She ain’t heavy; she’s my significant other.

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

Folks wi’ a keen eye for value will nae doot hiv been very interested to see that there is going to be a ‘wobbly wife’ competition at this year’s Turriff Show.  The event, fit his a £10 entry fee, sees competitors pick up their ither-half and race round the display ground, negotiating obstacles, wi’ the winner receiving his wife’s body weight in beer. This represents something o’ a low point for gender equality, but, crucially, a potential high point for value. Wi’ even the maist petite lady likely to be worth around 100 pints, we are speaking aboot 10p a pint for the winner.  The 10p pint his nae been seen since Futret McKechnie sold his home-brew roond the doors in 1986. Ironically, mony o’ the folk fa bought it hinna been seen since neither.

With that incredible prize at stake, the competition is causing considerable interest in the Cash household.  However there are some rules and regulations that potential entrants need to think aboot.  The wife his to be a minimum of 49 kilos, or 7 stone 7, in auld money.  The current Mrs Cash presently tips the scales at aboot 7 stone 4, but his been pit on double rowie rations atween noo and Sunday, and is willing to be force fed Murray Mints on the drive north if that is fit it taks to mak the weight.  We’re going to be giving a lift tae (and takin’ petrol money fae) my pal, Mick the Pill and his missus Pat, fa’re gaan into the competition too.  That really is the triumph of hope over expectation.  Pat is een o’ the nicest folk you could ever meet.  She’ll dae onything for ye and she’s got a heart as big as a whale’s.  The only problem is, the rest o’ her is mair or less in proportion.  This widna be a problem if Mick wiz a similar size.  The difficulty is that Mick is fit the experts wid cry a tiny wee flech o’ a mannie.  I widna say the twa o them are mis-matched, but fan I see them thegither, I’m aye pit in mind o’ Timon & Pumba fae ‘The Lion King’.  Still, Mick refuses to accept defeat.  He says he’s  deceptively strong.  But if he’s going to pull this one off, the deception wid hiv to be of Tony Blair-like proportions.  I dinna think Mick is going to see much value out of his £10 spend.  But his chiropractor might, or his supplier of hernia trusses.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Mtv (Meiklewartle Television) personality Jock Alexander

It’s been a pugilistic week in the village. I wiz shocked tae read the reports o’ a punch up ameen the produce, a fracas in the fruit and veg, a stooshie by the salad, if you will, at a branch of Tescos nae far fae Meiklewartle.  Partly cos ye dinna expect that kind o’thing fae the big city sophisticates o’ Huntly; but maistly because I fair thocht Feel Moira hid the monopoly on that kind of behaviour (regular readers will mind the business wi’ Asda and the JCB).

A few year syne, we established the Meiklewartle Fairmers’ Mairket – an anarcho-syndicalist collective, tae better promote the interests of the locals and flog owerpriced unwashed tatties tae the credulous middle classes. I’ll niver forget oor first day o’ trading. This boy comes up tae Skittery Willie’s stall wi’ a great muckle ploom in his mou and says “tell me my good man, are these sausages organic’ ‘I widna ging ‘at far’ says Willie, ‘but they’re nae bad’.

Onywye, soon efter a large retail chain unwisely set up shop on the outskirts of the village.  Me and my fellow traders were nae happy at the thoct o’ wir prices being drastically undercut – less than ten quid for a free range egg? Outrageous! – and Feel Moira wiz particularly incensed at the potential loss tae local business. Naeb’dy wid touch her crappit heed noo, wid they?  Fair play, they ran a mile fae it aforehand, but still. So she marched roond there, and started swearing and ranting at the manager. It took fower staff, a big family sack o’ frozen peas, and the timely intervention of a shelf-stacking quinie wi’ a label pricing gun tae bring her doon.

I took a verra dim view of Moira’s actions. Violence is niver the answer. So I went in the following wik and hid a load o’ unpasteurised cheese ahind their radiators. Twa wiks later the Environmental Health boys closed em doon.

