Everyone tremendously excited about wedding they won’t be invited to

Shelley Shingles, showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

O. M. Actual. G! Can you believe there’s a ROYAL WEDDING on the horizon?! And it’s a proper one too, not like that damp squib when Charles and Camilla got hitched in 2005 in a registry office and the biggest name on the guest list was Jilly Cooper. Yes, the eligible young ladies of the world weep as Britain’s favourite Ginger (if you don’t count Ron Weasley and Ed Sheeran) is off the market, after popping the question to the lovely Meghan Markies!

It’s a big deal, of course, and it’s just as well we’re not living in a period of extraordinary political, economic and social upheaval, or there might not have been time to devote two thirds of all news coverage to the announcement that 2 people getting married. In fact, I’ve heard the words “mixed-race royal” more than I’ve heard the word “Brexit” this week, which is enough to reform the staunchest republican and as a massive bonus, must be driving Katie Hopkins and Nigel Farrage absolutely mental! I think it’s great that a front-line Royal is in love with a divorced American socialite. It’s a wonder one of them hasn’t tried it before.

They’re going to get married in the Chapel at Windsor, and I have to confess to getting VERY excited when I heard that from my insider source, because he sneezed halfway through and  I thought he’d said ‘Chapel of Garioch’. Already we royal correspondents are asking all the important questions –  “Who will design the dress ?” “What will the bridesmaids bottoms be like? and, most importantly, “Will we all get the day off?”

I don’t know Meghan personally, though I have binge watched all seven seasons of ‘Suits’ since Monday and she seems to be a very good lawyer. Of course, me and Harry go way back. I first met him when I was doing some promotion work for Mackie’s Ice Cream at the Braemar Gathering in 1999. I was just about to nip in to the shoppie for some ciggies (filthy habit, but it kept me thin!) and there’s this freckly 15 year old hanging about outside. “Can I get anything for you?” I asked him, showing him my tray of tubs. “Yes, thanks” he replied. “Could you get me 10 silk cut and a bottle of crème de menthe? Grandmama has locked the drinks cabinet and one is gasping for a libation.”

Wise words from a true gent.

 

Kevin Cash, moneysaving expert and king of the grips

I may hae a reputation as a caul-hairted mannie, jist cos I eence gave my grunny a packet of tissues for her Christmas (in my defence, it wis actually a very thoughtful gift. She hid the flu and hid spent Christmas Eve sneezing intae her snowball), but I am nae withoot feelings, and that is fit wye I’m feeling gye sorry for Aiberdeen City Cooncil of late, because in their desperate drive tae dae fit I dae – cut doon on unnessecary expenditure – they jist canna get it richt. They’ve even paid financial consultants £17,000 tae advise them how best tae economise. Here’s an idea, next year – dinna. See? I’ve saved ye £17,000 a’ready.

Last wik, the Cooncil got a kicking for stopping funds tae the Youth Festival and ha’eing a raffle tae pey for the Art Gallery revamp. And noo we hiv “UniformGate”, fan their shelling oot £30,000 for 75 new staff uniforms files proposing tae charge us for foodwaste recycling bugs (ye ken, the green slidey eens, fit are apparently made oot o’ a combination o’ clingfilm and middle-class guilt)

£30,000? That’s £400 per unit. For work claes! Really there’s nae need tae ging feel here, ye ken? My mate Mick the Pill kens a quine fa’s snogging a laundry assistant at ARI. He can dae them a job-lot of scrubs for a tenner each. We can dae them ony colour they wint, Jist as long as it’s maistly reed, ‘cos some of that stains is a job tae shift. ‘Corporate branding’ is nae problem either: I’ve made individual wee badges by cutting oot the ACC logo from my last 75 unpaid cooncil tax reminders.
So, I’m awa up Marischal College of noo, tae discuss terms wi’ Barney in a location suitable tae this level of transaction; the top of the Helter Skelter at the Christmas village. If he disnae bite might hand aff, he’ll be roon the twist, and gan doon in mair wyes than one!

See the best of the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!’ At HMT June 2018. Tickets available now. A rare Christmas present for onyb’dy ye like. Or even onyb’dy ye dinna like.

