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.

Don’t shoot! It’s Irma and Ruby.

Professor Hector J Schlenk, Senior lecturer in the Public Engagement With Science at the Bogton Institute

As a scientist, I am often asked searching questions like “Which of these three things is the least ‘offensive’? A big red banner in support of a planning development, a huge, empty concrete and glass office structure, or Aberdeen’s front line against Hearts?” But I try to avoid such questions as I am not an expert in the areas of Town Planning or Association Football; unlike, it would appear, everyone else in the North-East with a twitter account.

Instead, this week, I have been closely following the terrifying progress of Hurricane Irma, which has now left nearly 7 million homes without power in the USA after causing untold devastation across the Caribbean. Hurricanes are naturally occurring storms that form when warm air rises over water, causing huge swirling storm clouds with the rotation of the earth. Think of it like the spin cycle of an un-balanced washing machine; the particularly noisy one that rattles the dishes two rooms away. In this analogy, the Hotpoint front loader is the planet Earth, and any buildings in the storm’s path are represented by a recently assembled Lego model of the Death Star, carelessly placed atop the machine by someone’s wife and which thanks to the violence of it’s environment, reduced once again to it’s constituent 3803 pieces.

In these contentious times, of course, debate is fierce as to whether man-made global warming is increasing the severity and frequency of such conditions. Well, perhaps ‘debate’ isn’t the right word. Given the over whelming scientific consensus, the argument most closely resembles the one between Widow Twanky and the audience of Aladdin in a very large theatre re. the wisdom of exchanging new lamps for old.

Certainly, it is true to say that a hotter atmosphere holds more moisture, as anyone who has staggered damply from the tropical bittie in the Winter Gardens will attest. With waters in the Gulf of Mexico now 1.5 degrees hotter than 10 years ago, the link to ever more powerful and deadlier hurricanes seems empirically confirmed. Sadly of course, the link to sensible thinking is not. In the wake of the USA’s decision to withdraw from the Paris climate change agreement, Americans have been taking the matter into their own hands and dealing with extreme weather in their own, unique manner. By shooting at it.

A combination of the social media event ‘Shoot at Hurricane Irma’ attracting 45 thousand people, and mischievous graphics purporting to show the ‘correct’ way to shoot bullets into a hurricane without them flying out again have lead the Florida police to the point where they felt the need to ask gun owners not to pop a cap in the weather. As if evidence of human intelligence wasn’t already scant, the police used the catchy, but scientifically implausible warning slogan “Bullets come back”.  One rather hopes that, eventually in America, common sense will too.
To distract myself from merciless nature’s uncaring ways, I have, of course, been highly excited by this week’s main scientific discovery. I speak of the Swiss boffins who have invented a brand new flavour of ‘Ruby’ chocolate. It’s the first new natural colour of chocolate in 80 years, which begs the 2 questions just how hard were they trying? And, are their any jobs going at that laboratory? This new pink delight is apparently ‘sweet, sour and fruity’. Which does sound rather like my wife, or ‘Rogue Leader’ as I now call her.

In a world of increasing international tension and extreme weather, there is much to be said for the soothing effects chocolate consumption. The link between cocoa bean flavonoids and the release of endorphins is well established, so to promote public engagement with science, and also general well being I have been attempting to synthesise my own ‘batch’ here at the Bogton Institute. Also, the real stuff won’t be on sale for months and if I’m quick I could get it flogged to Sainsbury’s first.  After a productive evening in with a large bowl of cooking chocolate and several sachets of strawberry flavour angel delight, I believe I have come up with something very close to it. I intend to take a sample of it on the bus to the Bridge of Dee, as if I cant interest the supermarkets, I think I might be able to persuade B&Q to stock it as loft insulation.

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!

Bellahouston, we have a problem

J. Fergus Lamont, Arts and Theatre Critic and author of ‘Chordless Wonder – The Guitar Wifie Story’

We continue to live in halcyon days for art. Last week, as I read a review of this very special event, I was sad indeed not to be amongst the lucky attendees of the Glasgow art installation staged by the popular beat combo ‘Green Day’ who advertised, and then cancelled, a concert.  At the appointed hour in Bellahouston Park, all was silence, all was darkness, the gates of the venue remained locked. This was, of course, a powerful metaphor for the barren artistic wasteland of modern music, and is quite the most thought provoking work that this particular band have undertaken.

