Sure, Raphael’s a great painter, but he’s no Kynoch & Robertson.

 View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been an asthetic wik in the village.  Artistic passions have been stirred by the news that a previously lost masterpiece by Raphael has been uncovered at Haddo Hoose. Michty! I wis impressed fan the Teenage Mutant turtles could just spik and dae Kung fu. Raphael is considered a genius o’ the Renaisance, and een o’ the finest pinters fa iver lived, and the portrait fit is noo being cried ‘The Haddo Madonna’ is a bonny picter, richt eneuch. Though between you and me, I dinna think it looks onything like her.

Fit wiz truly eye-opening wis seeing the great heap o’ stuff sifted through by a team o’ highly trained posh nosey folk on BBC4’s ‘Britain’s Lost Masterpeices’  last nicht on the TV. it wis like a car boot sale at Downton Abbey. Clearly, this is a highly prestigious production, as it wiznae on during the day like a’ the ither antiques shows I sleep through.

Here at MTV (Meikle Wartle Television, your local community station) we’re ayewis on the look oot for new formats tae inspire oor ain efforts, so we wasted nae time at a’ in ripping aff this een.

Of course, Feel Moira got affa excited, and wid have been awa doon the road tae Haddo wi her lump hammer if I hidnae stopped her and gently pointed oot that they’ve been daen a’ready. Instead, we stairted oor ain treasure hunt somewye nearer tae hame, so we’ve been tracking doon valuable heirlooms at Tommy Benzies’ bothie. Twa reasons for stairting there; firstly, Tommy niver throws nithin awa, so if he’s iver hid a priceless work of art, there’s a good chunce it’ll still be here somewye in ameen the hunners o’ bars o’ Imperial Leather and the auld copies o’ ‘Look In’. Secondly, he’s awa his hol’days for the next fortnight, sunning himsel’ in the exotic climes o’ Cairnbulg, so we’ve got a clear run.

For speed, Moira’s still using the lump hammer. She jist winna be telt. Onywye, despite the irreversible structural damage, within twa hours she wiz duncing wi’ joy efter discovering fit we think is something very exciting.  It seems that Tommy’s taste in art tends tae the modren, as Moira his found a piece of sculpture in metal and paper that looks very much like Andy Warhol’s famous Campbell’s Soup Tin. It wiz hidden jist ahind a box of ruskoline in Tommy’s kitchen cupboard. Easily missed by the casual observer, but obvious to Moira, eence she had knocked siven shades o’ sharn oot o’ the cupboard wi’ her lump hammer.  Exciting times are ahead for sure, fan Tommy gets back his holidays. I canna wait tae see his face! Let’s jist hope that Moira disna get peckish files we’re waiting.

Cheerio!

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

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions.  Questions like ‘I’m a Sagittarius, what effect will the inclusion of the constellation of Ophiuchus in the zodiac have on my horoscope” To which I answer, ‘Astromomer. AstroNOMer.” But one question I am now bound to be asked is if I know Nobel Prize winning physicist J. Michael Kosterlitz. As can be deduced from his traditional Aberdeenshire surname (I believe he is descended from the Kosterlitz’s of Oldmeldrum), Michael was indeed born and brought up in the Granite City. He can therefore take his place in the roll call of Aberdeen’s greatest scientific minds; R.V. Jones, Hugh Pennington and Jim McColl from the Beechgrove Garden.

Kosterlitz, who now teaches at the famous Brown University in Providence Rhode Island, has been awarded the prize for his work on the strange phases of matter. Put simply, the phases of matter with which we are all familiar, (namely when things change from solid to liquid to gas) are only part of the story. When matter is in extreme conditions, such as when it’s very cold or very flat, scientists start to see unusual behaviour.

Now, correlation is not causation, but it seems to me it’s highly likely that Prof. Kosterlitz’s first experience of witnessing unusual behavior in exceptionally cold and flat conditions came as a child being taken to winter fixtures at Pittodrie.

Of course, the most impressive thing about Prof. Kosterlitz is not his Nobel prize, but the fact that at an early age he did as all truly successful Aberdonians have done; got the hell out of here to somewhere with better weather!

‘Played one, won one’: Hilary, Allardyce and Dons versus Rangers.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been a conceptual wik in the village, wi’ much excitement over the announcement of the 2016 Turner Prize Shortlist. Noo this is ayewiz a topic of hot debate in Meikle Wartle. Iver since Damien Hirst bocht that aul coo fae Jim Michie’s fairm, and then pit it in formaldehyde and selt it on for twa million quid, we’ve taken a keen interest in contemporary art. This year’s Turner prize nominees are especially newsworthy, including, as they do, a suit fit his been pinted tae look like a reed brick wa’, and a giant golden sculpture of a certain area of the human anatomy. Noo, I hesitate to indicate fit bit it is, but in the interests of art appreciation you should know that I am referring to the dowp, the bahoochie or – for the toonsers amongst you – the erse. As is often the case, a work of this nature his attracted mair nor its fair share o’ opprobrium. Feel Moira wiz particularly vocal in her condemnation. She has been a great fan of the artist, William Turner iver since she slept through yon Mike Leigh filum. She argued maist vociferously that it wiz a betrayal of the great artist’s memory, and also that it wiznae fair. Why, she posited, should the artist get a prize for putting their massive posterior on display? Efter a’, fan she tried it she got a nicht in the cells.

