After the Great Aberdeen Run; the Great Muckle Meikle Wartle Hurple.

View from the midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It has been an active wik in the village.  Like mony folk I wis amazed tae see the great turn-oot for the Great Aiberdeen Run, in which eight thoosand feel-gypes could think of nithin better to dae on a sunny Sunday morning than knacker themsels racing o’er 13 miles that wiz maistly uphill.

Weel, I must say that we in the village were affa impressed at the commitment shown by the runners, at the organisation of the event, but maistly at the opportunities for relieving a’ the mony fowk linin’ the road of their cash.

So of course, we wasted nae time in hauding oor ain inaugural Great Muckle Meikle Wartle Hurple, jist the ither day.  Noo, we hiv hid Great Runs in the village afore, usually efter something unseemly has got into the water supply but this een wiz an athegither healthier affair. Modelling the event closely on the Aiberdeen version, Feel Moira wiz on hand tae ensure we got maximum traffic disruption. The course ran roon’ the entire village, requiring a’ roads – weel, baith roads – tae be closed aff. Selecting wir route presented it’s ain challenges, as we dinna hae 13 mile of roadway within the village itsel’ and there’s only so mony times runners can ging roon Skittery Willie’s piggery afore they get giddy, and nae jist fae the fumes. So, instead we sent competitors 13.1 miles north, crossing several dungy fields, and richt across baith the A920 and the A947, fit fairly thinned doon the field a bittie, afore feenishing up wi a thrilling final sprint through the dinning ha’ of Turriff Academy. Much to the surprise of the Dinner wifies, fa coped admirably wi’ the unexpected spike in demand for chilled water and ginger sponge wi’ custard.

Noo as a prominent member of the community fa is ayewis up for a challenge, it’ll come as nae surprise that I took pert in the race mysel. I likes a Half Marathon, (though I prefers a hale Crunchie) and I am nae a stranger tae physical exertions, as you would ken if you’d ever heard the soonds I mak fan trying tae cut my toenails. However, I’m nae a fan of the credo ‘No Pain, No Gain’ and so, tae ensure I would feel no pain at a’, I took the precaution of getting completely steaming jist afore we stairted the race. Thus inured against agony, I wiz able tae mak good if rubbery-limbed progress. Regrettably though, it seems nae in the same direction as a’bdy else. So I look forward to receiving a special medal as the ‘last finisher’ of the Great Meikle Wartle Hurple, just as soon as I get back far fariver the hell I am. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who isn’t wet behind the ears

Football has changed a lot since I hanged up my boots. Most of the changes has been good for the game, like the passback rule, TV money and the smoking ban, but sometimes you can’t not help but feel a bit neuralgic about things that the professional era has gotten rid of. Like the good old fashioned footballer’s hijink.

So step forward, Gary Mackay-Steven. Celebrating a 4-3 victory over the mighty Patrick Thistle at the weekend, GMS raised the bar for his fellow sportsmen with some world class timfoolery that seen him getting pulled out of in the river Kelvin and wind up in hospital with hypnotherapy. To be fair to the lad, he had spent most of the evening propping up the bar so it’s not much wonder he raised it!

My pal Davie, who would like to remain nameless, works at Pittodrie and he seen the whole thing. A couple of the other players comes up to him in the nightclub and says to him, they says “MacKay-Steven’s out of his depth!”, and he says to them, he says “give the lad a bit of time to gel with his new team mates”. Then they says “he took a dive!” but Davie says “well, so long as the ref doesn’t catch him”. Then they says “the fire brigade are fishing him out of the river!” at which point Davie realised something was up.

I heard that GMS got the hairdryer treatment from Derek McInnes when he got back to Pittodrie. But what does that say about the state of our National Health Service – surely they should have dried the poor lad’s hair in the hospital? Mental.

“I don’t know what to do and I’m always in the dark, I’m living in a powder keg and giving off sparks”

Prof Hector Schlenk, Senior Researcher at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions. Questions like; ‘Are Saudi Arabia’s decency laws compatible with a rationalist approach to human evolution? Should dancing the Macarena be banned in this country too? And if not, could we at least do something about the Slosh, please?”

But this week I have no time to ponder these earth-bound conundrums, as I have been on a whistle-stop trip to the USA to witness the most talked about phenomena of recent times.  Even on this side of the Atlantic it has been impossible to avoid the media coverage and in particular the startling images of a huge orange mass of combustible matter and life-threatening incandescent gases looking directly at the sun during the recent eclipse.

President Trump is, of course, no stranger to ignoring the accepted science in relation to matters meteorological. And in this case it is probably too much to hope that the corneal sunburn he will have suffered might serve as some kind of lesson. Certainly, the symptoms he is likely to have experienced – the feeling that he has rubbed his eyes with fine grit sandpaper – might go some way to explaining his sense of victimisation when speaking at yesterday’s rally.