Cheerio!

And that, as they say, is yer summer.

Archie Fraser, gentleman of the road

It has been said of the British that we are obsessed with the weather. That it is a regular topic of conversation is beyond doubt, and moreover, we tend to use it as a remedy to awkward silences, to break the ice with strangers or to defuse potentially confrontational situations, such as when one is discovered answering the call of nature in someone’s rockery.

“Oi! What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“My dear fellow, I do apologise, it’s been unseasonably hot and I feared your geraniums looked a little parched.”

I could talk for hours about the meteorological vagaries we have had to suffer these last few days. Summer in the North East is a riddle wrapped up in a conundrum. Winter, now…with winter you know where you are.  As a person of no fixed abode one is resigned to the fact that the five months from October to February will be characterized by night after night of freezing off your proverbials. But with summer there’s always the possibility of that singular event, the ‘Really Fine Day’. And Tuesday of this week was an absolute belter. So instead of sitting by the statue of Edward VII in a foul smelling anorak drinking special brew and hurling incomprehensible abuse at passersby, I drank special brew and hurled abuse in my string vest and Y-fronts.

It was so warm I went to sleep under the stars. It was, in almost every respect, identical to the sort of camping holiday which might be undertaken by someone in mainstream society, albeit under the cover not of a waterproof tent from Millets, but of a very chic Laura Ashley duvet cover purloined from a whirly in Ferryhill. But like all good camping trips, it ended in damp recrimination.

For that night, as I slumbered, the Gods, clearly regretful of the fact that half of the population of Aberdeen had acquired a full-on farmer’s tan in under 3 hours, unleashed an electrical storm of biblical proportions on a populace who had dared to dream that once, just once, they might be able to have a barbecue two nights on the trot.

Needless to say, my designer awning proved inadequate, and I was rudely awoken by the sodden floral fabric covering my face. An experience I can only describe as like being water boarded by Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen.

View from the Midden – Rural affairs with MTV (Meiklewartle Television) presenter Jock Alexander

It’s been an anomalistic wik in the village. Firstly, we’ve hid a heatwave, fit fairly got the flies birling aroond the sewage works. Skittery Willie claimed on Tuesday that his thermometer hid gone up til 35°. Although, we canna conclude ower muckle fae that, seeing as we’ve nae idea far he keeps it.

But as weel as meteorological oddities, we hiv also hid tae contend wi a great load of inabootcomer youngsters clambering aboot the fields and dykes wi their mobile phones oot.  Seeking information on fit they wis up til, I decided tae enquire o’ the wee vratch fa wiz clambering aboot my hayloft. Efter jist 10 minties hanging upside doon by the laces on his unsuitable footwear fae the loader on my Massey Ferguson, he telt me it wis a game, and he and a’ the ither gypes , are wandering aboot searching for a imaginary aminals that only they can see.  So I’m proposing a ban on alcopop sales in the village shop.

Feel Moira on the ither hand is real taen wi it a’, and says the hale thing is tae dae wi “augmental reality apps”. Noo I thocht apps wiz the muscles ye get fae daein sit ups, as sported famously by Peter Andre, and, of course, Moira hersel. But no, apparently they’re something folk hae on their phones. I jist hiv buttons on mine.  Onywye, Moira has been seized by technological fervor, and his created her ain version cried ‘Poke o’ Chips, Go”. Apparently, wi her version, you hiv tae get oot intae the open air and roam aroon the village files she seeks ye oot in her burger van. Fan she finds ye, she ‘captures’ ye, keeps ye in the back next tae the deep-fat fryer and disnae let ye oot til ye’ve made a purchase.

I’m nae sure it’ll catch on, but jist in case I’m gan tae stay indoors and get stuck in tae my latest batch of nettle and potato pressé.  Twa pints of that’ll fairly augment my reality. Cheerio!

Brexit? I’m resigned to it. Just like Nigel, Dave & Boris.

