‘Ooray For ‘Ollywood!

Kevin Cash, money saving expert and king of the grips

My flabber was well and truly gasted the ither day fan me and my mate Mick the Pill were loading up some aul ile drums into the back of my transit in an offshore equipment yard oot in Oldmeldrum. Sitting there amongst a’ the junk wiz a 50 foot high white letter ‘H’. I wis so shocked I clean forgot the address of the steel band we were planning tae flog the ile drums to.

It turns oot it wiz the actual original ‘H’ fae the Hollywood sign fit had been bought by some artist wi’ mair money than sense back in 1978 and and has noo been “recreated fae the original panels”. Just like my transit, though probably a bittie mair likely tae pass an MOT. Onywye, it turns oot that the Hollywood ‘H’ is gan tae be the centrepiece of an exhibition that’s on a world tour for the next five years.

I find that staggering, ken fit I mean? Partly that such an iconic thing is sitting aboot in Oldmeldrum, but maistly that folk’ll pay good money to see it! For five years! A’ across the globe! I had nae idea letters fae signs wiz sic a big draw.

So me and Mick have come up wi a scheme, tae offer local punters the chance to see some iconic signs here in Aiberdeen. We’ve got the sign fae Cape Canaveral, and famous street signs like Elm Street and Abbey Road. “Are these the actual signs, Kev? Or is that one for Cape Canaveral’ nae jist black marker applied tae a sign for ‘Codona’s Carnival’?”, I hear you, and the boy fae Trades Descriptions, ask. But it’s a above board.  Jist like the een in Oldmeldrum, we’ve “recreated” them fae the original letters.  Weel, the same letters. We’ve liberated letters from a variety of roadsigns and shop fronts in Aberdeen. So if you’re passing by and are wondering why your local Tesco is missing a ’T’, it’s because it is noo appearing in  ‘42nd Street’. This scheme is nae without its perils, of course. Mick hid a lot o’ explaining tae dae fan got the bobbies found him unscrewing the ‘C’ and the ’S’ fae ‘Canal Street’.

Cava Kenny Cordiner; the sports writer who’s recently discovered an interest in cricket.

Old Kenny is not normally a fan of sports that don’t involve folks kicking each other, but I was on the knife edge of my seat the other day, watching Scotland stick it to the English at the croquet.  When the final Englishman was sent back to the Pavlova, I shouted so loud that my wife, the lovely Melody, came running through the house wondering what was wrong.

“What a fleg you gave me Kenny”, she sayed.  “I’ve nae heard a noise like that since you had that terrible accident hoovering in the nuddy.”  Apparently the English is number 1 in the world for the old balls and bat game, so using the same logic as we used when we beat the Bald Enemy in 1967, when they was the  World Cup holders, that makes us one number below that – Scotland, the new cricketing nothings!

Speaking of the World Cup, it is nearly upon us.  Sadly, Old Kenny won’t be getting any work as a punnet this year.  I’m still a persona-non-gratin in Russia after I halfed a nippy Siberian winger in a pre-season tour with the Dandies in 1977, causing a ligament injury, a 22-man brawl and a diplomatic incident.  Still, I am looking forward to watching it on the new ultra high definition telly I’ve had installed for the purpose.  Melody is right miffed.  I can’t work out what she thinks is worst – the fact that I’ve spent 2 grand on a telly, or that I had it put into the lounge of the Kintore Arms.

It won’t be the same watching a World Cup without the Scots, the Deutsch and the Italians, but with players of the caliper of Sergio Ramos there, you can still be assured of some top class sneaky hacking – which is what the beautiful game is all about.  I always watch the games with a wee tang of jealousy though, having never got to play at a World Cup myself.  Mind you, having seen the look on Putin’s face, I get the feeling that some of the Russian lads might wish they weren’t playing neither.  I think them boys are probably one bad performance away from joining my pal in Siberia.  Still, at least they won’t be short of salt for their chips! Mental.

Don’t miss the Flying Pigs Live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘,  a compilation of their best sketches from the last 20 years.  June 26th-30^th 2018. Tickets available now.

No Man is an Island – Except Lewis and Harris, obviously.

J Fergus Lamont, arts critic and author of “Harper: King Joey’s royal ascension”

It’s always nice to have one’s finger on the cultural pulse. When, upon the omnibus I overheard some local arts connoisseurs simply gushing about the latest unmissable piece of serial drama, I knew I had to witness it for myself.

