Ye canna miss oor Christmas Village. It’s in the middle of the A96, jist north of Old Rayne.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been a hibernal wik here in the village. Great efforts hiv been made this year tae attract tourists for Christmas, in spite or wir pagan belief system. The great muckle flashing sign atop the festive mineer heap, has attracted fowk fae afar – shoppers, ramblers, and the occasional disorientated aircraft – and the highlight of the experience is the Meikle Wartle Christmas Village.

Oh aye, ye canna miss oor Christmas Village. Mainly cos we’ve stuck it slap bang in the middle of the A96 jist North of Old Rayne. It is, essentially, a Yuletide ambush.  Doon one side we hiv a selection of tinsel-strewn sheddies, far hungry visitors are served traditional suspicious-looking sausages by a wee mannie fae the hame of the bratwurst, Paisley; or browse Feel Moira’s unique range of all-over ‘nae holes’ balaclavas – jist the thing tae keep ye warm and cosy in the dark and caul fan there’s naewye tae ging and nithin tae see.

We also hiv a pucklie fairground rides; I myself am operating the ‘snowglobe’, in which happy fem’lies can climb inside a perspex ball files I feed polystyrene fish boxes through my wood chipper. Broad smiles but moo shut is my advice for that een.   And there’s a ride far ye shoot high up in the air and then experience the thrill of free fall as ye hurtle back doon tae earth – we’ve lashed a park bench tae the loader on my Massey Ferguson.

Finally, there’s wir seasonal maze, consisting of a’ the Christmas trees that Moira has liberated fae the Tesco in Inverurie. Efter ye’ve wandered tae the middle, a wee mannie dressed lik Santa gie’s ye a token for a free drink at the village pub, tae be used that day. Luckily, naeb’dy his made it oot afore last orders.

So come one, come all tae the Meikle Wartle Christmas village – you may end up frustrated, dizzy and a wee bittie nauseous, but michty, disnae that perfectly sum up the magic of Christmas? Cheerio!

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

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions.  Questions like, what does Donald Trump’s hiring of a climate-change denier for the Environmental Protection Agency mean for the planet?”  “Is Theresa May’s announcement of £2billion for research good news for science?” and, “you’re not really going to eat  all that turkey, are you?”  To which the answers are, “Mars is nice this time of year”, “Never trust a person whose trousers are worth more than your car” and “What part of *all you can eat festive buffet* do you not understand!?”

This week, people have mainly been asking me about Graham Short, the artist and micro-engineer who has engraved portraits of Jane Austen onto 4 fivers using microscopic tools.  It’s a striking example of Nano-technology, as opposed to the time my grandmother tried to wire her toaster to her teasmade, which was a striking example of Nana-technology.  And also a massive fire hazard.  Short apparently spent one of the fivers – likely to be worth up to £50,000 – in a Melton Mowbray shop, sparking an influx of visitors.  With around 330 million fivers in circulation, the chances of receiving the receiving one of the lucky four in your change are astronomically small.  Still, any excuse for a jaunt to the pork pie capital of England.  So I’m going to head down to Melton Mowbray and try my luck.  Just as soon as I’ve finished this turkey.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who knows his limits

There’s an old saying that says, it says “the lights is on but no one is home”. Well, never wasn’t that not untruer than on Tuesday night at Pittodrie, when the lights WASN’T on but Aberdeen WAS at home! The Dandies’ match against Motherwell was abandoned when the floodlights failed twice before they’d even had time for the first booking. Of course, I is no stranger to matches being abandoned. But usually it was because one team had managed to lose 4 players, either through sendings off (including mines) or injuries what I had done.

I saw that Man City midfielder Yaya Toure accepted a drink driving ban this week, despite claiming he had not intentionally drunk no alcohol. Apparently he scoofed from a jug that he thought was just coke, but turned out to also have brandy in it as well. Well, old Kenny thinks it’s a disgrace and that the record £54,000 fine is about right. Not for Yaya – for whoever mixed brandy and coke. Gads!

 

Artificial Intelligence set to replace actual gypes.

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

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions like “Does Fermat’s Theorum apply to negative integers?”, “Will the Cassini space probe take photos from inside Saturn’s rings?” and “Can humans of different backgrounds communicate with each other in binary language?”.  To which the answers are No, Yes, and 00100.