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner

What times we live in!  To see the political fall-out, you would think that voting to leave one of the greatest international organisations in the world was a big deal.  You’d also imagine that, if you were going to do something like that, you’d have both a detailed plan of how to go about it and the courage, fortitude and decency to see what you had started to the end.  But instead the big boys what done it have now all run away.  Cameron has resigned; Boris has resigned; Farage has resigned.  Even Chris Evans has resigned, though his involvement was peripheral at best. And now we all have to be resigned to living with the mess they made.

As a passionate believer in the principle that true sovereign democracy involves engagement at local level, and that true engagement at local level entails every individual household being given political independence, I myself am the leader of a political movement: the Independence for 39G Seaton Drive Party.  As the sole member of the party, I think it unlikely that I will face a leadership challenge soon.  But with power comes responsibility, and I, too, have been giving some thought to resigning.  Just as Nigel Farage wants to spend more time with his family, I want to spend more time with my family-sized bucket of KFC.

But if I go, I am keen to ensure that the reigns of power are handed over to the right candidate.  Given that my fellow inhabitants at 39G are a moosie and some mould I found down the back of the cludgie, you might think that leadership potential was not immediately apparent.  However, the moosie has never pretended to be a cat, and has shown great determination in coming back into the house over and over again in search of cheese; while the mould has stubbornly and obdurately clung to the lavvie wall in the face of stern opposition (i.e., Ajax powder).  They may not be the greatest orators of our time, but they have shown levels of honesty and dedication so far utterly lacking from the leading Brexiteers.

Barclay Lloyd, a local Banker you can trust

As manager of the Mannofield branch of the Aberdeen and District Savings bank , a lot of my customers have been coming to see me anxious about what the effects of the Brexit vote are likely to be.  Like the Governor of the Bank of England, Mark Carney, I have been careful not to stand on my desk and cry “PANIC!” Instead, my message is, “Steady as she goes.”  At local level, life will continue to go on much as before.  We will continue to try to computerise everything, so that instead of assisting you with your enquiry bank employees can cheerfully introduce you to a machine that you don’t know how to work.  Your local branch will continue to operate with the threat of closure hanging over its head.  Opening hours will continue to be short and inconvenient and we will continue to try to sell you financial products that you do not need.  I trust that in an ever-changing world, our customers find some reassurance in the fact that there are some things on which they can always rely.

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna Ken aboot yous, but I love it fan a politician comes out wi a soundbite I can use in my daily life. Maggie Thatcher started it off wi “The lady is not for turning”. I found this handy on mony occasions, especially fan the bobbies tried tae lift me fan I wis on my wye tae the Ministry nightclub and drove my Fiat Panda the wrang wye doon Dee street.

Tony Blair hid a good een wi “Education, education, education”. I find it particularly useful faniver the school is failing tae meet the learning needs o’ een o’ my bairns. Like the time they tried tae exclude Beyonce-Shanice for setting fire tae the library.

And noo, beer-swilling, fag-smoking hate-pedaling UKIP supremo Nigel Farage has come oot wi a belter: “I want my life back”. I dinna think I’ll iver tire o that een!

Next time someb’dy tells me tae wait my turn at the dole office? “I want my life back.”  Next time they tell me at Asdas that it’s 5p fer a carrier bug? “I want my life back.” And next time a box o painkillers tells me tae avoid operating a threshing machine when using this product? Da think so sunshine, “I want my life back!”

Brexit stage-right. E.U.’s sorry now?

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire north and surrounding nether regions

Now, let me be clear. It might well feel like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse arrived on your doorstep in the early hours of Friday 24th of June. You may have experienced some disquiet whilst the pound and the FTSE both got wiped out like a pre-referendum promise being hastily removed from the side of a bus, but trust me, Boris and Mickey G. definitely had a plan in the event of a Brexit vote. And that plan was, ‘hide’.