The ither hot debate this wik of course wiz the Presential een atween that wifie Hilary fae the card shop and the boy fa owns the golf-course at Mennie, ye ken, fit’s his name. The een fa looks like he’s been Tangoed. It wisnae fit ye’d cry an edifying spectacle, but looking at the pair o’ them; her, in a reed trooser suit and him wi’ his golden tan, they didna half pit me in mind o’ the front runners for the Turner Prize. Cheerio!’

Barney Eunson, Labour Party Spokesman

So Kezia Dugdale failed to register a vote at Holyrood the other day, allowing the Scottish Government to avoid defeat on a contentious council tax change. Kezia is adamant that she did vote and that her machine failed to acknowledge it. Anyone who has ever played a touch-screen pub quiz machine and ended up repeatedly jabbing “B” while swearing at it as the clock runs down will surely sympathise, but there is no doubt that Kezia’s authority has been undermined by this misstep. Only a major calamity could cause such a clanger to be overlooked. And so how fortunate for Kezia it is, then, that the rank and file have spoken, and have voted Jeremy Corbyn back in to lead the parliamentary Labour Party that so decisively tried to get rid of him just scant months ago. Still, I am sure that the party will get on with the process of uniting to fight the Tories. Just as soon as we’ve worked out our position on Trident. And Fracking. And what we think about Tony Blair.

Of course, the massive turn out to vote for Corbyn was a marvellous and stirring exercise in futility; I mean, democracy. But would it be wrong for me to secretly wish that the rank and file had cast their ballots using Kezia Dugdale’s vote-counting machine? Still, things can only get better. Oh hang on,we’re not allowed to say that anymore.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who knows the odds on the full time score

After Aberdeen’s last-clasp victory against the Rangers, I’m still walking on cloud 99. The Dandies was definitely not at their best, but when that free-kick hut the post and then the back of the net, Pittodrie went balletic! It was just one match, but it certainly makes old Kenny look at the future with a hint of optometrism.

Speaking of just one match, what a total shocker for England gaffer Sam Allardyce! He’s got his jotters after a reporter recorded him saying some unflavoury things on the golf course. Mental.

One of the things he spoke about that has got him into bother was third party ownership. That was no surprise to me – Big Sam doesn’t look like the kind of guy that would stop at two parties! Seriously though, it is terrible all them overhand dealer-wheelings he was going on about and I do think he deserves to be punished. That’s why he should be made to continue as England manager.

 

35 year o’ ‘Tak the Fleer’? Robbie, tak a bow!

View from the Midden; Rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been a momentous wik in the village. Like ab’dy fa works in the media (I am still the main face on Meiklewartle television – fronting oor prime time shows ‘Escape fae the Country’ & ‘Grumpy Old Meldrum’)

I jist canna believe the showbiz news fit broke this week.  I ken the writing’s been on the wa’ this filie syne, but still, it’s an affa shock noo it’s act’lly happened.

No, I’m nae spikin’ aboot Brad & Angelina’s divorce; Robbie Shepherd’s retired from the radio.  I wis stammygastered tae hear that the North-East’s ither media superstar is hangin up his Nicky-tams and standin’ doon efter 35 year presenting ‘Tak the Fleer’ on BBC Radio Scotland. That gave me pause fer thocht. “Michty”, I thocht tae masel.  “Surely it’s been mair nor 35 year?”. Fit am I gaan tae dae wi’ my setterday evenings of noo? Weel, open a bottle of Glenfiddich and watch Strictly, of course, jist like afore.  I’ve niver actually listened tae Robbie on the radio, I’m nae a weirdo.

Of course, me and Robbie ging way back.  We first met back in the early ‘80’s fan he was jist a young loon of 70. I bumped intae him coming oot o’ a portaloo round the back o’ the royal enclosure at the Braemar Gathering.

I’ll niver forget fit he said tae me:

“Loshmychielwatchfaryergaanorwe’llbaithwindupwigyeweetbeetsheederumhoderumaye!”