But lately, people have been asking me if there’s any truth in Governor of the Bank of England Mark Carney’s warning that Robots will take 15m of our jobs.  Of course, I tell them, there is no immediate danger of this until a machine has passed the Turing Test and exhibited intelligent behaviour equivalent to, or indistinguishable from, a human. And by ‘human’ , I don’t include cast members of structured reality shows on ITV or certain holders of US high office, on whom my old rubber-keyed Spectrum 48K had the edge!  Then I laugh, but they look worried and try to back away. So I go on to inform them that in science, one must be prepared to test any hypothesis. To evaluate properly whether a robotic worker could be a threat means building one. I did this yesterday, using 2,500 paper clips, some superconducting cable, and my entire collection of Lego Technic.  I then installed the resultant automaton at an empty desk in the Bogton Institute’s admin offices and programmed it to intermittently utter certain key phrases like “Did you see Strictly on Saturday?” “Is it me or is it cold in here?” and “Fag break”. I then hid and monitored it discreetly from behind some potted plants, until someone noticed me squatting amongst the weeping figs with my phone in my hand and called security. However, before my ejection, I observed that sadly, the machine did nothing – remaining entirely motionless in front of the monitor screen.

From my researches it would seem that there’s at least one person in every office who could easily be replaced by a robot like mine.

The Reverend Edmund Everend, Minister for Holburn North North West

So Theresa May has seen fit to stand on a warship and declare that she wishes to see a Brexit that is neither hard nor soft, grey or white, but “red, white and blue.”  No doubt her more ardent adherents will have imagined that she was referring to the Union Flags that flanked her as she spoke.  But as we near the season of goodwill I hope it is not too fanciful to hope that even if the rhetoric is nationalstic, the real truth lies beneath.  For the Prime Minister might just as easily have been describing the tricolor so beloved of our French neighbours or indeed the flags of Liberia, the Czech Republic, the Netherlands or Nepal.  In flags, as in so many things, there is more that unites the nations than divides us.  Of course, red white and blue are also the colours of North Korea.  But that is one example that can be discounted; for that is a country where the leader uses the language of violence and equipment of war to hammer home a jingoistic message to a downtrodden people.  Whereas here, in the UK…Ah.

As you were.

God bless.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who lets you know he’s there early doors.

I could not believe my eyes when I heard Man City and Chelsea have got into hot water bottles over the aggro at their match on Saturday. Has football gone soft? Back when I was playing, Sergio Aguerro’s tackle on David Luiz would have earned him a pat on the back and a pint of 80 shilling in the bar afterwards. Instead he got his jotters and a 4 match ban. Mental. And as for that bus-stop at the close of play, I’ve seen worse outside the Clover Leaf when the landlord called time.

Speaking of calling time, my ears got a shock when I seen that Formula 1 champion Nico Iceberg is hanging up his driving gloves just days after he won the title. My Melody says to me, she says “talk about quitting while you’re a head!” But he’s not just a head, he’s got arms and legs as well, though to be fair to Melody, you wouldn’t not know that from looking at him in his car. I suppose I understand why he would want to retire, though. Sitting in a motor for hours every day seeing the same road over and over again must drive you mad after awhile. Just ask anyone who works in Altens.

A slice of orange with that?

Tanya Souter, local lifestyle correspondent

I da ken aboot youse, but I wiz fair raging this wik fan I heard the news that Princess Beatrice had slashed pop star Ed Sheeran wi’ a sword fan trying’ tae knight James Blunt.  I mean tae say, the peer loon wiznae exactly a stunner tae start wi’, he sings like an angel, but he looks like a hobbit so the last thing he needs is a scar on his coupon. And it wiznae even a real knighthood Eugenie wiz dishing oot tae Blunt – she wiz jist at a perty, haein a laugh!  This select wee gathering of aristos and singer-songwriters wis taking place at Windsor, far Beatrice bides wi’ her dad, Prince Andrew. According tae reports, he wisnae at hame at the time, he wis awa on a trade mission (are they still letting him dae that?).

Noo, I’ve done some mental things efter six bottles o’ Lambrini, but I can honestly say it his niver occurred tae me tae informally ennoble a ‘90’s popstar. Nae even the eens I‘ve met (Mikey fae Boyzone, sneaking a fag oot the backdoor of the Capitol in 1996, I am looking at you, sunshine!). I hiv tae say, that as pranks go, it’s nae exactly a comedy classic. Princess Beatrice has had funnier things on her heid.  But apparently gien fowk fake knighthoods is something’ the younger royals dae at perties, if it iver gets a bittie, boring, ken? As it would efter twa hours of mingling wi’ the rich and famous, eating Ferrero Rocher and listening tae James Blunt.

Hear me; hiv these posh fowk niver heard of Spin The Bottle? All they need tae dae tae liven up their soirees is tae gie me and my pal Big Sonja an invite. We could show them a thing or two. Which, tae be fair, is fit happens faniver we ging til a perty.

Noo da get me wrang, I can sympathise. ‘Cause fan Sonya finds hersel at a do fit isnae exactly catching fire, she does something similar, so it’s probably for the best that the perties we get invited til dinna hae mony swords lying aboot.  But it really is jist one rule for the rich and anither een for Big Sonya, is it? The last time she cut open a ginger boy’s face at a perty, there wis screaming and swearing and ab’dy getting lifted and athing.  But as far as I can see, Beatrice has got awa wi’ it. Ed jist laughed it aff; nae bobbies, nae charges, nae sae much as an ASBO. Big Sonya says the next time we get boozed up at somedee’s hoose, we’ll hae a get-oot-o-jail-free caird if we jist tell fowk that we’re a pair of Duchesses.  Though I da ken fit being fae the Netherlands his got tae dae wi’ it.