But by Gove, I am, of course, absolument devastated that Super Dave felt he had to fall on his sword immediately after the referendum. If you thought Sam Cam looked a bit weepy during Dave’s resignation speech, you should have seen me! I was howling like a toddler who had just been told she’d no longer be getting croissants or babybel for snack. Or, when she was 21, 6 months on an Erasmus University exchange programme where she might meet and marry a gorgeous Scandanaivian, set up home in her choice of the world’s most beautiful cities and live a life of open-minded happiness and equality. But never mind. I’m sure it’ll be fine.

But more importantly, what next for the Tory party? Well, a leadership contest beckons, and what a whizz-bang choice we have! From Steve ‘the Wolverine’ Crabb, to Theresa ‘Lusty month of’ May. But – shock of shocks- no Bojo! A rum do, but probably for the best. Putting Boris in charge now would be somewhat akin to making the iceberg Captain of the Titanic.

If I had been able to locate my smart phone I would have tweeted something on Twitter. But I’ve been blind drunk since last Friday – blocking out the destruction of our economy, the implosion of the current political system, and the idea that Jeremy Hunt could believe – even for one nano second – that the general public would support him as Tory leader. I mean, the Great British electorate aren’t that crazy. Are they?

Barney Eunson, Labour Party Spokesman

The Labour Party is a great institution which acts as a great force for social mobility. For instance, I, a humble baggage handler from Prestwick, have been able to rise through the ranks and achieve my current position due to hard work, my commitment to socialist principles and the fact that my surname sounds like a major trade union.

Following the pain and confusion of the Brexit vote, many have said that Labour is disconnected from reality. Be assured that we are not. With the government in turmoil; with the national interest served by decisive action, we know exactly what the public expects from us at this time, and we will deliver it: two years of furious recrmination and infighting over the party leadership. Take that, Tories!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who doesn’t really know what he’s doing here.

In the immoral words of Frankie Vialli and the Close Seasons, “Oh what a night!” I still haven’t come down from Monday’s excitement. England was up against Iceland at the Euros and they got gubbed! I don’t not normally agree with anti-English sediments, but when I hears the commentators banging on about playing France in the next round, even after they was 2-1 down, I have to admit, I wasn’t not sorry to see them get their comeuppance worth.

It all started so well for the Aldi Enemy, too. They got a pen early doors and Iceland was all at sea. But straight after scoring is when a team is at their most venerable and when the Icicles got a long throw the English defence switched off the boil and let them score. Then they scores another to take the lead and all of a sudden the people from Iceland was in Dreamland. Which is just next to Iceland, but never qualified.

After the full time whistle was blowed, and it sunk in that England was laminated from the competition, the incest began. A lot of people was blaming Woy Hodgson for his dodgy tictacs, and others was pointing the finger at the feet of the English defence. Personally, I think the real problem was the goalie and anti-dandruff activist Joe Hart. Fair play to the lad, after the match someone asked him whose fault it was and he was quick to put his hands up. Shame he never done that during the game.

 

In, oot, in oot shoogle it aboot.

It’s the day of the EU Referendum, so if you haven’t already made your mind up, it’s not too late to be influenced by people every bit as ill-informed as yourself.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, Earl of Kinmuck

At the risk of sounding like that ghastly parvenu, Duncan Bananatyne, I’m ‘Out’. For too long this country has suffered under the oppressive yoke of the EU, with its fixation on regional development, health and safety, paid holidays for the working classes, and compulsory Camembert for the under 5s. Now, at last, we can reverse this tommyrot. Just a pity we’ve had to have a referendum to do it. It will only encourage the lower orders into thinking that their views matter. So come on Britain! Take back control! And give it to people like me!

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands most eligible bachelor

Immigration is the big issue in this Referendum. The European Directive on the free movement of persons means that folks fae aa ower the EU are able tae come tae Aiberdeen; and as Jimmy gings aboot his business in the toon, he can’t help but notice the high numbers of icy blondes and exotic brunettes gaan aboot. Thank you, Jean-Claude Junker! Jimmy is ‘In’!