But joking aside, it is a sad day for broadcasting in the North-East. Robbie wis Scotland’s answer tae John Peel, playing a lot o’ challenging material – oh aye, some of that stuff wiz in 12/4 time, ye ken. I fear that wi’oot him, Scotland’s cultural life will be verra much the poorer, and there’s nae doot in my mind that he will be absolutely irreplaceable.

But someb’dy his tae dae it, so I hiv sent in my CV tae auntie Beeb (weel, if we’re nae careful they’ll gie the job tae Sandy Toksvig). I hiv pointed oot that, like the great man, I am also a niche broadcaster, my special wee niche being jist roon by the bandit in the snug in the village bar. Far I hope auld Robbie will noo hae the free time tae join me for a wee celebratory dram. Or sivven.

Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s behaviour shouldn’t surprise anyone, knowing what we do about his previous conduct.

Joey Barton has only played for The Rangers for a couple of months, but he has already made an inedible mark on Scottish football. He’s been suspended by the Ibrox outfit following a training-ground bus-stop with a team mate, and now, to rub insult onto his injuries, he is being invigilated for betting on football. Personally, I have never thought there was nothing wrong with a player having a flutter on any match so long as they don’t have no influence on the result. Having watched Joey’s performances so far this season, that would be all of them.

There was unbelievable scenes in the final of the World Series triathlon at the weekend. Jonny Brownlee needed to win to take the title but his legs turned to ice cream and jelly with 500m to go. His brother Ally put his arm around him and dragged him to the finish line where he collapsed in a heap from exasperation. Mental.

As it turns out, some South African boy won the race so Jonny never took the world title anyway. Fair play to Ally, though. He could have won the race himself, but he put family first and common sense second to put further strain on a man in obvious medical distress for no reason whatsoever.

After the race Ally says he would have done the same for anyone, and that reminded me of my footballing career. One time when I was playing for Culter, my pal and fellow midfield enforcer Basher Greg picked up a knock early doors in a grunge match against Banchory. He says to me, he says “I’m struggling Kenny”. So I says to him, I says “Don’t worry Basher, I’ll do your tackling for you”. Which I done. Well, I done it for about 5 minutes until I crunched two-footed into their cheeky nyaff of a winger. When the whistler gave me my waltzing orders, Basher looks over at me and says to me he says “Thanks a bunch Kenny”. “Any time” I tells him, “apart from the next 3 games, what I’ll be banned from.”

 

 

The Madness of Kingswells

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, ordinary mum

The Smythe-Barratt household has been thrown into utter turmoil since Firstbus announced their intention to axe the service to KIngswells. As ever, the blame for the whole sorry mess lies squarely at the feet of the beastly Tories and the selling-off of public services. I remember marching against the privatisation of the railways in 1994 with some of my Uni chums. We had a great weekend in London, staying at the Savoy – all paid for with our cashed-in British Gas shares. Take that Thatcher!

I seldom use the bus, of course. It’s not that I consider it beneath me; it’s just that the current route doesn’t coincide with my most frequent destination – the Spa at the Marcliffe.

Mind you, I’m not surprised the bus has seen low passenger numbers. The whole experience could do with a makeover. When I last caught one, on my way to collect the Land Rover from the garage after damaging the paintwork during an altercation with a cyclist (don’t worry, I won), I couldn’t even get a latte on-board. Talk about slumming it!

Most of the public outcry has focused on the inability of residents of Kingswells to access the city centre without a car, but the untold tragedy is that of the people who rely on public transport to get out here. Snezhana, our au pair (she’s Bulgarian but she’s fabulous) is one such victim. We did a trial run yesterday to see how long it would take her to walk. 2 hours 45 minutes – and that was in pleasant enough weather. In the depths of winter the poor thing will have to set off at 3.00am to get here on time! It’s appalling, how do the Firstbus fat cats sleep at night?

 

View from the midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been a communicative wik in the village, efter reports that almost a third of Scotland’s pay-phones hiv been earmarked for removal.  Michty, it’s changed days, I can mind fan you were niver mair than a few hunder yards fae an iconic reed telephone box, freshly vandalised and unusable.

Of course, we hinna hid a public phone box in the village for a filie.  The een in the village square has long since been repurposed as a handy roadside greenhoose, where local botanist Skittery Wullie grows his medicinal herbs. They’re funny-looking, things wi’ their jaggedy-leafs, but Wullie insists they dae wonders for his back.

Of course, it’s mobile phones that have seen aff the traditional phone box, though we’ve niver hid ony mobile phone reception in the village either. Here we communicate over long distances by the time-honoured traditional method of tying a message tae the leg of a sheep.

Noo, some fowk have concerns aboot the removal of sae mony phoneboxes. ‘It’s a lifeline’, they say, ‘it’s vital tae rural communities who may otherwise be cut aff’. To which I say, ‘Fit’s the problem?’ At’s fit wye I bide in Meikle Wartle. If I winted my phone tae ring, or tae spik tae folk I dinna ken, I’d move tae somewye mair urban and bustling. Like Colpy.