Alas, having pored over the radio, theatre and opera listings, I could find no trace of the production of which they spake. Defeated, I turned, by way of last resort, to the chattering cyclops in the corner, the television set.

Regular readers will be aware that, like most, I largely eschew the charms of the gogglebox. I find little there to interest me since Russel Harty left our screens – but on this occasion I struck gold. You wont have heard of it, it has received little if any publicity, but ‘Love Island’ maybe the most insightful examination of the vagaries of human relations ever devised; and I include Funbox’s heartbreaking ‘Pirates and Princesses’‘.

The plot centres on a group of young Ingénues and Lotharios who have been marooned on a remote island. There the futility of their existence is laid bare. One might usefully think of it as a cross between Lord of the Flies and Waiting for Godot.

Ultimately revolving solely around their most basic desires, the drama centres on whether or not any of the characters can stop primping and preening themselves for long enough to succumb to Cupid’s archery skills.

Let me tell you one thing about “Love Island” – the cast are acting their socks off! In performances a young Olivier would have been proud of, it’s almost as if they genuinely were utterly vapid, empty vessels with nothing of any interest to say. Bravo!

I can’t wait to see how this unfolds over the next 8 weeks, already, 2 days in. I’m hooked! And when Adam breezed in and stole Kendall from Niall? It was nothing short of Anthony’s betrayal of Cleopatra, in a bikini.

I wept!

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

As a scientist, people are always asking questions, sometimes searching questions such as “Can I just have a quick look in your bag please sir?” “Did you forget to pay for all these packets of Percy Pigs?’ and “Can you accompany me to the manager’s office, please?”

But when not becoming inveigled in confectionary based misunderstandings in Marks & Spencer (you’d think they’d be a bit more grateful for my continued custom, in the current climate), I have been cogitating on matters therapeutic. I was fascinated to learn about the introduction of a “Therapet” named Harley into Aberdeen International Airport to ease the nerves of stressed passengers. Therapy dogs have been used for years in North America but Aberdeen is the first UK airport to use one.

This is a fascinating area of scientific research with strong views on either side. Some would say there is nothing more conducive to easing the stress of missing an imminent flight, being 2 grams over your luggage weight allowance or staggering for several miles to an unmanned and immobile baggage carousel after a 12 hour flight, than rounding a corner to come face to face with a large alaskan malamute. Others may take the view that such things have no place in an airport environment, and that rather than dogs they would be better getting a outlet where a hungry traveller can purchase a bacon roll for less than the price of a small car.

Having reason to use the airport this week (Comic -con at the Birmingham NEC. Where else could I get the opportunity to meet Christophe Lambert and find out the secret of his immortality) I determined to gain a conclusive answer to this issue, so I conducted my own study by bringing a second control ‘therapet’ to the Airport. Not being a dog owner myself, I managed to lure my next door neighbour’s pet into my car by use of a trail of chicken nuggets. I then drove out to the airport with the animal on my passenger seat. This itself was no mean feat as my car is a 1987 Mini Metro and the animal in question is a 17ft  Burmese Python named ‘Ghengis’. Sadly, however, it quickly  became apparent from the screams emanating from the rapidly emptying concourse area that not all pets have the desired calming effect. I will say, however, that thanks to a totally deserted departures area checking in for my flight was an absolute pleasure.

See the Flying Pigs live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ June 26th – 30th 2018. Tickets available now.

View From the Midden by Jock Alexander of MTv (Meikle Wartle Television) 

It’s been a consumerist wik in the village. I did chuckle tae masel as I read aboot W H Smiths, who hiv jist been voted the UK’s worst high street store in a survey of o’er 10 thoosand consumers. Somedee fae the beleaguered retailer – it may have been Mr Smith himself, I da ken the mannie – countered that only 184 shoppers had commented on their stores in the survey, meanin’ that 9 thoosan’  8 hundred and 16 fowk werenae o’er fussed. Meanwhile, detractors hiv complained that the mannie Smith’s shops are filled wi oot of date stock, are o’er expensive, and filled wi rude staff. Well, if they think that’s bad, it’s aboot time they sampled Maisie’s Meikle Wartle General Store.