Ron Cluny, Aberdeen City Council Spokesman

As regular readers will know, the City Council enjoys a mature and productive relationship with its illustrious Country neighbour.  We are partners, equals, who complement one another perfectly, like ying and yang, fish and chips, or Ant and Dec. We are always delighted, in the public interest, to work together on matters of importance – like Nestrans, the City and Shire Brighter Outlook Campaign and sharing a bus down to Glasgow for a joint fact finding mission at the City Chambers that just happens to coincide with when ‘Still Game Live’ is on at the Hydro.  When we do, we never complain about dubby marks being left on the floor by tackety beets, or make “baa” noises under our breath, and, behind our backs when they think we cant hear them, they never refer to us, as ‘Toon’s dirt’.  So when we read that the Shire’s SNP’s administration had, during a reorganisation of its committees, accidentally voted itself out of power, there was widespread sympathy in the Town House – expressed primarily through the medium of raucous laughter.  It seems to be a matter of Turkeys not so much just voting for Christmas as arranging a Christmas party, handing out the crackers, putting ‘Mistletoe and Wine on the CD Player and then climbing into the oven and stuffing themselves.

I shall be telephoning my counterpart in the Shire this afternoon to offer my condolences.  And also to ask him if he wouldn’t mind communicating the story of how this faux pas came about to me in detail, and also pass it on to senior officials who now find themselves working for Theresa May and Donald Trump.

 

Buckingham Palace belongs to all of us! But I wouldn’t want to hoover it.

Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

I’m a Jam.  Like any Ordinary Mum, I suppose I’ve been a Jam (Just About Managing) for years. Of course, austerity, tax breaks for the rich and the persecution of the needy have become part and parcel of being under the cosh of a Conservative government, and now so many of us are in the same boat that we’ve been branded with this patronising new label.

Some of you might be wondering whether or not you’re a JAM, too.  I myself was in denial, until I sat down and checked our monthly outgoings against our income and saw just how Jammy I was.

Our income is meagre.  We get what little amount Milo can wire across from tax exile in Belize, dividends on our share portfolio and the takings from our network of rented properties around the west end of Aberdeen. Profits from the vineyard in the Dordogne and the Caribbean tobacco plantation are technically owned by a trust based in Panama, so obviously, they don’t count. And when one starts to subtract the essentials, like Emmeline’s dressage lessons and Fidel’s fencing class, there’s not a lot left. Throw in the (frankly, overgenerous) wages we pay to Mellors the gardener and Snezanha our au pair (she’s Bulgarian, but she really is a marvel) and the Smythe-Barratt household is barely scraping by.

Of course, worst part of being a JAM is all the things you can no longer do.  We didn’t take our annual October trip to our Patagonian yurt this year and I haven’t driven the Alfa Romeo in weeks.  Milo even spoke about giving up his membership at Kippie to help make ends meet.  He seldom uses it as he’s only allowed to spend 5 days a year a British soil, but that’s hardly the point.

You’d be surprised who else is a Jam. It turns out Her Majesty the Queen is Jammy too! We’ve heard a lot this week about how much the Buckingham Palace renovations are going to cost the nation, and yes, she gets £40 million a year from the Sovereign Grant and yes that SOUNDS like a lot, but bear in mind – she has to work from home and that place must be an absolute bugger to heat in the winter.

 

View from the midden – rural Affairs with Jock Alexander

It has been a clinquant week in the village. I wis affa impressed tae see that the weel-edumacated students of the toonser University of Aiberdeen are fully engaged in mind-improving activities – cogitation; intelligent debate, and the flinging of glitter at visiting political renegades.

Noo, I’m nae a graduate of ony seat of Higher learning, masel, apart fae the Skittery Wullie Academy of Advanced Piggery, from which I am proud tae haud a BSC. (Basic Sty Cleaning). Regrettably, my qualification has little practical value. Although it does get me served first in the village tearoom, presumably because it retains Wullie’s distinctive aroma. Neither am I totally bang up to date wi’ fa’s fa the world of politics, though I think George Galloway wis in Culture Club, fan he wis a boy.

Despite these drawbacks, I ken a good publicity stunt fan I see it, and this een wiz magic. In fact, it fair impressed a lot of us here in the village. Feel Moira wiz full of admiration, as of course she wiz a bittie o an anarchist in her youth hersel. I mind back in the late 70’s fan the hale o’ Meikle wartle wis shocked tae see her stravaging aboot the village in tartan troosers wi’ straps hinging aff them held thegither wi’ saftey pins. Though it turned oot she hidna gaan punk, she’d jist shredded her dungers on a barbed wire fence and improvised replacement breeks oot of a travel rug. Onywye, she’s just ordered 5 kilos of glitter fae the card shop in Inverurie, (fa canna believe their luck at an actual sale in these times of ‘Funky Pig’ and ‘Moonpigeon’. Truly, it is the end of days).