Oot in the sticks we are fine pleased tae be able tae relax in peace, wi’ oot the constant hassle of cold-calling PPI chasers. And it’s even mair relaxin’ wi’ some of Wullie’s medicinal herbs on the go. Cheerio!

 

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

This week, we in the council have been troubled by a most unusual noise – the sound of praise being heaped upon us. A firm of crack designers has been retained to look at ways of re-vivifying Union Terrace Gardens, and Aberdeen’s public imagination hasn’t crackled with such excitement since the rumour (subsequently proven false) that the famous wrestler caught up in a sex tape scandal might be Len Ironside.

So far, the feedback has been overwhelmingly supportive of the initial concept drawings.  However, there have been some predictable brickbats to go with the bouquets.  “Aren’t the designers’ ideas blindingly obvious?  Should all of this not have occurred to us at the time of the great Union Terrace Gardens farrago?”

Well, hindsight is a marvelous thing.  I ask only that we be judged by the state of knowledge prevailing at the time.  Who could have predicted that improving access by means of lifts, new stairs and wheelchair ramps would have encouraged people to use the gardens?  Who would have realised that staging year-round events or that using the already-existing arches to house shops and cafes would have lured people in?

Fair criticism is all that we ask for.  And, on this occasion, all that we have received.

 

Tar? No tar. It’s a load of old cobbles.

J. Fergus Lamont, arts critic and author of “I’m with Mrs Gerrard’s Accordian Band: Confessions of a Squeezebox Groupie”

The simultaneous closures for refurbuishment of both Aberdeen Art Gallery and Aberdeen Music Hall for, according to my spies, two and three years respectively have left a gaping hole in the city’s cultural life; one with which I, personally, have found it difficult to come to terms. Seeking to fill my aesthetic void, I have even made day trips to (whisper it) Dundee, to take in as many of their delightful Willies as I can.

So imagine my joy when, upon a recent perambulation in the city centre, I chanced upon a spell-binding example of open air guerilla art, gratifyingly given pride of place, slap-bang in the middle of a public thoroughfare. Clearly, with the formal venues out of commission, the city’s creatives have taken to the streets! Last week saw the archways of Union Terrace Gardens dynamically transformed by vibrant graffiti art murals, but this week saw the appearance of a new work which has, for me, bested even that. You won’t be aware of it, it has received little, if any publicity, but I can assure you “The Application of a Thick Coating of Tar to the 18th Century Cobbles on Windmill Brae” is the most dazzlingly provocative public art installation I have ever seen. And I include in that the searing meditation on consumerism and social isolation that was the Trinity Centre’s ‘Giant Christmas Snowglobe’.

“The Tar”, as it has become known among the cognescenti, is a sensational example of its kind. In it, the artist raises potentially controversial questions about the destructive consequences of our environmentally unsustainable reliance on fossil fuels while simultaneously highlighting the dangers of failing to recognise the value of the City’s medieval history.

The piece is rendered all the more powerful by the news that, having just been installed, it is it is to be almost immediately removed again. What makes this all the more remarkable is the fact that the whole thing has been funded, to their enormous credit and with uncharacteristic insight, by the Local Authority. Transient, inept, haphazard, unwelcome and tremendously thick, it presents as a superb metaphor for the elected local representatives who seem unable to refrain from making a sotter of the city’s cultural heritage.

So moved was I when I saw it on Tuesday that I went down on my knees and kissed ‘The Tar’ in ecstatic gratitude. Regrettably, in the 25 degree heat it was bubbling slightly, and as a result I found that the art work and I were, both figuratively and literally, one. At least until the ambulance crew arrived, with a large tub of goose fat and a spatula.

I wept.

Cava Kenny cordiner, the football pundit who goes in feet first

The World Cup qualifiers got off with a flying bang at the weekend, with Scotland in dreamland as they won an impressive win against Malta, the minotaurs of the group. One of my pals had a spare ticket so I got to see the game with my own first hands, and it was a belter.

Scotland was all over them. They scored 5 but it could easily have been more if they had put the ball in the net more times than they done. The last time I seen Malteasers demolished so ruthlessly was when Melody took me to HMT to see Dirty Dancing, because her pal Ruth couldn’t make it.

Of course, the World Cup qualifiers is all building up nicely to the big fixture in the colander, the England game. I can’t wait til November when we get to stick the Auld Enema down at Wembley. That is the tie which will literally separate the men from the goats.

Old Kenny will move mountings to get a ticket for that one, but we don’t have to wait til November to see a match between 2 teams who is constantly at figureheads with each other. Saturday lunchtime sees the first Old Firm game in the top flight for 4 years, and the behaviour of the fans is going to be well and truly under the kaleidoscope.