Noo we dinna hae a W H Smiths branch here, but Maisie’s store fulfils mony of the same functions. W H Smiths sells a wide range of mags and books. Maisie’s store sells a wide range of fags and a book. It’s een aboot crop rotation in Rhynie in 1956 and it’s been on sale noo for 43 years. W H Smith’s travel branches cater tae the rail traveller on the move, and hae a selection o’ sandwiches and drinks, while Maisie’s offers a large range of foodstuffs fae oot-of-date fine pieces tae butteries at hard they can be used as a weapon. Mony’s the busy traveller who has sampled something fae the store before runnin’ aff. Usually in the direction of the nearest public lavvy. W H Smith has a famous stationary section. Maisie’s store is famously stationary, havin’ been a fixture on the village high street for over 100 years. In fact the high street curves aroon it, as Maisie wiz stubbornly unwilling tae relocate fan they widened the road. And michty if it’s surly staff yer after, ye’ve nae lived till ye’ve had dealings wi her. Even Feel Moira is feart o’ Maisie. But her shop is good for one thing; for makin’ ony branch of W H Smith that any Meikle Wartle expat visits seem like the maist modern weel-stocked consumer’s paradise around.  Cheerio!

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

I seen it reported the ither day that the “Bank of Mum and Dad” is feeling the pinch, and parents arena able to lend money to their bairns like once they could.  Here are my tips to help parents who are struggling to gie their young eens a helping hand up the property ladder.

Expectation management.  Young eens these days hiv a real sense o’ entitlement, thinking that the world owes them as of right a 2-bed Stewartie Milne flat beside a heavily polluted main road.  Well, nae abody can attain that kind of luxury right away.  All around the toon there are a range of void areas underneath decking or in unused outhouses that can be appropriated by a forward-thinking youngster.

Go Green.  Modern building techniques involve the production of large amounts of CO2. Yet there are many unoccupied recesses in the cliffs around Crawton bird sanctuary. Fighting an angry puffin for a place to rest your head also provides a handy workout, lessening the need for expensive gym membership.

Take the expression “property ladder” literally.  Giving your young een a ladder, a screwdriver and some elementary tips on housebreaking.  This will result in the fruit of your loins either obtaining a steady income or getting lifted by the rozzers, and getting 3 months dinner, board and lodgings at HMP Grampian.  Either wye, their accommodation needs will be met.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the player, the man, the leg end 

Saturday night was one the most impotent nights of the year in the Cordiner holdhouse. Champions’ League Final night is when old Kenny gets the boys round, the beers in the fridge and the online betting app open. And what a cracker of a game it was!  It had a bit of everything, except for the things it didn’t have, like a red card, extra time or penalties.

What it was not lacking in, though, was goalkeeping howlers. I felt sorrow for Liverpool keeper Karius after his blunders gifted Madrid 2 goals. After the game, the boy was incontrollable. Basher and my other pal, Dunter Duncan, was both pointing out that the rest of the Liverpool team didn’t go over to him and put their arm round him. “That’s what you would have done, Kenny” Dunter says. And then Basher says, he says “Aye, then you’d throttle him and smack him in the coupon!”

So now our intentions turn to the World Cup which starts in 2 weeks time. And, as usual, the English medium is doing their best to unsettle their star players. Young Man City speed merchant Raheem Sterling has been copping the flock this week, after some people got angry about his latest tattoo. I says to Melody, I says “this is bang out of order. These people have got no right to slag the lad for a tattoo of an animal on his leg”. And Melody says to me, she says “Kenny, it’s not an animal – it’s a gun”. Silly old Kenny misread it.  I thought he’d got a tattoo of a gnu! Mental.

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick at HMT Aberdeen 26th-30th June 2018

GDPR?  “… Gross Domestic Product of Rhynie?”

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRATT, Ordinary Mum

Like all ordinary mums, I’m getting in a bit of a panic about this whole GDPR fiasco. For those who are not up to speed with their acronyms, I am of course referring to the EU’s new General Data Protection Regulations, and not, as I must confess I originally assumed, the Gross Domestic Product of Rhynie.

It’s causing me strife on 2 fronts. Firstly, my email inbox is awash with communiques from everyone under the sun, seeking my continued permission to be part of their mailing list. Don’t get me wrong, I love receiving emails, but there are just too many of them! Yesterday I only managed to respond to 10 on my drive back home from Pilates at Kippie. Hello! Is it too much to ask for our traffic lights to stay on red a little bit longer?

Some so-called “expert” on Radio 4 suggested we just ignore these emails, as by law they will have to stop after Thursday. That’s all very well for him, but some of those marketing emails are a real lifesaver for me! So I need to read them all, ensuring I sign up to the essential ones (e.g. Quinoa Quines recipe suggestions) and remove myself from the frivolous ones I can live without. (e.g. the Service / MOT plan for the Discovery).