The rest of us were somewhat concerned o’er fit she intended tae dae wi’ it aa, but as she is Heid of the Festive Celebrations Committee, she simply plans tae fling it o’er the Christmas Midden in the village square. Hopefully, this will mak it aa sparkly and bonny, and less of a hazard tae motorists fa hiv a tendency tae plow intae it after dark.  I’m sure mony of us would be delighted tae invite George Galloway here tae dae the honours himsel. Either standing right next tae the midden, or indeed a bittie closer. Cheerio!

It’s not ‘Super’, it’s just slightly less far away.

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

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions. Questions like “What exactly does a catalytic converter do?” “Have CFCs caused irreparable damage to our atmosphere?” and “Did you spill my pint?” But lately, people have been asking me about the moon. “Well”, I respond, “The Waterboys saw the whole of it!” and then we laugh, once I’ve found the song on my iPod and played it to them.

They are asking, of course, because of the “Super Moon” which graced the night sky earlier this week. The moon was set to appear larger and brighter than it has since 1948, and Monday night brought an unprecedented amount of amateur lunar photography, mainly from people whose usual camera use is to take a succession of narcissistic duck-faced selfies, or to keep a visual record of their dinner. Sadly, images obtained with such rudimentary equipment have led many potential astronomers to conclude that this “Super Moon” looked pretty much identical to the regular moon, as if Superman’s Kryptonian heritage had bestowed upon him the singular ability to seem half an inch taller.

Of course, ‘Super Moon’, is an astrological, rather than astronomical term. The correct name for the phenomenon is  ‘Perigee-syzygy’. Correct, but a good bit less catchy.  It occurs when a full moon coincides with an eccentricity in the moon’s orbit. That’s not the kind of eccentricity displayed by people like me, who wear leather elbow patches and, when the mood takes us, a monocle; rather it’s a “squashing” of the circular path that the moon takes around the Earth. It may aid your comprehension to perform a simple experiment at home. First, place a pumpkin in the middle of the floor, then take a child’s hula-hoop, attach a tomato to it (I find electrical tape works best) and then sit on it until it’s bent out of shape to the extent that the child begins to cry ‘It’s ruined…RUINED!”. Next, spin the hoop around the pumpkin and voila! A scale model of the lunar cycle. Note: use of a power drill to increase the speed of the tomato-moon’s pumpkin-orbit to a scientifically accurate 1.022km per second may result in mess, injury, and, regrettably, divorce proceedings.

J Fergus Lamont – Arts critic and author of ‘Not with a bang but with a whimper’ – A History of Cancelled Fireworks Displays

This week I took part, quite unexpectedly, in an improvised piece of performance art. I had been ‘walking the mat’ on Union Street when I popped into a marvelous gallery-cum-emporium I have discovered. You wont have heard of it, it has a very modest frontage and almost seeks to put visitors off with the unappealing name ‘Poundland’. Whilst marveling at the starkly utilitarian objects d’arte on display, I came over quite peckish and sought to interact with the exhibition of heavily salted potato based snacks in delightfully obtuse Slavic packaging. The gallery owner squinted suspiciously at my proffered £50 note and I then found myself swept up in a vivid role-playing scenario, with some very game performers in police uniforms inviting me for an improv session in the back of their “van”. Therein, in a powerful commentary on the speciousness of life in this ‘post-truth’ era they insisted I was the source of counterfeit notes that have recently been spotted in the city. I congratulated the performers on convincingly managing the scenario, by joining in their narrative, insisting I was the ‘Mister Big’ behind the whole scam, getting in a couple of playful punches to the “officers” for good measure.  Thereafter I found myself transported to a very realistic looking “police cell”, where I enjoyed 12 hours of cathartic sensory deprivation before being ‘released’ at the end of the play. I wept.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Theresa May has faced heavy this criticism this week following the news that the Government has no strategic vision on how to achieve Brexit.  Personally, I can’t really see what all the fuss is about.  As disclosures go, that one was about as surprising as “the butler did it” or “Ed Balls stays in to dance another week”.  What the critics fail to realise is that there is nothing new here.  Strategic vision is simply not the British way.  We press on, make a hash of it, sack someone, and then have a nice cup of tea and a fly piece while moaning at the weather.  This is certainly the way we’ve been running Aberdeen for the last couple of decades and you only have to look at our revitalised city center, integrated traffic system, and highly ever expanding and diversified, ready for the post-oil world economy base how well things have worked out here.