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, ordinary mum

The problem with this referendum is that the Tories have pitched their tents in both camps. Freethinkers like myself usually locate the moral high ground as being wherever the Conservative Party isn’t. So being forced to side with either Cameron & Osborne or Johnson & Gove is a little like being offered a choice between refreshing drink of either arsenic or cyanide. For our family it’s especially tricky. Our au pair, Snezanha (she’s Bulgarian but she’s marvelous) is very keen on the EU, which she says has allowed her to seek a better life (she hopes, one day, to be able to put her degree in petroleum geology to good use). On the other hand, Milo, my hubby – currently in Belize for tax reasons – says there’s a mint to be made on currency speculation in the event of a brexit, and that all the non-doms are rubbing their hands at the prospect. For me, the crucial thing is the supremacy of democracy. And Milo gets a vote, while Snezhana doesn’t!

Tanya Souter, life-style guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I canna wait fer this referendum to be ower, it hisnae half clogged up my Facebook feed! Onywye, I’ve decided tae vote Remain. I’m nae an expert on this type o’ thing, but I dinna really think the UK can leave Europe. Nae wi oot a lot o’ upheaval and cost tae the taxpayer, like you (though nae me). Dinna get me wrang, if they could lift the UK and move it across the ocean tae the Caribbean at I’d be all for it, but fan you look at the time it’s taken take finish the 3rd Don crossing, I just dinna hink it’s realistic.

Doddle Esslemont, radical Independence campaigner (Freedom for 34g Seaton Road!)

This truly is a difficult decision. While I wholeheartedly support independence for Scotland as a logical first step towards the creation of further autonomous regions – i.e., my house – I have no great desire to leave Europe, which I think would be economically disastrous. However, it would increase the chances of a new Scottish referendum. It is a real quandary, one that I intend to resolve in the manner of a true patriot; by doing nothing, then blaming whatever result we end up with on the English.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who goes in two footed

As regulatory readers will know, old Kenny does not usually get involved in politics. I prefers to sit in defence. But in Thursday’s Rhododendron, I will be voting ‘In’. My thinking is simple. Back when I was a Dandy Don and we won the league in 1980, Fergie comes rushing into the dressing room and he says to us, he says “Great news lads! Next season, we’re into Europe!” Well, if it is good enough for Fergie, it is good enough for me.

Jock Alexander, rural correspondent

We’re nae voting in the Referendum, as thanks tae a wee administrative error in 1974 involving a waylaid returning officer and a wickerman, Meikle Wartle wis nivver in the EU in the first place. But we hiv wir ain vote, on a question of equal import – whether we in the village should exit, or stay in – the pub. Feel Moira is a fierce proponent of ‘Remain’. She’s been here for 72 hours, has locked the door and swallowed the key. Skittery Wullie, however, is adamant we should leave, as he has left his fags ootside. To support his position he unveiled a controversial poster of a long line of bedraggled inabootcomers fae Mains o Glack, queuing for the bar.

The debate then got a bittie heated, fan Moira set fire tae the snug. I wiz undecided, and am currently wavering, because I climbed oot a windae and am now hanging on for dear life tae a shooglie gutter. All things considered, I think I’m better aff in, not that I’m really feeling the gravity of the situation!

The Seagull has landed; in the Tikka Masala.

Professor Hector J Schlenk, Senior research fellow at the Bogton Institute. 

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions: questions like, “Will solar-powered airplanes ever become commercially viable?”, “Would Brexit really threaten the future of UK scientific research?” and “If Americans can readily accept that preventing the carriage of liquids on aircraft is likely to make them safer, why do they fail to appreciate that allowing people to own assault weapons is a staggeringly bad idea?” To which I answer, “Not in my lifetime”; “Ian Duncan Smith was willing to charge victims of domestic violence a bedroom tax of £20 a week for having a police-approved panic room; do you really think he’s the kind of fellow who will open up the purse strings to fund blue-sky scientific research?” and “I am a humble man of science; some mysteries are beyond my ken, and even beyond my friend Ken’s ken.”