The other headache the GDPR presents is for our monthly family newsletter. Do I need to contact all the recipients for their continued consent to receive the Smythe-Barratt Echo? Well, because it contains fundraising links to various good causes (e.g. Mums against Fur, the Dolphin Asthma Foundation, Hamas), it turns out that some fascist Tory mouthpiece says I do! Well, I’ve never been one to bow to “the man”, so excuse me if I continue to hit ‘send to all’. You can expect my case to be up in front of the European Court of Human Rights shortly! I never thought I’d say this, but roll on Brexit!

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

Well it’s been a ceremonial wikend in the village. As you wid expect, I spent maist of Setterday amongst a mass of fowk glued tae the TV, enjoying the archaic rituals on display, the festivity, the happy crowds, the singing, the flags and the banners. Folk wiz up tae high doh wi the emotion of it all. And then the ref blew his whistle and a’ the Man U fans in the pub started greeting. Noo I’m nae a fervent fitba follower masel’, and certainly nae of the English FA Cup, but I did suddenly see the wisdom in becoming een for the day, so as tae get the hell oot of the hoose. And so it seemed did a’ the ither mannies o’ the village fa had suddenly become avid viewers, files their wives and their chums sat aboot at hame cooing o’er hats and dresses. Well, I am nae sorry tae say I missed a’ 300 minutes o’ the BBC’s Royal Wedding coverage, though I hiv noo seen highlights of guests arriving on the news. George Clooney brought a bittie o’ Hollywood glamour, Posh Spice looked like she’d swallowed a wasp, and for a minitie I wis wondering foo my Auntie Ina hid wangled an invite, until I realised it wis jist Elton John.

But onywye, watching the game wis useful research for me, as this year’s Fettercairn Show is tae include a ‘three-tractors-a-side’ fitba game, wi twa bales as the goals and a great muckle ba’ six fit across. Michty, noo at’s a fair size, even fer a show which has seen some hefty bulls in the past. Luckily, the good fowk of Fettercairn hiv made twa fatal mistakes, in publishing details of their plans, and nae haeing the game until July, fit allows us here in Meikle Wartle tae nip in and cut the feet. However, it his been tricky gathering enough material tae mak a 6 foot ball of our ain. There’s been nithing for it but tae mak it the traditional wye, oot of sharn. It is currently baking awa in the sunshine, and Skittery Wullie, tae whom we defer on such matters, reckons that by the wikend it’ll be firm enough tae stay intact fan a tractor drives intae it at high speed. I dinna think I’ll play that particular game masel’, but I am happy tae spectate, fae a safe distance. Aboot half a mile ought tae dae it. Cheerio!

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick at HMT Aberdeen 26th-30th June 2018

Israel? Australia? Is Europe holding auditions for our replacement?

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

O. M. Le G!  Yes, you read that right, Shelley is going all cosmoneopolitan this week after watching the Greatest Show on Earth, the Eurovision Song Contest!  It’s my favourite explosion of European culture, cheesy music and dodgy accents since they took Going for Gold off the air (Henry Kelly. Swoon. Totes dreamboat!)

It was certainly a dramatic night.  No more so than when British songstress SuRie had her performance interrupted by some stage invader who started shouting down the microphone.  I was watching with my nephew, who’s into the Grime music scene, and he thought it was all part of the act!  He was really getting into it before they hooked the imposter off the stage.

One thing that really got my goat, though, was the countries taking part.  I’ll need to have a word with Mr Horsman, who was my Geography teacher at Mackie Academy, because I never knew that Australia was in Europe!  I’ve always fancied a trip to the land Down Under but was put off by the length of the flight. Boy, do I feel stupid!

Eventual winners, Israel are usually thought of as being part of Asia. But I suppose, when they decide the winner by taking a popularity vote from the other countries, I can see why they would want to join in with our contest instead!

I tell you though, wee Graham Norton is doing a grand job of filling Terry Wogan’s shoes isn’t he?!  Me and Graham go way back.  I first met him in 2007 when I was in the audience for his brilliant chat show. He was coming through the audience looking for someone to play a crazy game involving a bowl of custard and Enrique Iglesias. ‘Do you like custard?’ He asked, with that characteristic twinkle. “Not really’ I replied, and as quick as a flash he came back with .’Oh. Right. Moving on’.

Wise words from a true gent.

