It’s the book you simply can’t put down. In case someone clocks what you’re reading

VIEW FROM THE MIDDEN Rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter, JOCK ALEXANDER

I wiz afa pleased tae see in the press that the novel, ’50 Shades of Grey’ his selt o’er a million copies. It’s heirt-warmin’ tae see that in this age of offloadable e-streams and electric kindling, something so traditional can still prove very popular: i.e., getting your jollies buying naughty books. Aye, it fair taks me back tae my youth fan Lady Chatterley wiz a’ the rage and the single copy in the Meikle Wartle library wis the only book in the ‘heavy-demand’ section.

I hope that my ain literary opus, penned on and aff files the weather’s been dreich (that is to say, every day since September, Twa Thoosand and Siven) will also dae great business. Oh aye, I’m nae jist a broadcaster and cultural commentator, ye ken. Ahind this ruddy, horny-handed exterior lies the soul of an artist. And the liver of Oliver Reed.

Entitled  ‘7 Shades O’ Sharn’, my debut novel is the torrid tale o’ Moira, a naive fairmer’s quine, fresh oot o’ Craibstone Agricultural College working the fields during the Meikle Wartle heatwave of 1977. She’s swept aff her feet by Jock, the suave and sophisticated orra loon, fa seduces her in the swish surrounds of his pent-hoose bothy at Fyvie. It’s my first bash at erotic fiction, but if I do say so mysel, it is affa mucky. Particularly Chapter Six, fan the temperature hits 34 degrees and a’ the beasts come doon with an affa dose of Bloat.

You can buy my book exclusively fae the Meikle Wartle Village Post Office and Bakery. Jist ask Esma behind the coonter and she’ll gie ye it in a plain broon paper bag. But be quick, they’re selling lik hot cakes. ‘Cos the first twa hunder copies are free fan ye buy a hot cake.

Unlike the work of E.L. James, this is nae sae much  ‘mummy porn’ as ‘dubby porn’. I’ve been storing them in my ain coo-shed, so if ye scratch and sniff the pages, it’s like you’re really there. But for ony sake, mind and wash yer hands afore you eat yer cake.


OOR AIN FOLK – This week, LORD COSMO LUDOVICK FAWKES-HUNTE, thirteenth Earl of Kinmuck, on the proposed reform of the House of Lords

Nothing but nonsense under the guise of modernism seems to be produced by the despicable shower of oiks and parvenues who currently call themselves our Government.  The country hasn’t had a leader of substance since Sir Anthony Eden.  As usual, knee-jerk populism seems set to triumph over tradition and stout British common sense.  Yes, of course the House of Lords is undemocratic, but answer me this: if hereditary peers such as myself are to be excluded from Parliament, where are we going to hang around, waiting for our clubs to open?  No doubt the powers that be expect us to sit in the public parks, aggravating our rheumatism – at massive cost to the already hard-pressed National Health Service.   As per usual, they simply have not thought it through.

My Great-Great-Great-Grandfather didn’t fight tooth and nail in the Crimea to see centuries of tradition cast aside like an unprepossesing chambermaid.  He didn’t fight tooth and nail in the Crimea at all; he was doing some watercolour painting in Tuscany at the time.  However, he did send the ghillie and some of the beaters from the estate to fight tooth and nail on his behalf.  They had wonderful teeth and nails, those men.  I know this because after they’d done their bit, “The Charge of the Light Brigade”, they were collected off the battlefield, and, as a tribute to their great sacrifice and unstinting inability to think for themselves, we keep them, to this day, in a little silver bon-bon bowl in which I also have the cricket ball with which I bowled the Nawab of Pataudi to take the winning wicket in the Varsity match of 1931.

But I digress.  With the things that made Britain great banished by this Bolshevik administration, with tradition now counting for nothing and the country going to the dogs – it is quite plain that what we need now is an armed struggle, to throw off the oppressive yoke of this modern fad for democracy.

So.  Who’s going to do it for me?


JONATHON M LEWIS, Head-teacher at a local secondary school, marks the departure of some colleagues:

The end of term is such a sad occasion in a school. The pupils have to ponder 7 weeks without structure, discipline and rules whilst the teachers have to somehow fill their days without the infectious personalities of their pupils.  Another emotional aspect of the end of term is that it frequently coincides with some of our esteemed colleagues departing for pastures new.

All at Garioch Academy will sorely miss Mr Thwaite, from the Physics department.  Though I’m sure many parents will have read about his “sabbatical” that may last up to 6 years, I can assure everyone that he deeply regrets wiring pupils up to receive electric shocks when they couldn’t solve an equation of motion.  He promised the judge this practice would desist upon his release.

The Drama department will simply not be the same without Miss Forbes over the next 9 months.  Her bubbly personality has proved very popular with our 6th year boys and I know they will be lost without her.  Some parents have alleged that the boys will need to find someone else who will buy beer for them in the local off license – I have been advised by our solicitor not to comment.

Perhaps the deepest void to fill has arisen as a result of Mr Wilson’s sudden early retirement from the Maths department.  Pupils in 4A will be especially affected, given the detailed statistical assignment they had carried out for Mr Wilson based on horse racing.  I’m quite sure there is no connection between the pupils’ hard work and Mr Wilson’s 6-fold accumulator on the Newmarket card last Friday.  We wish him well in his new career as an international playboy.