“Youth is wasted on the young” said George Bernard Shaw; but then he never saw The Ricciotti Ensemble at Inchgarth Community Centre

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

As chief spin doctor for the current administration, I can safely say that as my Auntie Maisie used to put it, ‘there’s aye a something’. This week my paymasters have pushed the boat out for me, after stripping it of life belts, with the decision to end the funding of The Aberdeen International Youth Festival. But, as usual, radged up by the liberal elite, the public has got hold of the wrong end of the stick and is trying to hit us over the head with it.

The decision follows an independent report from a top-class consultancy in Brighton that I can summarise as follows: ‘Nah mate.’  Unbelievably, there have even been complaints about our use of these people, on the basis that consultants in sitting in an office in Brighton have no first hand knowledge of Aberdeen and its cultural landscape. But that, I have to say, is insane. I’ve seen the invoice these boys put in for the report – Oof! Imagine how much more it would have cost if they’d actually travelled the length of the country to find stuff oot?

But more to the point, in our brave new Brexit Britain, fit is fit for the future, do we really want all these International Youths coming over here and cavorting aboot? They give very little back to the local economy; in all its 45 years, I’ve never seen a single AIYF participant in the queue at my local chipper in Kincorth. I suppose they’re too busy performing to large crowds of elitist intelligentsia in venues that are simply out of reach for the regular Aberdonian; like Inchgarth Community Hall and the top of the St Nicholas Centre.

The main issue, of course, is that when you have hundreds of prodigiously talented, multilingual young people swarming into the city every year, it rather shows up our local loons and quines for the surly layabouts that they are. My twa wouldn’t recognise an award-winning Swedish Girls’ Choir if they tripped over one on the way to Greggs, and would only feel a sense of inadequacy if they did.  But by ridding our city of this menace, we can expect a definite upswing in our own young peoples’ sense of self-worth.

Of course, fiscal probity is very much the watchword of this administration. The funds saved will be being channelled into other important city projects.   Such as the temporary tarmac used for the Christmas market (which, by happy coincidence, cost almost exactly the same as next year’s AIYF budget) or the job-lot of 250 watt light bulbs we’ve installed in our offices, to offset the large and inexplicable shadows now being cast over Marischal College.

Deep down I think everyone knows that we are dealing with a local institution which is largely ignored by the general populace, seems to be run for the benefit of a select few, and is prone to profligate overspending. No wonder it doesn’t want to pay for the Youth Festival.

 

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

 

We shall overcome!  Like all ordinary Mums, I’ve been keeping a close eye on events in Zimbabwe as my African brethren and sistren have finally succeeded in pressurising their despotic supremo, Robert Mugabe, to resign.  I can’t tell you how delighted I am for them, having successfully ganged up on and bullied a nonagenarian into submission!

 

Of course, the girls from my socio-politico-prosecco discussion group (we meet every Tuesday at Kippie for a late brunch and the dismantling of the patriarchy) have been lending our support to their cause in whatever way we can.  Saskia has upped her game when it comes to correcting the grammar of strangers on the Guardian website and Genevieve has left a plethora of unfavourable Trip Advisor reviews for Zimbabwean hotels. Sample: ‘The spa is divine, but the management’s tacit support for the ruling regime, less so.’

 

Our activism did become confrontational on Wednesday evening, though.  Finella, our resident anarchist (part time – 2 days a week she works in PR on Albyn Place) told us about a ‘Zimbabwe Night’ she’d seen advertised at the local hall in Westhill, so kitted out with placards, whistles and a loud hailer, off we went to chant and sing protest songs.  As expected, our presence caused something of a stir, and some people came outside in garishly bright clothing to engage in lively debate.

 

I think it was just after things started to get ugly, that we all realised Finella had misread the notice and that we were interrupting a Zumba session.  Thank goodness I’d double-parked the Disco so we could make a swift getaway to the Chester for a Bellini!

 

See the best of the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!’ At HMT June 2018. Tickets available now. A rare Christmas present for onyb’dy ye like. Or even onyb’dy ye dinna like.