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King Of The Grips:

Weel, the news this wik has been a’ aboot a certain event full of razzmatazz, eye-watering expense, and arcane ritual. But for those nae watching the Cup Final we hiv a Royal Wedding an’ a’. Noo I ken that some folk hiv got the huff aboot it, partly cause the happy couple are nae top tier Royals and, barring an air-strike on the Braemar Gathering, they’ll niver get a sniff o’ the throne, but maistly cos they’re inconsiderately getting married on a Setterday so naeb’dy’s getting the day aff. Still, I am here tae gie ye a’ my top tips on the best wye tae mak yer Harry & Meghan celebrations as inexpensive as possible. There’s nae need nae ging feel just cos the bride tae be has blown £300,000 on a dress. A dress! I widnae spend that on a hoose! Of course, I bide in Seaton, so I dinna need till. Onywye, if yer ha’eing a proper street pairty tae celebrate the big day, wi’ ab’dy sitting ootside getting bleezing, I can assist. My mate Mick The Pill has come by a job lot of fire-damaged tables and chairs fae the Castle Bar, so jist gie the word and we’ll come round and dump them a’ on yer road. Dinna waste yer money on bunting either, simply tak the lines fae yer neighbour’s whirly and hing them fae the lampposts on yer street, then peg on alternating Spar, Tesco and Aldi bugs, making sure of course, that the order is reed, fite and blue.

And da worry if you dinna hae enough food tae feed yer freens and neighbours either – jist buy one pre-packed sandwich – mak it a good een fae Tesco’s; ye ken the eens,  wi’ gold on the label and an unnecessary extra plastic tray inside –  then cut it intae tiny wee triangles so ab’y in yer street gets een, and tell them it’s nouvelle cuisine. Or if that’s too much hassle, ye can get party food fae Lidl’s for nae money, especially if ye hing aboot the bins roon the back at chucking oot time.

I’m nae hauding a street pairty of my ain; partly ’cause I live in a high rise, but maistly cause I’ll be busy on the day selling my ain range of specially branded Royal Wedding merchandise, including plates, vases and mugs, a’ hand painted wi’ the the faces of the happy couple. Admittedly, portraiture is nae my strong suit, so the likenesses are nae perfect, but If I dinna shift them this wikend I winna get anither chance til Ed Sheeran gets merried tae Russell Brand.

Flushed with the awful consequences of waste disposal

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

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions, and this week they have mostly been asking me about plastics, to which I reply that the Plastics are the most popular girls at North Shore High, and the antagonists in the coming–of-age classic of 90’s teen cinema, ‘Mean Girls’. Until I realise that we’re not talking about Lyndsey Lohan movies and that the depth of my knowledge of her ouvre is making everyone uncomfortable.

Instead, we’re concerned with the possible harmful effects of tiny microplastics, entering the natural world via our bathroom drains. However, it falls to me to highlight the dangers of the very opposite end of the size scale, in particular the issue of ‘Fatbergs’. Despite the name, a Fatberg is not a new item on the McDonalds menu, but an object formed when people flush things down their toilets which should not be so disposed of. Eventually, the resultant matter congeals into a large, useless, unwelcome mass which proves impossible to remove, and sits there obstinately, getting in the way. Think of it, if you like, as a more animated version of Donald Trump.

Despite the name, scientific studies have now shown only 0.5% of a fatberg is actually composed of fat, 7% formed from cotton buds and plastic wrappers, and the remainder, incredibly, composed entirely of wet wipes. These innocuous items are in fact a menace which may require to be banned to prevent the rise of an ecological disaster, and indeed many other things which might bob to the surface once all the sewers are clogged.  Only last September a monstrous fatberg was discovered blocking a London sewer in Whitechapel; at 250 metres long and weighing 130 tonnes, it took 9 weeks to remove. One can only imagine the consequences if such a thing were to be discovered beneath the streets of Aberdeen; using the speed of pothole repair as a guide, removal of such a fatberg here would take longer than the pedestrianisation of Broad Street.

So important is this issue, I felt the need to give a public lecture on it, and so took myself to Aberdeen’s equivalent of Speaker’s Corner, the cobbled bittie outside Markies. After chasing off a Peruvian Pan Pipe Band and a brace of broadband switching enthusiasts, I hefted my megaphone and proceeded to announce my lecture on the “How we must act now to eliminate Fatbergs’. It was not until after sizeable group of young ladies had shouted me down and angrily relieved me of my loudhailer that I realised I had been misheard.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports pundit who is always au naturel

Well, I guess we has just seen the curtain slammed shut on another football season.  I was at Pittodrie on Tuesday night to watch the Dandies stick Scotland’s newest club The Rangers in a do-or-glory, death-or-die second place decider.  Sadly none of them fancied taking the bull by the scruff of the neck and they drew 1-1.  This means the Dons can finish in 2nd, 3rd or 4th depending on results this weekend.  If we end up 4th then we need to cross our eyes & close our fingers that Motherwell don’t win the cup or we’ll miss out on Europe.  I hope it doesn’t come to that because there’s nothing worse than having someone else controlling your density.