Trump: ”The world is laughing at us”. Well, we’re not laughing now.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Well the waiting is over and finally we have the answer to the question that has been on our lips for months – who is going to open England’s batting in India, alongside Alistair Cook? I jest of course. The Presidential race is over, and, as Trump has triumphed, perhaps the human one, too. But what does the victory mean for us in Aberdeen, the city that gave him an honorary degree then took it away again, plans to stick an offshore windfarm next to his golf course, and howls abuse at him whenever he comes here? Well, I am sure he will shrug it all off for the harmless locker-room banter it was. I am very confident that the Donald is not the kind of man who will bear a grudge. Well, fairly confident. Well, fairly confident. Anyway, just thought you might like to know, for reasons entirely unconnected, I’m off. To take up a new job, as the Official Spokesman for St Kilda Council.

Prof. Hector Schlenk, Senior research fellow at the Bogton Institute

As a scientist, people have of late – well, since yesterday morning actually, been asking me urgent wild-eyed questions, like “Is spray tan a genuine route to success?”, “Am I asleep?”, and “Should I move to Canada?” To which my answers are “apparently”, “hopefully” and “immediately”.

It has been a bad week for science. Or empirical information of any kind, really. However, I have been cogitating on the theory that there is an inverse ratio between the implausibility of a particular political outcome and the likelihood of that outcome coming to fruition, in any year with digits that add up to 9. This theory was formulated between midnight and 8:00 am on Wednesday and fuelled by sleep deprivation, panic and Haribo; and so was possibly not the result of my functioning at my highest level.

In my fugue state, I also couldn’t help but observe the date Americans call 9/11 is the darkest day in their history when the world changed and terror invaded all living rooms. Whereas what we in the UK call 9/11 is …Eureka!

Jock Alexander, star of Mtv (Meiklewartle Television)

Last minute betting on the US election result resulted in a flurry of activity, wi Skittery Willie lumping on big for a certain someone he wouldna name, but said reminded him on Feel Moira, in terms of femininity and intellect. Imagine my surprise to find him standing his hand in the pub last nicht.

Brodie Summer, an American in New Byth

U-S-A! U-S-A! Great job, my fellow Americans. Great job. Whoo! Yeah! Living here in Scotchland, miles away from the home of the brave, I’ve been mighty peeved by the way you Brits have disrespected Donald Trump and the patriots who have supported him, let me tell you.

You guys have got all hot and bothered about boring stuff like human rights, foreign policy and genitalia grabbing. So boring. So boring.

What you are missing is that Trump is a winner. He’s tremendous businessman, a fine diplomat, and a guy you can really trust. So why are you so mean about the true Americans who voted for him?

It’s not like you guys are standing outside the glass house and can throw the Rolling Stones. You voted for Brexit so you must be just as dumb as us. If not dumberer.

Jonathan M Lewis, local head-teacher

It can be nerve wracking, awaiting the outcome of a vote between something unpalatable and something downright abhorrent. What’s worse is when one’s fears are realised and the downright abhorrent option wins – even when it all happens far away, one can soon experience serious repercussions.

I refer, of course, to the parental ballot at Inverlochy Primary School which saw homework being banned in favour of allowing ‘kids to be kids’.This result has already prompted our Union reps to ask me if we can ban homework too, in favour of allowing teachers to have a social life!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, he shoots, he scores!

He done it. Scotland’s very own tennis Braveheart, the Dunblane Dymotape, Andy Murray, has made it to number 1 in the world. Magic. He sealed his place at the top of the treetops when fierce rival Novak Choccy-bics got knocked out in Paris.

Of course, I’ve had my share of experiencing the dizzy hypes of reaching the spinnaker of my sport. Unlike Murray, though, I never knew I’d done what I done when I done it. Brechin v Albion Rovers was just like any other Saturday. Pre-game meal with the lads, warm-up before kick-off, then bang. I got sent off just because some chancer took his chin off my knee. Twice. It wasn’t til later on I learned that my 33rd red card was a new World Record!

 

Halloween’s changed. Who else misses the smell of burning neep?

Fergus Lamont, arts critic and author of “My auntie is pals with her mum”- Emile Sande, 21^st Century Bothy Balladeer.

The most thought-provoking pieces of art can also be the most elusive. Very occasionally, however, a veritable masterpiece actually seeks one out, catches one by surprise and slaps one in the face, screaming ‘Breathe, breathe, damn you!’ like a poorly trained paramedic.

Monday night proved just such an occasion for your humble art critic. I’ve recently chanced upon a marvellous new drama which is broadcast on the wireless. It emanates from my valve-set periodically, in a narrative form reminiscent of Dickens. I doubt you’ll have heard of it – it has received little if any publicity; but the intertwining of the mundane and the pastoral in “The Archers” makes it a perfect thematic companion-piece to Grassic Gibbon’s magnum opus, ‘Sunset Song’). Not long after I’d listened to the latest what I will call, for want of the mot juste, ‘episode’, the doorbell chimed, unexpectedly. When I answered I was delighted to see a travelling troupe of players, in the mode of those deployed by Hamlet to ‘catch the conscience of the king’. They disported themselves in an array of outlandish costumes and sought to engage me in a piece of improvised comedie dell’arte!