I had travelled to the Land of the Free, of course, in my professional capacity, in an attempt to assist the citizens of the US to comprehend the science behind the amazing celestial event they were about to witness – the first total solar eclipse to be visible across America in a century. And I must say, I was sorely needed.

A recent survey revealed that, in America, a staggering 26% of the population do not believe that the Earth orbits the Sun. (Co-incidentally, and acknowledging that it is an important tenet of the scientific method that correlation is not causation, that is the precise percentage of the electorate who voted for the President.)

For over a quarter of the population to lack a grasp of basic science is alarming. It’s not even as bad as that in Huntly.

Allow me then, to share with you the explanation of the phenomena which I provided to our transatlantic friends: A total solar eclipse occurs when the moon passes between the sun and the earth, and the relative distances are such that the area of umbra, or shadow, exactly allows one celestial body to obscure the diameter of the other. This is only possible because, while the moon is 400 times smaller than the sun, the sun is 400 times further away, and so they appear to us to be the same size in the sky.

Interestingly, among all of the 3000 or so planets so far observed by astronomers both inside and outside our solar system, this phenomenon is unique to the Earth – prompting some theistic observers to claim it as evidence of intelligent design.

Initially, that idea may seem attractive, but it is fundamentally flawed. What intelligent designer worth the name would have arranged the Earth, Moon and Sun in these exact ratios and positions and then given the power to destroy the first to a man who is so wired to the second that he doesn’t have the sense not to stare at the third?

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports columnist who’s always Rrrrrready to Rrrrrumble.

I seen that the build up to the Mcgregor / Mayweather fight is building up nicely. This match has had it’s knockers, and a lot of citrics is saying say that boxing and other sports don’t mix. As someone who was quite happy to deck my marker with a juicy left hook whenever the ref wasn’t looking – and sometimes when he was – I am happy to stick my head above the parakeet and say that I disagree.

Some folks is saying that it’s a total mishmash, and the mixed marital aids champion Mcgregor hasn’t not got no chance against Mayweather, the unbeaten exfolliant of the noble art. But I is not so sure, he might not have much experience of the Marquee of Queensferry’s rules, but McGregor is no mug and must have fought his way out of twice as many corners as his opponent has, bearing in mind that in MMA they do their fighting in a octagon.

How to avoid day-light robbery in the night-time economy

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips
So, I see Aiberdeen has appointed its very ain “night-life economy manager”. Fit better job than promoting Aiberdeen’s distinctive night-life for someb’dy wi’ several years experience in the French hospitality and skiiing industry? She will, of course, be used tae gan ‘aff piste’, in contrast tae the majority o’ oor city center revelers, fa are maistly daeing the exact opposite.
Of course, the city is right to appoint a night-time business guru. Things is different fan the sun gings doon and the drink gings in. Foodstuffs that would have seemed inedible fan sober become irresistible – fit is why my pal Emre, fa rins a kebab shop, drives a spleet new beemer. The scaffying trade and suppliers of high strength industrial cleaners also hiv much tae thank the night time economy for, as has my pal, Mick the Pill (sound lad, honest as the day is short), fa’s unremunerative daytime newsagent becomes a gold-mine at night. And nae jist because his Mars Bars ging up tae £1.20. Fa wid hiv kent that night-time revellers wid hiv hid so much need for “plant food”? Or develop such a funny wink fan asking for it?
But of course, an experienced businesswoman helping the city’s after hours establishments tae increase their revenue could be a devastating blow for me and my fellow value-seekers, so I’d better impart a’ my ‘efter- dark’ tips and tricks afore it’s too late.
A night oot in toon is primarily aboot booze, but drinks in trendy nightspots can be expensive. Sure, there’s eyewiz happy hour tae cash in on, but that’s Highland League. To join the SPL big boys, you need tae work as a team. Yer wingman gings intae een o’ Belmont Street’s bars an sets aff the fire alarm. Meanwhile, you shin up the drain pipes by the Denburn underpass, clamber intae the terrace and scoof abdy’s unattended tipples. Fan it comes time tae mak yer escape, I’ve found that their patio umbrellas can be semi-successfully deployed as a parachute, though it’s best tae plan ahead and leave a mattress at ground level tae cushion yer landing. Dump it on the Thursday morning, it’ll lie for a fortnicht afore the scaffies collect it.
Of course, nae nicht oot wid be complete wi’oot some gentleman’s entertainment. Bridge Street plays host tae some o’ Aiberdeen’s premier venues for the appreciation o’ exotic dancing, but twa songs for £20 can mean yer enjoyment is short lived. Again – teamwork. Send in your accomplice tae request these twa tracks fae the DJ – ‘Stairway Tae Heaven’ followed by ‘American Pie’ . As soon as you hear the first twangs o’ Jimmy Page’s spidery guitar intro, hand over yer twenty notes and enjoy 15+ minutes o’ terpsichorean bliss. That’s the value.