Whenever the season ends I always look to other sports to fill the talcum that the football has left, and last week I was watching the snooker.  It was a tense affair, and the crowds in the Cruciate Theatre was so quiet you could hear a pandrop.  This year the 2 finalists was both in their 40s, so it’s great to see that age is no barrier to waddling round a table stroking your arm back and forth a few times.  I was rooting for the Wizard of Wishy Washy, John Hurricane Higgins, but he was beaten by the Welshman, Mark JPR Williams.

The boy Williams said if he won he’d do his final press conference in the nuddy, and he was true to his word!  Fair play to the lad, Snooker is all about getting your balls into the pockets, which is no mean feet if you haven’t got no breeks on.

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ at HMT Aberdeen June 26^th-30^th 2018

First Bus? Any bus would do! 

View from the Midden; rural news with Jock Alexander from MTv (Meiklewartle Television)
It has been a recusant week in the village.  Despite bidin’ hine oot in the countryside, we here in MeikleWartle do enjoy readin’ in the press aboot daily life in a thrivin’ modren metropolis. But sometimes there’s nae much in aboot London, and we read aboot Aiberdeen instead. And michty, fit a stramash there’s been wi the strikes by First Bus drivers protesting against cuts tae pay and conditions. Huge queues, long waits for buses, ill-tricket passengers, surly drivers fa dinna ken the route – all these traditional aspects of public transport in Aiberdeen are under threat thanks tae the industrial action.  Bosses have repeatedly insisted that they canna pay their drivers ony mair without eatin’ intae the profits necessary tae keep them in their ain salaries. Neither side is for moving. Feelings his been running high – almost as high as the tempers of the aul wifies waitin’ for an hour tae ging hame wi their messages. Of course, you toonsers dinna ken yer born if an hourly bus is o’er infrequent for ye- oot here in the sticks, we can only dream o’ such extravagance, since we dinna hae a bus service tae ging on strike in the first place. We did hae a country bus every ither wik, but it stopped coming after those local loons set fire tae the wheels usin reed diesel and Skittery Wullie tried smugglin at pig aboard without payin’ its fare. So noo all we get is the occasional Bluebird bus trundlin’ through the village square, fan it’s a new driver fa’s missed the turnin’ tae Huntly.  If the wind is blawin’ fae the south he’s in luck, and we tell him tae follow the green clouds comin’ aff the sewage works and he canna ging wrang.  Wi nae buses, maist tend tae take Shanks’ pony.  And Shanks’ is gettin’ gye fed up aboot it.

Onywye, Feel Moira has been closely following the pay negotiations atween the disgruntled workers and the bus company bosses, partly cos she is very much in favour of a weel regimented unionised workforce actin’ in the interests of their livelihoods, but maistly cos she’s hoping fan First Bus gings doon the tubes, she can step in wi her ain replacement service. She has her tractor freshly painted, riggit up her flatbed loader, and is ready tae step intae the breach, offering low cost, low speed travel tae onyb’dy that needs it. Just as long as there’s nae mair than echt folk at once. Unless they dinna mind sittin’ on the knees of twa ither fowk. Wi a vote on the latest Firstbus pay offer underwye, the hale thing may kick aff again tomorrow, and there is a danger Moira may well get her wish.  I widnea accept a lift fae her, though. She can be a gye dangerous driver; I’ve seen her peltin’ doon the road at gye near seven miles an hour.  And the last thing she transported on that loader wiz Skittery Wullie’s pig.  Cheerio!

Struan Metcalfe, MP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

Well stick me in an episode of “Suits” and call me Dick Dastardly!  The wedding of Prince Harry and media starlet Meghan Markle has been declared ‘politician free’. Well not quite ALL politicians. Dear Guardian Readers, you are going to be sick as a sick thing on a sick day at Sick College. You will be aghast to read – and I am delighted to tell you lefties – that this correspondent has received his invite to the big day and I couldn’t bloody bally well be more delighted if I had been invited to the Sex And the City opening as the delightful Cynthia Nixon’s hot date for the evening. Yummy.