Having missed this magnificent non-event, I resolved to stage my own in Aberdeen.  So, as the ‘Opera InThe Park’ performance of Verdi’s La Traviata commenced in Aberdeen’s Duthie Park, I spread out my travelling rug in Seaton Park, cracked open a bottle of Prosecco, and allowed the complete absence of music to wash over me.  By the time I imagined Act Three to be underway, I was three bottles down and on my feet, crying “Bravo” at some particularly intricate passages of silence.  It ended not with the death of the heroine, but with two junkies stealing my picnic basket and shoving me into a hedge. The gritty realism of contemporary art!

This week also saw the remarkable ‘vlog’ of one ‘Korean Billy’ and his guide to the demotic local Doric dialect. This stunning work has been quite the hit on social media in the last few days and has caused a mass outbreak of people shouting ‘Your breeks are fine’ to each other in slightly stilted accents. In response, I quickly recorded my own video in reply to Mr. Billy, thanking him for his efforts.  In order to properly do this, of course, I spoke only in the Hangul dialect of South Korea. I will concede, however, that my dialect may not have been 100% authentic, as ‘Korean Billy’ has since sent me a rather peeved reply, asking why I had told him to go stick his head in a fridge.

I wept.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Local politics having shut down for the Trades, I have been allowing myself the pleasure of following events in the USA.  With the release of emails detailing his Russian connections, Donald Trump Junior has proven himself to be something of a chip off the old blockhead.  Trump junior’s cover story has unravelled as quickly as a Primark jumper snagged on a bramble bush.  Previously it had been claimed that he had not met with any Russian representatives; then that he had, but not in a campaigning capacity; then that, OK, he had, but only to discuss a humanitarian scheme allowing Russian orphans to come and eat apple pie in the Good Old US of A.  Now the emails show the truth: he did meet Russians, in the hope that they would support his Dad by putting the boot into Hillary Clinton.  Still, he has decided to tough it out by claiming that he has done nothing wrong, a tactic strangely reminiscent of one used by my old classmate Big Hayzer after he was caught smoking behind the bike sheds.  Instead of accepting his punishment, Big Hayzer stuffed a lit fag into his trouser pocket and strenuously denied ever having smoked a cigarette in his life.  So convincing was he that the headmaster – and later the paramedics and firemen – all agreed that they might have believed  him, had his pants not actually caught fire.

Even in the modern political age, where the relationship between politicians and the truth is about as stable as a coupling on Love Island, Trump Junior’s behaviour represents a real low and demands serious sanction.  Surely there is only one punishment appropriate for someone who is so cluelessly and shamelessly willing to try to lie his way out of trouble.  He must come to Britain, and head up our Brexit negotiations.

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

Like most ordinary mums, I dread facing an ethical conundrum.  Like when I discovered Emmeline was lactose-intolerant, almost immediately after buying a state of the art milk expressing pump.  Well I couldn’t return it and I hate waste.  Hence the invention of my legendary breast milk panna cottas that have enlivened my dinner parties ever after!  But when Milo flew in from the Cayman Islands for a long weekend, I hadn’t realised that my moral compass would be so disoriented.

Milo’s business contacts offer him freebies all the time. Whilst I am opposed to bribery and inducements of any kind, I do think it’s only right that my husband’s efforts are rewarded beyond his paltry 7-figure tax-exempt salary. So when he arrived home with 2 tickets to see Radiohead at the TRNSMT festival in Glasgow, I felt it only right I should go with him.

Imagine my horror when I found some of my fellow Amnesty International members staging a protest outside! You see, Radiohead had gone and played a gig in Israel, which is considered as tacit approval of atrocities against Palestinians by my comrades. I was at a loss. Do I ditch my husband to join my activist sisters? Or do I enjoy corporate hospitality and my fave band? I shan’t confess which option I chose, but the canapes were to die for!