 

Prof Hector J. Schlenk, Senior Researcher at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, people often asking me questions like? “If Big Ben can be turned off for 4 years, why can’t Parliament?” How will we know when News at Ten has started?’ and could the job be done by the animatronic clock that plays the theme from the Magic Roundabout from Outside Bruce Millers?
Fascinating questions, yes, but what I have been principally excited by this week is the news that a fruit cake belonging to Captain Scott has been unearthed, still edible, after 106 years. I am a great aficionado of Fruit Cake, so much so that it became my nickname as a child; one which has followed me into later life and has gained such currency that it is often shouted at me by complete strangers.
It is indeed comforting to note that not withstanding the effects of global warming and the recent breaking off of a significant part of the Antarctic ice-field, elderly cakes, meat, fish and some “rather nice-looking” jams have all been preserved in one of the continent’s first buildings. One particular cake is believed to have been brought over in 1910 during the Terra Nova expedition. Wrapped in paper and housed in a tin, the extreme Antarctic cold has contributed to it’s preservation, of course, but it’s remarkable resilience is also due to it being extremely dense, stodgy, and a throwback to an earlier time. Think of it, if you will, as a baked and currant-encrusted right-wing populism. Though it may look palatable enough to some – it leaves a rather unpleasant taste in the mouth.

Can you have a ‘right to be forgotten?’ Well, it seems to have worked for Barry from Eastenders.

Struan Metcalfe, MP for Turriff and East Speyside

Your tireless public servant is on his holibobs, enjoying some well deserved time away from Westminster and taking in the best of all that is Scotland in summer – the weather, the Festivals and, of course, the lingering undercurrent of seasonal disappointment.

But I like to keep up with what number 10 is planning ahead of our return to strong and stable government, and, by Gove, I was bally delighted to read that we’re considering the ‘Right to be Forgotten’ -new legislation which allows the Social-media-savvy more control over the data we post on-line.

This is completely brilliant because I have been known to get extra-pectoral on Bollinger then tweet like Trump on steroids. So the more of my internet footprint I can delete the day after the night before, the better.

My highly-qualified new researcher, Tiffany, tells me this legislation is aimed at helping young people not to ruin their whole lives by making an indelible on-line error of judgement; offering protection to, for example, teenagers who make the mistake of sending pictures of their unmentionables to their school-mates.

I just wish we’d had that when I was a Gordounstoun! I could have used a bit of protection the time I tried to use the Photography Club’s Polaroid One Step to make romantic overtures to head boy Tristam Ticklefeather in the gymnasium. It’s a tricky shot to get without a selfie–mode, and due to my contortions I fell off the vaulting horse and broke my clavicle. But it wasn’t at total wash-out. I won the school prize in photography for my still life ‘The Bruised Nectarine’.

J Fergus Lamont, arts correspondent and author of ‘Writing on the Wall – the Willie Young Story’

Aberdeen continues to be a mecca for the finest events. Glasgow may have held the tittle of European City of Culture, Edinburgh may play host to the largest celebration of the performing arts in the world and Dundee may have a branch of the V&A, but only Aberdeen can boast the Granite City Beard and Moustache Festival. How ground breaking, how inspired, to bring attention to the great artists whose facial hair was intrinsic to their work. I was very much looking forward to exploring the art of Salvador Dali, the theatre of George Bernard Shaw and the music of ZZ Top.

I myself have no beard, or moustache, or indeed much hair of any description save the few wisps atop my head, which I have been told give me the air of an octogenarian Art Garfunkel. But inclusiveness is all in the world of the arts, and so, I drew on a small, Chaplinesque moustache in felt tip, and let me tell you, my appearance attracted many wide eyed glances of admiration on the number 18 bus from Kincorth.

On arrival at Aberdeen’s fashionable Parkway Bar and Lounge, I was amazed to see upwards of 200 young people engaged in a far more hedonistic display than I had anticipated. There was quite a cacophony; so, in attempt to alert the organisers to my arrival I raised my arm aloft and shouted “Hi!” This worked well, as all eyes turned upon me and the room fell silent. Regrettably, it seems the event was oversubscribed as I was asked to leave immediately, and upon being marched to the door by one of stewards in a warm and welcoming headlock, I inadvertently got some of his beard unguent in my eyes.

I wept.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports pundit who sets his stall out early doors.

There is an famous saying that says, it says “a lightning bolt never strikes in the same place more than the one time”. I was looking forward to that theory getting disapproved on Saturday night when Usain “lightning” Bolt run in the 100m final. But he never run fast enough, and never won for the first time.