So this is one in the eye for Jezza, Bojo, Nige and She Who Must be Obeyed (oh, the irony of that nickname).

And how did Old Struan get his invite may you ask? Well, I do not bally well know. As Macbeth said, ‘Ay, there’s the rub’.

It may well be for my charity work. or it could be a sort of ‘hush money; for that time, a good 15 years ago now, I took Harry on the lash in deepest darkest Aberdeenshire. A mere 23 years old, a slip of a lad, we ended up in The Butcher’s Arms at half eleven at the wrong end of 10 pints, 5 rum and cokes and a bottle of Blue Wicked. Harry was doing his Royal business at the urinals when a local farmer, relieving himself dramatically next to him, looked at his hair and exclaimed:

“Michty mannie, the last time I saw somethin’ sae carrot-topped I fed it tae my beasts!”

The tussle that then ensued nearly went down in history. Until I paid the whole pub off and the whole stramash has been expelled to history. Until now of course. Whoopsy.

Its not what you know folks…!

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I call Methlick!’ at HMT Aberdeen 26^th-30^th June 2018

_{Do Ice-skaters ever wonder if their career is slipping away?}

_{Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who knows his bunions} 

_{Piles of snow, freezing conditions, biting wind… Inverurie can be a brutal in February, so I’ve gone and gotten myself hooked on that Winter Olympics that’s on the telly just now.  And I tell you, the weather over there in South Korea isn’t much better!  The wind his been even worse than what comes out of Kris Boyd’s lips when he has a go at being a TV punnet.  There’s been all sorts of problems with skiers and snowboarders getting blown off course.  That must have been what was wrong when I had a dibble with snowboarding down at the dry stane slope at Kaimhill.  I felled over more times than my old football opponents did when I kicked lumps out of them, but if the pros can blame the elementals, so can old Kenny.}

_{I felt dead sorrow for Scottish quine Elise Christie in the speed skating.  She got wiped out on the last lap and missed out on a medal, and she was incontrollable afterwards.  Mind you, I felt even worser for the South Korean skater who thought she’d got silver only to get the dunt for pushing an opponent.  It must have been difficult for the judges to make that call, but pushing people needs punished because it’s dangerous.  That ice was so slippery – it was like a skating rink.}

_{There’s some right funny events at the winter Olympics.  The luge just minds me o the time I once seen a drunk mannie tripping when he tried to take a tray of drinks upstairs in the Hogshead.  I’ve not the skeleton bob yet, but it sounds like it either involves shoving a long-dead mannie on a sledge and sending him downhill or ducking for bones instead of apples.  Either way, it’s nae sport like what I ken it.  Mind you, the curling is always a good bet for a British medal.  It’s a cracking sport, the curling.  It combines the drama of bowling with the excitement of furious paced housework.  I once gave curling a go when I was playing for the Dons.  It was one of Fergie’s steam building activities.  I was playing in a team with Doug Rougvie, Stewpot Kennedy and John McMaster and we kept mucking around and having a laugh.  The gaffer seen us larking about and shouts out, he shouts “hoi, less of the nonsense Kenny – yous are skating on thin ice!” Which is a bit stupid if you ask me.  8 lads and 8 massive curling stones on thin ice is surely a recipe for disaster.}

_{VIEW FROM THE MIDDEN – Rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter, JOCK ALEXANDER.} 

_{It’s been an acroamatic wik in the village. In fact I’d ging as far as to say it has been recondite and cabalistic an’ a. Or I wid dae if I kent fit those words meant. I’ve seen them a’ in connection wi the topic I’m explorin’ this wik, so your guess is as good as mine. Ye see, I stumbled upon an advert in the national press in which the United Grand Lodge of England complained aboot their members being discriminated against and stigmatised. Noo Skittery Wullie was sat by me on the bar stools fan I read oot this ad, and he wiz outraged aboot this. He wiz yarkin on at great length aboot how he had a great respect for a’ god’s creatures, and if they wanted jobs, fit wye should beavers lose oot, even if they *were* English. I had then to explain tae him that this wisnae aminals in this Lodge, but freemasons. He then skailt his dram and knocked ower his Scumpi fries in excitement at the thought that there were masons oot there that could patch up the crumblin’ stone wa’s of his pig-shed for free.  I then moved tae a different bar stool.} 