Taxing times with Apple and sushi

J Fergus Lamont, Arts critic 
I’m just back from a whistlestop trip to Londinium, as I insist on calling it, where I stumbled across the kind of public-space art installation for which the Capital is rightly famed, and which we in the provinces can only view with thinly disguised envy. Outside the Apple Store in Regent Street I found a snaking line of human flotsam all waiting for the chance to buy something called an iPhone X. Well, I was intrigued. The name itself a chimera of conflicting ideas – ‘I phone’ distilling 21^st century technological isolation and the sublimation of self to a punchy two syllables, while the ‘X’, redolent of mystery, and, of course of the doomed tyranny of the Roman Empire – expensive, luxurious, faintly ludicrous and possibly fated to destruction from barbarian attacks.

Thanks to my engaging in some improvisational dialogue with the assembled throng, I found my self perfectly placed to enter the store as soon as the doors opened, accompanied by some ‘in-character’ screams of invective and abuse from the performers. And so it was that I found myself the proud owner of one of these miraculous devices. Of course the reason for my excitement is the stunning ‘Animoji’ feature, where by users can animate a cartoon animal’s features with their own facial expressions. In short, it gives to the man in the street the capacity to emulate such cinematic masterworks as ‘Babe’, ‘Alvin & The Chipmunks’ or the seminal ‘Beverly Hills Chihuahua’. Incredibly, one can also use it to make telephone calls. Indeed, I spent a happy 2 minutes on the phone to my mother asking how her hip replacement operation had gone, but a much happier 2 hours making a cartoon chicken sing Bohemian Rhapsody.

Of course, all of this is possible thanks to the device’s facial recognition technology, which allows users to unlock the device with a scan of their features. Though this ‘Face ID’ has inherent dangers, as I discovered after my purchase. As I left the store I observed one heavily tattooed gentlemen gathering up his sleeping bag after being turned away as stocks had run out. ‘Bad luck old bea’ I commiserated, “I gotone, look how marvellous it is!’, and he was so moved by my words that, midway through my Animoji demonstration, he cried “Laters, bruv!” and gave me what was clearly intended to be a friendly punch on the arm of approval and camaraderie. Sadly he misjudged the playful force required, and also his aim, breaking my nose quite conclusively, and altering my physiognomy sufficiently that Face ID couldn’t recognise me and I was unable to switch the phone on again to call the emergency services. However, someone may have received a 3 hour video of an animated panda requesting an ambulance!

I wept.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

So the press and public have got themselves into a lather about the shocking revelations that rich people with access to high-quality professional advice take steps to minimise their tax.  Well, slice me finely and flambé me in brandy, whoever would have thought it?  We Fawkes-Huntes appear prominently in the Paradise Papers, and I am damned proud of the fact.  We have have long cleaved to the view that tax is only for the little people.  The only dissenter from this view was my great-grandfather, the 10th Earl, but then of course he was only 5’2″.  It is our proud boast that over the years we have paid out more to the Croupier of the Monte Carlo casino than we have to Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.  Of course, what the shrill voices shrieking about inequity overlook is that it is not just legal but right that we should make extensive use of overseas tax havens in the Caribbean.  After all, the great majority of the family fortune was made in the slave trade in these vary same dependencies during the heady days of Empire; it is only right that we give a little back.  Just as little as possible.

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I jist canna stand fussy eaters. Ye ken the type: “Can I hae nae ingin in my burger?” or “No thanks, I have a nut allergy and that fun-size snickers might send me into anaphylactic shock’.

Fan it comes tae food, my twa best pals, Megan and Big Sonya are so different, they’re like chalk an’ cheese. Megan’s vegan fit means she winna touch ony meat or animal by-products, like cheese; files Big Sonya will eat absolutely onything, including chalk.

Fit a pest Megan is. The one time she came roon tae mine for her tea I didna ken fit tae dae.  I couldna cook up my usual signature dish, Lidl’s lasagne, so I very thoughtfully went richt oot o’ my comfort zone and microwaved her a prawn curry. As soon as she started eating it she looks at me funny kind and says she says “is this shellfish?” So I telt her. “No Megan, it’s fine, your’e my freen so I dinna mind a bittie extra work.’

But I wis a bit miffed fan I seen that Donald Trump was getting pulledup for being a fussy eater in Japan this wik fan he turned down sushi in favour o a burger earlier. Let’s get this straight, there’s plenty good reasons tae gie Trump pelters, but turning doon a bowl o’ raw fish isnae een o’ them. That’s nae rude, tak it fae a veteran o’ Commercial Quay, raw fish is gadsy! Fit’s rude is serving food that’s nae cooked. That’s like going into the Ashvale and them giving ye an uncooked… fitiver it is they mak chips oot o’!