Melody was asking me which team I was waning to come out on top, and she was surprised when I turned around and says ‘Neither’. ‘I get it’ she says to me, she says, ‘that’s because you hope football will be the winner?’.’No’ I says, ‘it’s because I’ve got a monkey on a 2-2 draw at 14-1’.

Sleep in a Lego chalet? No way – it’s bad enough when you stand on a bit.

Ron Cluny, Official Aberdeen City Council Spokesman

Far be it from me to mock the misfortunes of a rival local authority, but I must admit there was a wry smile or two about the Town House when the news broke that the co-leader of Aberdeenshire Council, Martin Kitts-Hayes, has had to resign following what has come to be known as “Lego-gate”.

Now, we in the City of course enjoy good and cordial relations with the ‘Shire. We are not not at all envious of their record of nominations and wins at the annual Cosla awards, nor do we begrudge them their reputation for sound financial management and high-quality administration.

But the news that one of their most senior elected officers has had to walk the plank after throwing a hissy fit about the standard of his accommodation and returning home early from a trip to LEGOLAND certainly did brighten up a dull Tuesday morning in the Castlegate. Ironic, really, that it was on a jolly to that particular location that he should have chosen to throw his toys out of the pram.

But let us leave to one side childish joshing about what he was doing there in the first place, and the question of whether Aberdeenshire Council’s next team-building exercise is going to be at Hoodle’s Playbarn or the Build-a-Bear Workshop, and focus on more important matters. Apparently, Mr Kitts-Hayes threw a strop and flew straight home, claiming that the accommodation he had been provided with was “like a glorified shed” and “reminiscent of Butlins in the 1970’s” wasting £3,500 of local authority funds in the process.

I have to say, we in the City are made of sterner stuff. I well recall the time I took part in a week-long cultural exchange trip to Thailand and was accidentally booked into premises in the heart of that vibrant city’s pulsating red light district.   I am proud to say that despite the obvious unsuitability of the accommodations I screwed up my courage, girded my loins and stuck it out, uncomplainingly, for the full duration of the trip. I didn’t land my Council with an expenses bill for three and a half grand, either. Though I did my best.

 

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

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions like “How old is the Universe?” “How recent is our understanding of gravitational waves?” and “what kinds of pants are you wearing?” To which I answer, respectively, “Old. New. Borrowed and blue”. But recently people have been asking me about earth-like planets. They’re referring, of course, to the recent discovery of a world comparable to our own orbiting the nearby star Proxima Centauri. The planet itself, which lies within the habitable ‘Goldilocks” zone (which means that if you were to make porridge there, it would be just right), is called Proxima Centauri B. Not the best name for a planet, admittedly, but it knocks spots off Uranus.

It’s always exciting to hear about a planet that we humans could one day colonise and make our own. Especially when considers what a collop we’ve made of this one. I spoke about Proxima Centauri B with my grandson recently, and as I described the potential for human extra-planetary exploration this new Eden, offered to mankind, he sat agog, then his little face lit up and he posed a searching question. “Grandad, will the new planet have any Pokémon?” he asked. I guess Mrs Schlenk and I can start planning to spend the college fund we’d set aside for him.

Thoughts turn, naturally, to exploring the new planet. Now, for those unschooled in Latin, “proxima” means “nearby”. However, as Einstein never tired of saying, everything is relative. Proxima Centauri B is 4.25 light years way. This means that as we observe it today, we’re actually looking at it as it was in May 2011 – Imagine that, a planet where they are still on Season one of Game of Thrones.

Even travelling at the greatest velocity ever achieved by any man-made spacecraft, a journey to Proxima Centauri would take 80,000 years, so selecting a crew for such a mission would be tricky. Whoever is sent would require to have extraordinary resilience to adverse circumstances and an almost maniacal self-belief. Further, neither they nor their descendants would ever return to Earth. All in all, it sounds a like a job for Donald Trump.

It’s the Great Muckle Meiklewartle Bake-Aff!

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s been a delicious wik in the village, as it’s time tae reveal the new season schedules on MTV (that’s Meiklewartle Television, wir local community station “Informing, Entertaining and Edumacting a’ the wye fae Gask tae Sauchen”). Aside fae remaking a bunch of auld sitcoms wi inferior actors (Fit ither broadcaster wid tae attempt something sae daring, yet inexpensive?) we are takin’ a leaf oot o’ the BBC’s book, and hiv come up wi jist the thing tae distract ab’dy fae the appalling drudgery and misery of everyday life: it’s the show fit pits the ‘Oh me!’ intae Home Baking and the ‘Ooh! intae food hygene; The Great Muckle Meiklewartke Bake-aff!