Taking a Hardy line with criminals

View from the Midden; rural news with Jock Alexander from MTV (Meiklewartle Television)

It’s been a custodial wik in the village.  There’s been a lot o’ winsome sighing gan on fae, iver since the local womenfowk seen the news aboot the citizen’s arrest o’ some vratch fa twis trying tae nick a moped in London Toon made by a certain Tom Hardy. I thocht he wiz Buff’s loon, but it turns oot he’s an internationally kent Hollywood hunk. You may hiv seen him on BBC1’s ‘Taboo’ swanning aboot in a stovepipe hat; playing baith the Kray twins, or haein respiratory problems as a Batman baddie. Weel, as in art, so in life, for witnesses tell that Tom sprinted lik a superhero o’er gairdens and through building sites, afore collaring the thief and frisking him for weapons. Mony questions spring tae mind fan readin’ aboot this, sic as ‘Fit wye did the wee scrote nae jist get back on the moped?” But fan asked fit happened, the star simply telt onlookers that he had caught the thief, files describing him language fit I winna repeat, but fit can be found immediately efter the phrase ‘Trump Is A…’ on the nuart-inspired mural skited up on the side o’ Skittery Wullie’s piggery.

But I digress. Noo some fowk here in the village have been grumbling aboot how much Tom Hardy is noo being swooned o’er. Mainly the husbands of aa the wifies daein the swoonin’. Even wir local community bobby was heard moaning. Efter aa, he’s caught loads of thieves in his time, and he disnae hae ony wifies drooling over him aboot it.  Which I have tae say is understandable, fan ye look at wir community bobby next tae Tom Hardy. He’s nae sae much  ‘hairt-throb’ as ‘hairt-burn’. However, files mony of the mair pleiter-esque mannies o’ the village hiv felt a bittie pit oot by the comparison, ither locals hiv been inspired by Tom’s heroism. Inevitably, Tom’s biggest fan is also the maist masculine individual in Meiklewartle – I speak of course of Feel Moira, who has got her auld combat fatigues oot again and has been relentlessly pursuing ony wee kiddies foolish enough tae drap litter with Terminator-like relentlessness. The trouble is, Moira isnae satisfied wi’ a citizen’s arrest. She’s ower keen tae proceed tae the citizen’s trial, citizen’s conviction and citizen’s sentence of twa wiks hard labour mucking oot her byre!  Cheerio!

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I’ve teen much mair o’ an interest in politics since they cried this snap generational election. A lot o’ fowk is spikken aboot ‘voter apathy’, but I’m nae feeling that at aa. In fact, this time, I’m thinking I micht even ging and vote. I’ve registered and a’thing. It wis dead easy. I did it online during a boring bittie in River City.
I’m nae a fan o’ Theresa May. Faniver I see her I get the feeling that she’s totally furious aboot something but she’s nae gaan tae tell us fit it is – we’re gaan tae hiv tae work hiv it oot for wirsels, and the langer it taks the angrier she’s gaan tae be. She looks like she’s hard work, ken fit I mean?

I quite like ‘at Tim Fallon fae the illiterate Democrats. He seems nice, but it’s nae easy tae find oot his policies fan aa folk iver ask him is if he thinks things are sinful, or nae sinful. It’s like they’ve mixed him up wi’ the Archbishop o’ Canterbury.

My favourite een, though, is Jeremy Corbyn. I used tae hae a Geography teacher cried Mr. Spiers fa wis jist his double. ‘The Mannie Spiers the Beardy Weardy’ we cried him. ‘Til he went off on long term sick leave wi’ his nerves.

Een o’ Labour’s policy proposals fit really caught my eye is the idea o’ haein 4 mair bank holidays ivry year. It’s a good idea in principle but they hinna fully thought it through. I mean a day off for St Patrick’s day I can jist about understand, but een fer St George’s day? In Scotland? Wise the heid, min!

Instead of pinning things tae lang-deid saints or notions o’ patriotism, fit Jezza needs tae dae is gie us 4 additional bank holidays that can be taen wi’oot notice, like fan ye’ve popped oot for a quiet een on a Sunday nicht fit has accidentally ended up wi’ a limbo contest in Cheerz Bar. Nae fuss, nae fanfare, nae films on the telly, jist the freedom tae bide at hame aa day drinking Irn Bru and eating Quavers in yer punts. That’s fit’ll get this economy moving in the right direction!