“Trick or treat?”, a young performer bedecked in a white sheet with holes for eyes implored of me. The crudity of his garb deftly symbolising the eternal struggle of man to maintain the exterior façade, while wrestling with his inner demons. “Hey min, I says, Trick or Treat?” He repeated.

“Treat!” I replied, barely able to contain my excitement. “Fit’ve you got, like?”,  his witty riposte. In this brief exchange, our “expect everything, earn nothing” culture had been beautifully lampooned. “Bravo!” I yelled, and went to fetch them some of the quinoa and kale vol au vents I’d enjoyed at supper.  Sated, and with a firm handshake from a very grateful spectator, the troupe headed off into the night.

They weren’t done though, as I was treated to a most avant-garde denouement, they proceeded to pelt my Orangery with eggs, flour and what I suspect may have been animal excrement!

I wept.  As did, upon his arrival the following morning, my window cleaner.

View from the midden – rural affairs with MTv (Meikle Wartle Television) personality, Jock Alexander

It has been a multi-functional wik in the village. I was maist impressed tae read the news of Billy Muir, the Orkney sheep fairmer dubbed ‘Britain’s hardest-working man’, fa this wik won a Pride of Britain award fore hauding doon a total of 20 jobs at eence.  As a sheep fairmer myself, I staun open-mouthed, baith in admiration, and because sometimes, ‘at’s jist the wye my face gings.

Clearly, though, the Pride of Britain committee didnae come near Meikle Wartle fan they wis cairrying oot their exhaustive search for the nation’s maist ower-employed mannie or wifie. Here in the village we hiv someone who looks doon her nose at the sort of layabout fa only tackles twa dizen occupations.  Feel Moira currently fills aboot twice that number, fit with being village postmistress, midwife, milkman, cattle drover, butcher, baker, cunnlestick maker, teacher, weather girl, astronomer, astrologer and kiss-o-gram.  And that’s jist on Mondays.

Then there’s the jobs she diz without asking folk first, like that time fan Skittery Willie’s roof needed mending, and she built the scaffolding, took doon all the auld slates, and selt them.

She explains that she has sae mony jobs because of her unwillingness tae trust anybody else tae dae ony work themselves withoot “makin an erse of it”. If ye wint something done proper, dae it yourself. Unless, like me, ye really canna be bothered, and it’s gye caul in the morning, and the duvet is fine and warm, in which case get Moira tae dae it for you.

She also tells me that her incredible dilligence comes fae the strong work ethic instilled in tae her by her grandmither, “Feel Muggie”, who, legend has it, built the majority of Old Meikle Wartle single-handed, oot of drystane and, sadly, highly flammable, wattling. Nooadays, no trace of the original Meikle Wartle wattle remains, but Moira has had the tale handed down to her of how, one cauld November nicht, the hale place went up in flames. Sadly, naeb’dy realised fit wis happening, mistaking the billowing smoke for a particularly thick haar. And we commemorate it still, each year on November the Fifth wi’ a great bonfire and fireworks, on fit we in the village cry ‘Gye Foggy Nicht’ . Cheerio!

What will they call it on C4? ‘The Great British Fake-Bake Off’?

Shelley Shingles, Miss Fetteresso Winner 1987 and Showbiz Correspondent

OM actual G!  It’s the end of an era, with the last ever Great British Bake Off on the BBC, and Mel, Sue and Mary’s refusal to jump ship breaking up the gang.  It’s like the Beatles breaking up all over again, only with spatulas instead of guitars.  For £25 million a year Channel 4 have managed to get the format and Paul Hollywood.  So that basically boils down to a tent with some ovens in it and a partially shaved silverback gorilla.  I hope I’m wrong but I just don’t think it’ll be the same with all the adverts and without Mary’s spangly tops and killer stares.  And for contractual reasons there’ll be no Bake Off at all next year.  I just don’t know how I’m going to get through 2017 without my baking fix.  I might have to pop down to Gregg’s and stare through their oven window, watching their steak bakes brown and rise.  Mind you, who am I trying to kid?  I do that already.

I think it’s Mel and Sue I’ll miss the most.  Of course, they and me go back a long way.  We first met when I was successfully forging my media career; I went onto their Light Lunch show as a spokes-model for California Tan on Rosemount Place, to demonstrate a new ‘stand and tan’ machine.  I’ll never forget what they said to me, as they shut me into it and whacked it on for 3 minutes at full power:

“On your marks.  Get set.  Bake!”

Wise words from two great ladies.

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

As a scientist, people frequently ask me questions such as “When did the universe begin?” “What is Andromeda?” And “when and where was Star Wars set?” To which I answer, respectively, “a long time ago”, “a galaxy far, far away” and “a long time ago in a galaxy far far away”.