Jist last nicht we recorded the highly emotional fineel, and by the end there wiznae a dry eye in the village hall. Maistly because Feel Moira wiz a bittie o’er-generous wi the lemon juice. Or fit she telt us was lemon juice, onywye.
It’d been a fierce competition, throughout, wi’ oor baker’s dizen whittled doon tae the four finest bakers in the village. Though strangely, neen o’ them was Charlie Skinner, the village baker. Aye, they’re harsh but fair, wir judges Paul and Mary. That’s Paul Lawrie and Mary Marquis (and no, afore ye ask, she’s nae his bidie-in. In spite of the obvious sexual chemistry.)

First oot wiz Haldie Winton, fa couldnae cope as he’d niver used an electric oven afore. Mind you, he is fae Pitcaple, so he’s niver used electricity afore. Next fer the chop wiz Tommy Benzies, fa managed tae lance aff his thoomb files he wis makin oat flapjacks. Nae fine for him, but fine tasting for us- those flapcakes were the sweetest black-puddin I’ve ever hid! Pastry wik an early bath for Skittery Wullie, nae doot his first of the year. If only he hidna used his ain beets in his beef wellington. So that left the favourite, Feel Moira. As I hiv remarked before in these pages, Moira’s approach to cooking is uniquely literal. Hence, her meatballs are at their freshest fan the vet’s been neutering lambs, her scotch broth is understandably popular, and the less said about her Crappit Heid, the better. So it is a peety that the judges set her, as the technical challenge, a deid fly cemetery. And michty we hiv some big flies here in Meikle Wartle. Big juicy eens! As a result, her bake ended up wi a soggy bottom. And, efter they ate it, sae did Paul and Mary. Spik aboot a show stopper! Efter much cogitation behind closed doors (michty, fit a cogitation there wis) the judges were jist aboot weel enough tae declare Feel Moira the winner. Happily, baith are expected tae mak a full recovery. “Ye’ve tae eat a pick o’ dirt afore ye dee”, as my auld granny used tae say. Jist afore she died fae food poisoning. Cheerio!

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner

So Tesco have decided to take the saltire off their Scottish strawberries. Apparently its presence was thought to be divisive. Well, not half as divisive as its absence is going to be! Although I argue for complete independence for 39G Seaton Drive, I do recognise that my major trading links (i.e. my whisky from the Coopie and my fags from the newsagent) are with Scotland. I thereby stand shoulder to shoulder with that fine nation in this latest outrage. The Scottish berry is the second finest in the world, beaten only by Mary – the only Sassenach to whom I have ever pledged my heart. Repeatedly. I have the anti-harassment order to prove it.

Many is the time I have taken the bus through Angus and seen the berries stretched out in their wee polythene hoosies and thought, “That is a sight to make a heart glad. Look at them there – all the strawberries, raspberries, Kenny Logan Berries – soaking up the good Scottish sun, and the good Scottish fuel-additives that are blowing off the motorway, to become the best berries that money can buy.”

But apparently Tesco don’t want to advertise the fact that they are selling Scottish berries, as opposed to their peely-wally, English cousins. Well, this wrong cannot go unchallenged. From this day forth, I shall boycott Tesco and impose unilateral trade sanctions upon the English. So I say no to Melton Mowbray pies! No to Stilton cheese! And no to Yorkshire Tea! Ah yes. Take that, tea-growers of Barnsley!

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We’d all be getting a lot more sleep, if it weren’t for these medalling kids!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports columnist who’s just happy to have made the final.

I can’t not get enough of the Reno Olympics, and like a lot of folk I’ve been staying up way past my bedtime to see the Team BeeGees athletes in action. It’s great to see some new sporting heroes hitting the headlights. In the gymnastics Max Padlock done a great job on the pummel horse, and got another gold for his floor exercises. It was impressive stuff but it fairly made me feel my age. These days, old Kenny’s floor exercises are limited to getting back up again after I’ve tied my lacers.

The cycling has been a lateral gold mine for the Brits. I seen that golden girl and boy Laura Trott and Jason Kenny is engaged to be married, and it got me wondering how fast their kids would be on a bike! You never know, they might be even faster than their parents, and one day catch up with that bloke on the moped.

It was great to see Andy Murray winning another gold. He fairly put us through the mill in a couple of matches but he took care of big Juan Martin Del Monte in the final, and he took care of John Inverdale in the interview after. The lovely Melody said she thought Inverdale was unbelievably sexist, but I never understood what she was speaking about. He looks well past it to me.

One of the stars of the games for me was trampolinist Bryony Page. When I seen her win a silver it inspired me to have a go my loon Zander’s trampoline in the garden. It was easy at first as old Kenny built up some height, but I got my angles all wrong when I tried a sommersault and careered right off it, and landed legs a limbo in the hot tub! It was lucky really, half an hour earlier and Melody would have been in there with the rest of her book group.