See the best of the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!’ At HMT June 2018. Tickets available now. A rare Christmas present for onyb’dy ye like. Or even onyb’dy ye dinna like.

Let’s go to the movies, in glorious MeikleWartleVision

View from the Midden with Jock Alexander

It’s been a cinematographical wik in the village.   We’ve been keeping on top of a’ the tawdry travails that hid beset Hollywood in recent wiks. And though mony of us have expressed surprise that that kind of thing has been rife in a wee village near Dumfries, we have nae been put aff wir love of watching films. Iver since 1897 fan the Meikle Wartle Majestic kinetoscope emporium wiz set up in the back of the village piggery by Skittery Wullie’s easily distracted  grandfaither, – Scuttery Billy – the village has loved good cinema. We’ve nivver had a good een, but we were ayewiz keen. So you can imagine wir excitement tae read in the news that Cineworld in Aiberdeen is in the process of installing a 4DX cinema, only the second of its kind in the hale of Scotland.  And fit a great wheeze by the boffins it is too! Noo that 3D is passe, fresh gimmickry resurrected fae the 1950s is needed tae keep fowk aff their Xphones and iBoxes and coming in tae the picters. So, they hiv technology fit’ll allow film screenings tae be enhanced wi’ live special effects, like seat vibrations, gusts of air and sprays of watter. If you ask me, they’ll also need some extra big popcorn buckets for fan the motion sickness kicks in, but fa am I tae knock technological progress? And fit’s good enough for the big city is of course worth ripping aff here in the village.  With this in mind, we are proof tar say that wir brand new village cinema is noo open, round the back of Feel Moira’s house. roll up, roll up and see a’ the latest films in glorious MeiklewartleVision. Of course, as it’s open air, in a field, in mid-November, in Aiberdeenshire, nae a’ yer senses will be working at full pelt, so we’ve cranked up the effects the compensate. Moira has done an affa thorough job an a’ – she has cannibalised  her 16 roostiest Massey Fergusons and welded them thegither intae 4 rows of 4; hey presto! Fan ye switch on the engines  – shoogly seats. Screen  size is important, and oors is the size o’ the side o’ a barn. For obvious reasons. It is situated within sniffing distance of the sewage works and Moira’s kitchen. That, combined wi’ the typical Meikle Wartle micro-climate, mair than taks care of a’ yer ither senses.  It’s a highly evocative combination, jist as lang as a’ the movies ye come tae see involve yella fog, sleet, and the aroma of unidentifiable meat. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s knocked out a few household names.

The last few days in the footballing world has seen a lot of emulsion.  The World Cup playoffs has seen entire nations experience the agony and elasticity that only the beautiful game can provide.  There was heartbreak for both parts of the Emerald City Isle, with Northern Ireland going out to Switzerland and the other bit of Ireland getting stuffed by Denmark.

Now he’s out of a job, I watched the Northern Ireland game with my old team mate Gordon Strachan.  When we sat down with a tinny, just before kick off, I says to Gordo, I says “Who are you supporting Gogs?” And he says to me, he says, “Switzerland – ’cause I’m neutral!” then he started laughing.  I guess all that time off is going to his head.

That was never a pen, though, in the first leg. If that ref had given a pen against me for something like that, I think I might have stuck the head on him.  Strach says to me, he says “I think you might have done something worse, Kenny.  You might have lost your temper!”  like a lot of people, I don’t get his sense humour, but he’s hilarious, is Gordo.

Ireland joined their neighbours on the international football scrapheap challenge when they got turned over by the Great Danes, but there was no doubting the biggest shocker of the playoffs, when Italy was sent crashing out of the World Cup by the Swedenese. A World Cup without Italy is like an international buffet without pizza, and I felt sorrow for them, especially goalie Gianluigi Buffoon, who retired with a tear in his eyes straight after the match.  And when I look back over these results and think of a World Cup without Italy, Holland, Greece, Ireland, Wales and Northern Ireland, it helped me put things into periscope: maybe being a Scotland fan isn’t so bad after all.