Contraverbially, the boy what won the race has a bit of a repudiation as a drugs cheat. Justin Gatlin was an unpopular winner and got a chorus of booze when he took the title.

Of course, old Kenny is no stranger to receiving a hostel welcome. Back when I was running the Brechin midfield I once got an undeserved red card against Montrose. After that, the crowd singled me out for rough treatment, I was jeered every time the ball come anywhere near me, and I don’t mind saying they made me feel like a total piranha. Needless to say, like the true professional what I am, I rised above the abuse and kept my cool for the full 90 minutes. Then, as the final whistle sounded, I coolly and calmly walked back towards the dressing room, louped the hoarding and clouted as many of the radges as I could get my hands on.

See us live at HMT in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ – 20 years of Flying Pig. June 2018

It’s all our glaikit hits!

Welcome to Meikle Wartle, the Las Vegas of West Garioch

View From The Midden – Rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been an illuminating wik in the village. Wi’ summer here at last, oor community elders hiv been pitting their heids thegither tae come up wi’ wyes of increasing the tourist footfall.  Maistly this has involved altering the roadsigns on the A93 so that onyb’dy heading for Braemar finds themselves making an unavoidable detour through the village. As they invariably run oot of petrol on arrival, we are on hand tae sell them oor ain special crude oil. And it disnae come cruder than Skittery Willie’s sharn-based alternative fuel. ‘Broon diesel’ he cries it. Fit wi’ petrol being phased oot by 2040, we will be ideally placed tae cash-in, by exporting sharn-power aroon the world,  but until that happy day, we in the village hiv tae mak money in the short term, and Feel Moira seen jist the thing this wik on her twitface social media doofer.

An enterprising Aiberdeen Kebab Hoose his installed a great muckle animated LED sign. Noo I’ve niver staggered doon Aiberdeen’s fashionable Chapel Street efter a nicht oot masel, so I hinna ken fit gings in a kebab, but fitiver it is, the animated sign informs ab’dy that it’s AUTHENTIC in big fiery letters, guaranteed to catch the eye files yer driving past, and then presumably intae the back of the car in front.

The spoilsports in the city council hiv ordered the sign tae be taen doon, but luckily their jurisdiction disnae extend oot here. Such a thing is just fit we need tae get the tourists in, and Feel Moira has fashioned her own version of a great muckle LED sign, atop the village hall, proclaiming in huge glowing letters WELCOME TAE MEIKLE WARTLE – THE LAS VEGAS OF WEST GARIOCH.

Fan she switched it, fit a sicht! It could be seen for miles, thanks to the absence of light pollution fan ab’dy else’s electricity cut oot for siven mile roon.  Sadly, efter shining brightly for twa glorious minties, it exploded. But Moira has already made plans for Mark 2. This time, files we attempt tae get the power back on, she’s building it oot of timmer and then ensuring we get the maximum fiery glow effect by dousing the hale thing in broon diesel. We are confident this will result in plenty folk rushing tae the village fae miles aroon, if only in fire engines. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner – the football pundit who’s still in Europe

Arriva-dutchie! Sorry for going a bit multi-pringle there, but old Kenny has became a bit of a set-jetter lately, with all these glamorous trips to see the Dons in Europe. It’s Cyprus this week to watch the Dandies stuff Apollo Plimsole. They done the business last time and I’m confident that tonight they can rise to the occlusion.

When they done the draw and we got a team from Cyprus, I got straight in touch with my old mucker “general” Geoff Greavey, who germinated there when he retired. Geoff was the veterinary midfield enforcer at Culter when I first signed up, and it’s fair to say he taught me everything I know that I never knowed already in the first place. We started 60 matches together in the heart of that midfield, but the refereeing viennetta against us meant we only finished 6 of them with us both still on the park.

Anyway, I got in touch with Geoff to see if he had a spare bed for old Kenny for the match. He says to me, he says “yes”. So I’ve been here since Monday, sitting by the pool, soaking up the sun,and looking out on his 3 acre vineyard. It is unbelievable here. You can’t get hold of Aitken’s rolls for love nor money.  Tragic

Ron Cluny – official council spokesman.  

As spin-doctor for Aberdeen City Council, I could only watch in professional awe as self proclaimed ‘front-stabber’ Antony Scaramucci got the dunt from his job as White House Communications Officer almost before he got his coat off.  The President declared the day of Scaramucci’s departure after little more than a week of chaos “another great day in the White House”, which leaves one wondering what a bad one would look like. The Mooch’s principle skill; the expletive-filled tirade evoking obscene and physiologically unlikely images of senior colleagues, was not taught on the Scotvec in Communications that I took at Aberdeen College.  But there are some days I look around Marischal College and think it might have been quite useful.

See us live at HMT in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ – 20 years of Flying Pig. June 2018

It’s all our glaikit hits!