But recently people have been asking about time. In particular, they ask about the forthcoming end to BST and our return to GMT, which happens in the wee small hours this weekend. This biannual event causes confusion and panic in equal measure, particularly when setting alarm clocks. My aide memoire is simple and much easier to remember than the other one. When asked whether it’s forward or back, I exclaim: “Vernal vanguard, autumnal abatement!” So memorable it is that no one has ever asked me twice!

Of course, changing the clocks has no impact on the length of daylight. As soon as we pass the summer solstice in mid-June, the sun rises 1 minute later and sets 1 minute earlier each day. Hence it’s both scientifically accurate and absolutely hilarious to say to on the 21st of June “Aye, the nights are fair drawing in!”

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander.

It has been a democratic wik in the village.  I wiz saddened tae hear that in the heaving Metropolois of Ellon, this year’s festive celebrations face cancellation, efter the toon’s Community Cooncil resigned en masse, fan their numbers fell to 8.

I canna see the problem here – if ye ask me 8 fowk is mair nor plenty. Here in Meikle Wartle we believe in smaller government, and hiv a verra effective Community Cooncil (Or ‘Care in the Community Cooncil’ as some wags cry it), Consisting of me, Skittery Wullie and Feel Moira.

We convene in the snug area of the pub, so there widna be room for ony mair folk. I, myself am Secretary and hiv the twin responsibilities of taking the minutes and ordering the pints. Wullie is Treasurer, looks efter the siller and gets the nips, and Moira his adopted the title ‘Dear Leader and President for Life’ and is in charge of nuts, crisps and scumpi fries. We generally pit matters tae a quick vote by acclamation, accompanying each council decision wi’ anither round. Proceedings are highly convivial and interest in joining oor Community Cooncil remains high, nae least because the landlord has been known tae throw in free pies an’ a’.  Sometimes at heid height and high speed if the democratic process looks like it might be about to get oot o’ hand and hurt someb’dy

But we resist an increase in numbers. Because files governmental expansion micht introduce wider community representation, it wid also impact adversely on oor descision-making efficiency. And mak the rounds baith dearer and less frequent. Cheerio!

You’ve got to fight for your right to wee-wee!

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

I see that we have had a sudden, and no doubt temporary and localized, outbreak of common sense in the Scottish legal system, with the news that all charges have been dropped against Rohan Beyts, the retired Social Worker who had been accused of breach of the peace after answering the call of nature among the dunes of Donald Trump’s Menie Estate. Rohan was quoted as being “absolutely relieved”, although it was not entirely clear whether she was talking about the dropping of the charges or the initial incident itself.

While I am sure that the authorities have acted with complete impartiality, there is, I think, some considerable symbolic value, this week of all weeks, in the news that a woman has been held entitled to widdle with complete impunity upon The Donald’s property. As the official council spokesman for Aberdeen – the city, let us not forget, that learned to loathe Trump long before all these Johnny-Come-Latelys, like Michael Moore, Professor Steven Hawking, and the Pope, jumped on the bandwagon, – I am proud to see Rohan added to the roll-call of women – the Hillary Clintons and Michelle Obamas of this world – to have looked this nightmarish caricature of a man in the eye and stood up to him. Or in Rohan’s case, squatted down among the marron grass to him. It is now time to recognise Rohan for the heroine she is, and to get behind her. Preferably while holding out a towel to protect her modesty, and wearing wellies.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s been a conflagratory wik in the village. We far thocht we wis enjoying an Indian Summer the ither evening, but it turned oot it tae be jist the wind blawing fae the sooth, and the heat we felt wiz the auld Glen o’ Dee Hospital gaan up in flames. It wiz a sad end for a venerable auld building fit has been a luxury hotel, an army billet and a Typhoid sanatorium in its time. Though in mony wyes it wiz a miracle it lasted as lang as it did, bearing in mind that it wis built oot o’ wid and the the shire his mair nor it’s fair share of gypes fa’s idea of a good time is setting fire tae things. Noo, it’s a’ sub judice and I’m nae saying that, but police suspect that the fire wis the work of youthful arsonists. Or, as they are cried in Meiklewartle, vratches wi’ matches.

Indeed, this is the reason that nae new buildings here in the village have been made of that particular combustible material, iver since Haldie Winton’s ootside lavvie went up fan he settled in for a good long seatie, tried tae licht his pipe and dropped his match. Yon wis a tragedy. Fit a mineer we lost that nicht.

Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who always plays the man.

Some of the sporting headlights from this week has only gone to show that sometimes, fact can be stranger than friction.

I enjoyed watching the Olympics parade in Manchester, but I had a wee chuckle to myself when I found out that two imposters managed to sneak onto one of the buses! It’s a testicle to the number of British athletes who had success in Brazil that a pair of chancers that nobody recognises was able join in the fertilities. But dressing up as a sportsman to bask in reflected glory is nothing new. I’m just surprised John Terry wasn’t there in his Chelsea strip.