_{But it set me ponderin’ on this topic, and I came tae the conclusion that masons is like MPs or cooncillors – ab’dy has heard of them, maist folk complain that they’re up tae somethin’,  but naeb’dy has ony idea fit it is they actually dae. Even so, it is affa sad tae hear they they feel they’re being unfairly discriminated against.  Although that’s also quite tricky, given that naeb’dy kens fa they are in the first place. Noo I’ve heard it said that being a mason is maistly aboot big lunches, being secretive, engagin in arcane practices and haein a affa funny handshake, which jist sounds like Feel Moira to me. Noo I ken she’s nae an obvious candidate for an all-male secret society, but let’s face it she does pass as male in dim light, so chances are she’s the ideal een tae ask about this hale topic. I think I shall jist awa and roll up one trouser leg and borrow Skittery Willie’s billy goat afore popping by her hoose, and see fit she’s sayin’. Although if she’s got her apron on and mutterin’ in Latin again, I may jist keep gan hame without stopping. Cheerio!}

Crouching Leopard, White Elephant

J Fergus Lamont, arts critic and author of ‘Fit Like, Cinders?? a post Chekovian analysis of the Inverurie Panto’

As the year draws to a close, I think we can all agree that Aberdeen has recently excelled itself in terms of important cultural events. In recent weeks especially there has been a plethora of praise–worthy and innovative performance art in the city, mostly thanks to the local Dadaist collective who go by the mysterious sobriquet “The Council’.

We have been privileged to see these enfants terrible at their most mischeviously provocative; announcing the end of Youth Festival Funding in the middle of a Scottish Festivals conference (‘Stunning’- Evening Express); simultaneously closing the Art Gallery and Music Hall for the duration of the year in which Aberdeen bid to be a ‘City of Culture’ (‘Delicious’ –The Press & Journal). They’ve shown a tongue in cheek genius for ironic situationist installations the like of which has not been seen since the KLF burned 1 million pounds in a bothy on Jura.
Most recently, as temperatures plunged, fresh warnings of snow and ice coincided with the opening of an ice cream parlour in Marischal Square. Heralding that, far from the commercial white elephant predicted by some pundits, the entire edifice is a glorious temple to the avant-garde. With this first installation open, I seized the chance to explore in detail, and found myself applauding the uncompromising boldness of its brutalist architecture, its many highly evocative empty rooms, and the powerful way it had been built hard up against a 16th century listed building. Above all, I appreciated Andy Scott’s magnificent sculpture, ‘Poised’ – a steel leopard, perched atop a 50 foot pole. This was a stunning piece, though surprisingly figurative in the midst of so much abstraction. In an effort to join it, contextually, to it’s surroundings I used it in a tribute to the Belgian performance artist Mikes Poppe, who, as you will know, recently had to be cut free after spending 19 days chained to a marble block which he claimed was symbolic of “The Burden of History”.  Thus, I have manacled myself to the Marischal Square leopard in a devised piece of contemporary performance art which I have entitled ‘The burden of local government’. In this work, the leopard now becomes a powerful metaphor for our public authority:  far from the reach of the ordinary people, precariously balanced, and above all, hollow.

After 12 hours in the manacles, my foot having gone purple, I wept.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who never rejects an approach

It looks like the writing is on the ball at Pittodrie, with the end of an earring in sight. The vouchers have been circling for a while, and after weeks of speculuming, it looks like the gaffer is on his way to The Rangers after they found theirselves without no one who can manage.

Whether Degsy goes or doesn’t go, the whole affair has more than a whiff of Dysyntery about it, or some other soup opera like that. It reminds me of when I was at Kincorth Academy, and my pal Dunter Duncan fancied the pants off Tracy Fowlie. Everybody knew it, but because she was going with Spud Matheson, Dunter never done nothing about it for months. Eventually, he plucked up the courage to ask Spud if he could muscle in on his bird.

I’ll never forget what happened next, which is a lot more than Dunter can say, thanks to the concussion what Spud gived him. Anyway, Tracy felt so sorry for poor dunted Dunter that she, tendered to his wounds and they ended up together. At least until she left school and gave Dunter the dunt after meeting that trainee solicitor with the Golf Gti in Oscars.

And that’s exactly what will happen with McInnes. Either he leaves us now for The Rangers, or he stays for a while and then he leaves us later for some big club down south, like Aston Villa. Say what you like about loyalty and commitment, but it’s unenviable, as sure as death and taxis.

What Dons fans should be really concerned about isnt that McInnes may go, but that he’s the first manager that we’d be sad to lose since Fergie. Will it be another 30 odd years before the Dandies get someone else decent to sit in the managerial hot tub?

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.

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.