See the best of the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!’ At HMT June 2018. Tickets available now. A rare Christmas present for onyb’dy ye like. Or even onyb’dy ye dinna like.

It’s the ultimate Trick or Treat: “Gie’s a sweetie or we’ll tell you fa won The Bake-Off”

View From The Midden – Rural Affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been a chronometrical wik in the village. It’s yon time of year fan the nights are nae so much drawing in as dragging on, and there’s nithin for it but tae turn the clocks back. Me, I jist rely on my ain body clock, on the understanding that nae metter fit time it is, my body winna be shifting fae my cosy bed unti a’ the frost his melted aff the seat in the cludgie. But at this time o’ year, onyb’dy can get confused and make a collop o’ things that are dependent on kenning the richt time. Jist look fit happened tae yon wifie fae isnae Mary Berry fae the Great British Bake-Aff. Noo I dinna understand that show. Ab’dy watches it for reasons naeb’dy can adequately explain. Including masel. I dinna ken the first thing aboot baking, in fact, I canna tell an Entremet fae the Internet. As the loon fae Curry’s observed files he angrily scooped chocolate mousse fae my laptop’s disc drive.

But fit a stramash fan the new judge, fitiver-her-name-is-that’s nae Mary Berry, forgot she wiz 6 hours ahead of the UK and inadvertently revealed the name of the winner on Twitface, far abd’y wi’ nithin better tae dae on Halloween could see. I missed it masel, as I wis still trying tae extricate the kitchen knife I had embedded in a neep in this years effort to mak a traditional lantern. Fan will I learn that the only wye tae make a traditional turnip lantern is we’ the aid o’ state-o’-the-art laser cutting equipment? It wiz a bit tie scary this Halloween, I hive tae say. I tell ye, it’s name like it wiz in my day fan we jest went guising wi’ a wee baggie, a paper mask, and wheelbarrow containing a large unsupervised bonfire.

This year in the village the chill night air wiz fairly rent asunder wi’ the wails o’ the tormented and the shrieks of the damned. ‘Oh, for ony sake’ you could hear them cry, their anguished voices floating over the roof tops, ‘will you kids gie’s peace? We’ve a’ready dished oot a’ the sweeties, and we’re trying tae watch the final o’ the Great British Bake-aff’.

Onywye, there she wiz, the wifie fae used tae be Mary Berry – nae hermin’ naeb’dy, in the weel-kent centre of patisserie that is Bhutan fan she got a’ mixed up wi’ her timezones and thocht that we a’ready kent fa won. Nae doot she’d had o’er muckle cookin’ sherry, or fitever the Himilayan equivalent micht be. Michty, I’ve hid the same experience masel. Last Hogmanay I couldnae hiv telt ye fa I wiz, niver mind fan or far. Turns oot I wiz in Moldova, but I digress. So I winna hear a word against fitever-her-name-is. Whether the clocks ging forward or back, or fitever time zone yer in, it is true tae say that time marches on regardless. Yesterday is today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream. This is particularly true if ye’d had o’er much cooking sherry. Cheerio!

 

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who calls a trowel a shovel

There’s an old saying that says, it says, “good things come to those who lift weights”, and for Aberdeen players Ryan Christie, Kenny McLean and Graeme Shinnie, they has been weighted long enough. They finally got a call up to the Scotland squad, funnily enough as soon as Gordon Strachan got his jotters.

Old Kenny knows all too well the pain of being cruelly overcooked when it comes to the National Squad. For years I was knocking my pan in, trying to attract Jock Stein’s attention, but I never got to experience life in the famous dark blue jersey. Apparently Jock thought I was a liability because I spent so much time knocking other people’s pans in, but I thunk that was a bit rich coming from the man what gave so many caps to Roy Aitken!

I seen that speedster Lewis Hamilton laced up his 4th world title in Mexico at the weekend. Some folks is saying that it’s amazing how the UK has produced someone so naturally talented at driving fast, but I doesn’t think it’s so surprising. Since summer they’ve caught 5000 drivers speeding on the A90, so I think there’s a little Lewis Hamilton in all of us! I just hope the other 4999 has drivers learnt their lesson, like what I did after my £200 fine and 6 points. Criminal.