There was a lot of chat about referee Anthony Taylor before the Liverpool v Man Utd match. Apparently the whistler lives right next-door to Old Trafford and Liverpool fans was complaining that he might be pious in favour of Mourinho’s men. But it’s obvious that Taylor would be totally neutron. These days the closest any Man Utd fan lives to Old Trafford is inside the M25.

Mind you, I understand what it’s like when you feel like the ref has it in for you before the match has even kicked off. Back when I was playing for Locos we found out the man in black what had been chose for our top-of-the-table 12 pointer with Rothes was someone who had sent me off in the past. We asked the SFA to find an official who hadn’t previously shown me a red card, but they never done it. They did try, but it turned out there wasn’t one.

Be afraid of the creepy clown!

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding nether regions

As regular readers, my family, Conservative Party Central Office and my pesky constituents will know, I am no stranger to having to make an apology. Cripes, old Struan has ‘been there and done that’ when it comes to saying sorry. I must have spoken, written or mouthed the word a bazillion times by now. I have lost count of how often I’ve woken up after a tremendous night on the sauce with BoJo, Seb Coe or The Great British Bake-Off girls (what a 24 hours THAT was. Woof!) and found that some unfortunate utterance or candid video, casting me in a less than perfect light, has somehow managed to go viral. And what do I do? I apologise. Sincerely. And hope some other poor idiot catches it the next time Lady Scandal comes a-calling.

But it looks like Elton John was right after all, about what constitutes the hardest word (although I’ve always had a lot of problems with ‘escalator’, as I once discussed at some length with Elton as we enjoyed a hedonistic night on the Morgan’s Rum and his baby grand). Because now, it seems, apologies for bad behavior are no longer required. ‘Sorry – not sorry” (as, I am given to understand, the kids are saying’) – is now the way to go.

In America, the Republican candidate for President has weathered storm after P.R. storm, without ever saying sorry for anything (or at least, not like he means it) and remains in contention. It absolutely beggars belief, but he has said, tweeted and been video-recorded doing things which would have ended the career of any other politician. Never mind the Leader of the Free World, we wouldn’t let a breakfast TV host get away with half of this stuff. He has, by his own words and deeds demonstrated conclusively that he is utterly unfit for public office, yet a sizable chunk of the US population simply don’t appear to give a hoot. There is only one thing for it. Emigration. Say hello to prospective Governor Struan Metcalf, Y’all!

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It has been a coulrophobic week in the village.  Reports hiv been coming in fae a’ ower the country of pranksters dressed up as clowns lowping oot at folk and gi’eing them a fleg. These ‘creepy clowns’, are yet anither unwelcome import fae the USA, like school proms and cheese in a can, and files we in Meiklewartle are nae usually ameen the first to pick up on crazes, (weve jist seen the the back of deely-boppers) even we are nae immune.

Last nicht, as Skittery Wullie wiz staggering hame fae the pub, he wiz maist alarmed tae see a grotesque figure lurking by the dyke aside his piggery. Noo, Wullie his lived a life and seen some sichts but even he wis feart o’ the strange pale face, wild tufts of hair, mad, staring een and the horrible rictus grin; so he pegged it straight back tae the pub, far he insisted on a lock-in. Naturally, the rest of us decided tae help oot wi the care and sensitivity for which the village is renowned, and, eence the lock-in wis ower, I gathered a wee mob of aroon a dizen folk wi’ pitchforks and flaming torches tae accompany Wullie safely hame.  So it wiz relief a’ roond fan the aforementioned scary clown stumbled across wir path, and turned oot tae be naen ither than a somewhat worse-for-wear Feel Moira. She had got herself a’ dolled up for a blind date but had showed a bittie mair enthusiasm than expertise wi the foundation, blusher and lipstick, and had then had an accident wi some hair straighteners.  The date itself, though, had apparently been a great success, the gentleman in question being a big Batman fan fae Badenscoth, fa thocht she hid come as the Joker.

I have heard, however, that clowns remain a major issue in Aiberdeen. In fact, Somedee wiz telling me there’s a hale building-full of them, nae too far fae the Marischal Square construction site. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, total football pundit

It’s always hard when an old mate becomes an escape-goat for the failings of an entire nation’s footballing hopes and dreams. But that is the houseboat my old team mate Gordon Strachan finds himself hitched to.

A lucky draw against Lithuania and a 3-0 defeat by Slovakia leaves us with a mothball’s chance of qualifying for the 2018 World Cup.

Wee Gordo, which is what I sometimes always call him, is copping a lot of flapjack for his team selection, his formulation and also his tic-tacs. I think that is unbelievable. How come he’s not getting no pelters for the bogging pink strip as well?