But for me the story of this Olympics was the two female runners in the 5000m heat who took a tumble but stopped to help each other so they could both cross the finish line. It reminded me of an incident from my own career. I was playing for Longside against rivals Methlick FC and when the ball come into the box me and their center-forward both went up together, leaping like gammon. Him for the header, me for the deliberate hand ball. There was a clash of heads and the two of us both hit the deck. The other lad got up first, but he never tried to get me sent off or nothing. Instead he put out his hand and helped me to my feet. ‘You ok mate?’ He asked. I was fine, and I never forgot his kindness. So in the second half, I only halfed him the once.

Jonathan M Lewis, head teacher

The Parents’ Association here at Garioch Academy often labour under the misapprehension that the school is in some way ‘off limits’ to our young learners during the summer holidays. This couldn’t be further from the truth, and I can think of no better example than Mr Prentice’s Astronomy Club meeting last Friday night in the local park to marvel at the Pleiades Meteor shower. Sadly, even this demonstration of commitment to learning out with the strictures of the classroom has attracted criticism from some quarters.

I think Mr Prentice would be the first to admit that he should have noticed when attendance was unusually high and perhaps ought to have been wary that the astronomy club ‘regulars’ were somewhat outnumbered by Jordan McGregor and the rest of the lads from the ‘challenging behaviours’ group. In an ideal world, he would have checked the ‘refreshments’ that the pupils had brought with them. but I think we would all concede that in the dark the sound of multiple cans of cider opening is not easily distinguishable from those containing, as was claimed, Vimto.

I am disappointed that the boys proceeded to use Mr Prentice’s high powered camera to document their own activities in the park, rather than the celestial fireworks display. However, there was, at least, a valid scientific element to their high-jinks. When they pushed Astronomy Club captain Stephen MacKintosh on the swing they came close to demonstrating that centripetal force can overcome the pull of gravity. So close. We wish Stephen well and hope that he is soon out of traction and back to staring at the night sky, rather than the ceiling of ward 49.

Synchro diving – what a spectacle! And that’s just the dookers. 

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands most eligible bachelor

Jimmy hisnae left the hoose for 5 days. He’s been waiting for this for the last 4 year and he isnae wasting time scutterin’ aroon Woodside in the rain fan he could be curled up on the couch, cheese ‘n’ chive Pringles generally scattered aboot his person, watchin’ the Olympics.

As folk ken, Jimmy is a great admirer o’ the female form, and fit better subscription-free wye is there tae admire the fittest examples on the planet? In some events the competitors’ kit disnae leave much tae the imagination, youse ken fit I’m spikken aboot – the diving. Oof min! But it’s nae jist the lassies I’m meaning. Jimmy is man enough tae admit that the male Olympians is pretty impressive too. Some of them is nearly as ripped as Jimmy himsel’.

I wiz fair proud o’ the twa British loons fa took bronze in the synchronised 10 metre event. That Daniel Goodfellow lad and the ither een (fa hiz received nae media attention, peer craiter).

Ye hiv tae admire their bravery – I mean, loupin’ intae the air fae 30 feet, completing een o’ that triple somersaults with reverse pike and rip entry, I’d be feart my trunks come aff fan I hit the watter. Like that time Badger Jamieson shoved me hied first aff the top board at the Bon Accord baths. But seeing that boys in their budgie smugglers hiz left me wi’ one burning, unanswered, question. Far div they pit their locker key?

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

This week the Internet his been full o’ clips o’ a crash atween a vintage Mercedes and a spleet new Ferrari. The boy in the Merc niver seen the low-slung Ferrari and reversed right ower the top o’ it – jist ootside his opticians! A load of wags have been saying that that wiz an appropriate place for the accident – although I canna help but think that a public lavvie woud hiv been better, cos fan he looked ower his shoo’der and seen fit he’d reversed intae, the backside will have dropped oot o’ the Merc driver’s world! I dinna think there’s a money saving expert in the world will be able to get him a good deal on his car insurance next year.

Overall, though, it wiz nae as bad as it could hiv been. The damage to the Ferrari looked pretty superficial, and naebody wiz hurt – although I winna let that stop me fae pitting in a claim for the whiplash injury I got fae daein’ a double take fan I seen the picters. But if you ever prang yer motor, dinna fork oot for expensive bodywork repairs, jist tak yer car to my pal, Mick the Pill. I ken that technically, he’s a newsagent and confectioner, nae a panel-beater, but he’ll hae the dents oot in nae time wi his wee toffee hammer and he’ll touch up the paintwork wi’ a melted doon sookie sweetie that’s a perfect colour match. At least, until ye run it through the car wash.

