a yellow post-it note and have solved the problem of the wrong plug being pulled out by ensuring that every single cable goes to the same socket – 30 wires, one plug. What could be simpler? I shall be contacting British Airways to offer them first dibs on this foolproof upgrade, just as soon as I’ve got my car back, and once I locate the source of the faint burning smell in my house.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports pundit who puts the boot in

This weekend sees Gordon Strachan’s Scotland team take on the Auld Enema at Hampden. The lovely Melody turned around the other day and asked me, “Kenny, is there a gulf in class?” I turns around to her and I says, “Darlin’, I don’t know about that, but they is definitely better than what we is.” I don’t mean to be unpancreatic, but I is worried we might get a right doing. Like the one Real Madrid gave Juventus in last week’s Champion’s league final.

That was the first match what I’ve ever watched on YouTube. Before then, “YouTube” was just something fans used to shout at me after I trod on the ball and let the other side’s forward through on goal. But now it’s a thing on the interweb, and I think I could get into it. It was hard to get used to the smaller screen, but it was handy to have the bookie’s website open at the same time. Real looked irresponsible as they swept aside their Italianate opponents 4-1. I think 3-2 would have been a fairer result – especially since I had twenty notes on it.

In a political pickle? Try some jam!

Barney Eunson, Official Labour Party Spokesman

They say that politics is a marathon not a sprint and as we head into the final week of campaigning I am beginning to wonder if they may be right.  Theresa May, the front-runner for so long, is slipping backwards in the polls, the public having finally realised that endlessly repeating the phrase “strong and stable” like a demented Furby does not, in fact, constitute leadership.  Meanwhile, Jeremy Corbyn – dear old stubborn Jeremy – has combed the lentil-loaf crumbs out of his beard, rolled up the sleeves of his geography teacher’s shirt, and is finishing the stronger of the two.

How strange is the life of the political strategist.  There I was, trying to persuade him that he needed to get out on the stump and persuade the nation with plausible, fully-costed policies.  It turns out that all he had to do was turn up on the One Show with a pot of home-made jam.  Needless to say, party HQ is currently awash with berries, sugar and pectin.  Never mind election literature: we are going to hit every key marginal constituency with a consignment of Jezza’s Bramble jeelly.

I have to say, I’ve not felt this confident about Labour’s chances since I cracked John McDonnell over the head with a copy of Das Kapital and locked him in Jeremy’s potting shed.  Now , if only I can get Diane Abbot to work a calculator. Or go on holiday for a fortnight.

View From The Midden – rural news with Jock Alexander

It’s been an analogue wik in the village. I wiz affa excited tae read aboot bent-nosed brainbox Stephen Fry’s his recent appearance at the Hay festival. Imagine my excitement at hearing aboot that. I niver even kent there wis sic a thing as a Hay Festival. Ye can keep yer Glastonbury and yer T in the Park, that wid be the wikend of hedonism for me! Though I couldnae see mony bails in evidence in the photies. Nae doot they were stacked up ahind a’ the books.

But onywye, big Stephen wiz hudding forth at considerable length aboot the dangers o’ oor reliance on digital systems and how a cataclysmic cyber-attack could bring on a “digital winter for humankind”

Weel, Stephen ma loon, spik for yersel. I hiv in the past extolled the virtues of living as we do in a rural idyll, or ‘ black-spot’, as we like tae cry it; far Satnavs fear tae tread, TV cannot reach and a’ mobile technology proudly displays the phrase “no signal”. Elon Musk wid hiv an affa job gettin’ his automatic self-driving car through the village, I can tell ye.  Twa minties amongst the twisty-twosty lanes o’ MeikleWartle wid hae him begging for a push-bike.

So I am nae gaan tae get o’er worried aboot these dire predictions o’ a cyber apocalypse, I doot here in the village we’d notice the difference. We dinna hae online trolls, chatrooms, and live streaming. We’re happy wi’ Skittery Willie, Auld Jessie’s tearoom and paddling in the burn o’ wartle. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who presses high up the park.

Old Kenny has just about recovered from the heartbreak hotel of Saturday’s Cup final defeat.  For Aberdeen this whole season was a case of “always the teasmade, never the bride”.  The gaffer Degsy McInnes says, he says, “there’s no shame in finishing second to Celtic”.  He might be right, but judging by the sombrero atmosphere at full time at Hampden, there’s not much pleasure in it neither.

Since we lost the final, the vultures is circling round Pittodrie ready to snap up our precious commodes. Jack, McGinn, Taylor and Pawlett are all heading off and now Sunderland look like they is wanting to tap up Deek as their new gaffer.  I don’t know if I the fans could cope with McInnes leaving too, after all the emotional topsoil they’ve been through.

Anyway, now that the football season is finished I get to keep my ear to the ground by getting my nose into some other sports.  And the first one that caught my eye was golf, when I seen that Tiger Woods had been accused of driving under the confluence.  Now, Old Kenny is no expert, but even I know that trying to drive after a few drinks is a canapè for disaster.  I mind one Locos outing at Kemnay golf club, when Dunter Duncan got torn in at the bar after the morning round.  When we went back out in the afternoon, the boy couldn’t even putt, let alone drive!