Showbiz news with Shelley Shingles (miss Feteresso 1983)

OMG! Don’t you just love it when an evening you were dreading turns into an absolute legend of a party?! That’s what happened to me on Sunday night. I’d been offered some spokes-modeling work down in Montrose as the face of Arbroath Smokies and when I asked my agent what sort of event I was going to, I could have sworn he said it was an evening with Brian Blessed.

Well, when I got down to the Links, it wasn’t the shoutin’ man mountain at all, it was the Groover from Vancouver, Mr Bryan Adams! The gravel-voiced Canadian might be getting on in years but he is still well lush. I might have got a bit carried away rocking out to his big hits like “Summer of 69″, because lots of folk were staring at me. Maybe it was my totes cool dance moves! Or the fact that I was dressed as a kipper.

Of course, me and Bryan go way back. I first met him when he last played the AECC and I was doing some promotional work for the Edinburgh Woollen Mill. I ended up backstage with the paramedics after over-heating in my kilt, twinset, toorie and shawl just as Bryan was headed back on for his encore, so I called out to him “Play ‘Born to Run’!” Bstaring down right over to my stretcher and I’ll never forget what he said to me.

“That’s a Bruce Springsteen song.”

Wise words from a true gent.

 

If music be the food of love, here’s a mock chop.

J Fergus Lamont, arts critic and author of “Only Dougie Donnelly can judge me: The Shammy Dab story”

Just as flowers spring up in the desert after a sudden fall of rain, the ‘Play Me, I’m Yours’ project has seen a profusion of pianos popping up all over Aberdeen’s public spaces. And what art this gracious bounty has bestowed upon us! There is no cultural experience more uplifting for the soul than the arrival in the ear of music which is both unexpected, and yet familiar. And I include in that Funbox’s groundbreaking ‘Fancy Dress Fun’.

Only the other day in the great functionalist, post-modern shrine to Mammon we call ‘The Trinity Centre’, I chanced upon an artistic happening which took my breath away. A young child; apparently an ingénue, and wholly untutored in the The Arts, approached one such piano, (itself, resembling an otherworldly intruder into this palace of iPhone covers and eyebrow threading). The child’s crusty nostrils flared with excitement, he placed his hands on the side of its mahogany case as one might caress the flanks of a magnificent horse. He paused, and time itself seemed to slow as he surveyed the splendour of the instrument. And then, he sat at the piano stool, drew himself up to his full height, and heedless of his mother’s cries and entreaties, brought his forehead down on the keyboard with great force.

What a moment to be alive! As the crashing chord grabbed the attention of everyone present, I felt the hand of Mozart upon my shoulder. As the notes stretched, distorted and echoed off the glass and concrete walls of the cavernous space, it was as if a young Stockhausen had come among us. And as the boy did it again, and again, and again, I felt the pure, primal surge of ‘punk’ course through my veins. Meanwhile his mother stood, gazing into the window of Argos, ineffectually shouting “Tyler; come awa fae at organ!”

I wept.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s goes in feet first.

Footballers and metal are sometimes always mentioned in the same sentences. David Beckham was famed for his Golden Balls and world-famous crisp salesman Gary Lineker is cried the Silver Fox by some of his female fans. Hibs boss Neil Lennon can now join them, on account of his Brass Neck. Lennon got sent to the stands in the first leg of Hibs’ European game against Brondby the other week for demonstrating with the ref. over the heads of a disallowed goal. The beaks at UEFA have now decided to hand him a 5 game European ban as punishment, and Hibs have announced that they plan to appeal the decision. Now, that is what old Kenny would call flogging a dead hose. By the time Hibs play another 5 games in Europe, Lennon will be collecting his pension.

But he has a history of questioning authority and it’s no surprise to see him unwilling to put his hands up and take his medicine on the chin. Lennon should turn over a new leaf out of my book and throw in the trowel. Back when I was in the skylight of my career, I gave up fighting the powers-that-be over bans and suspensions. In fact, if I ever decide to unhang up my boots, I am subject to a 12 game Highland league ban, a 9 month amateur football ban and, after I chinned so many of them, an order restraining me from coming within 100 feet of anyone acting as a referee.

I can’t wait for Friday, for the start of the Olympics in Reno. Watching some of the globe’s finest athletes compete in the carnivore capital of the world is going to be quite the pair of spectacles. But it’s a shame that not all the big names will be there. Due to the ongoing doping sandal most of the Russian team won’t be coming, like the lovely tennis player Maria Champagne-Supernova. And heaps of golfers have pulled out because of fears over the Zico virus. I’m not surprised – my old mate Willie Miller lined up against Zico at the 1982 World Cup and it still gives him nightmares! But I don’t think Golf should be in the Olympics anyway. The games don’t need an event where a bunch of millionaires play for medals they don’t really care about. Not when they’ve already got the football.