This week, following a couple of particularly eye-catching news stories, people have been asking me mainly about seagulls. A Welsh seagull managed to dye itself a remarkable shade of orange after face-planting into a vat of curry; a story on which I have three observations. Firstly, gulls, as naturally curious scavengers who are becoming increasingly integrated into human society are unusually susceptible to this sort of pratfall. Secondly, the story was not quite as alarming as I thought it was going to be when I saw the headline, “seagull found in chicken curry.” Thirdly, despite the fact that gulls share only 60% of their DNA with humans, the poor afflicted bird still somehow managed to pull off exactly the same look of wounded dignity as my research assistant Eric did when he fell asleep in his lamb bhuna during the works Christmas night out.

I was further reminded of the similarity between human and avian life-forms when I read the story of Oliver, a magnificent bird of prey who had to take cover mere seconds into a falconry exhibition after being set upon by a gang of unruly seagulls. For some reason, when I read that story, I thought of the occasion when I required to shield myself from a fusillade of paper planes propelled by my enthusiastic but challenging first year science class. The raptor’s rescue party found Oliver cowering round the back of a bungalow. Mine found me locked into the downstairs staff toilet.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who knows what it’s like to be on your final warning from the sport’s governing body.

And we’re off! After months of emancipation, Euro 2016 has finally arrived and Old Kenny is rubbing his hands with glue! There is nothing I like more than gorging myself on the beautiful game, and this tournament is a verifiable fast of football.UEFA has expanded it to 24 teams, which means that alongside the traditional powder houses of European football like your Italys, your West Germanys and your Spaniels, we find some of the minnows like Northern Ireland and Albania. Sadly, of course, Scotland is not in amongst them, and it doesn’t half rub salt in the wind when you hear some of the games coming up. Like Iceland v Hungary. That doesn’t sound like an international football match at all, it’s more like what Melody says to me when she’s sending me out for the messages.

England made their typical start to a tournament; they looked like they’d got off to a flyer and would destroy anyone who stood in their way, only to be caught out by a sucker punch from the well-organised and disciplined Russians. And much the same could be says about their football team!

But Old Kenny’s moment of the tournament so far was in the Albania v Switzerland game when the commentator was saying that there was a player on each team that was brothers with each other. I thought he’d made a bit of a Colemanballs, like that famous commentator David Colemanballs used to do all the time. But it turns out he was right! Imagine what that must be like for the boys’ parents? It got me thinking of my pal Dunter Duncan. He’s got 2 boys, Shuggie and Dougie. Shuggie was born in Aberdeen but Dougie was born when Dunter and his wife was living down in Manchester for legal reasons. There was a warrant out for him for non-payment of fines at Banff Sheriff Court. Dunter’s been worried ever since that his loons will grow up to play against each other – one for Scotland and one for England. Luckily for Dunter, though, it’ll never happen. I’ve seen them play, and they are mince.

Who can forget those immortal words: “Float like a butterbean, sting like a flea”

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports pundit who’s not afraid to play the man.

I felt dead sorrow for Andy Murray this weekend when he got beat in the final of the French Open at Roland Barrows. I fair thought he had a chance until I seen he was up against his old menaces, Novak Shopping-list. I says to the lovely Melody when we sat down to watch it, I says, “I fair think Novak’s got Andy’s number”. Melody turned around and says to me she says “probably, they’ve known each other for years!”

You have to feel for tennis players. It’s a very gladiola sport – one athlete pivoted against the other, nowhere to hide, no team-mates to rely on, and not even the possibility of sliding in and halfing an opponent that’s miles better than you, which I always found was a great leveller. They say that tennis is a mental game, which makes me wonder if I could have made something of it myself, because I was always known for being a mental player.

Mind you, Andy started great before fading, so there are a lot of positives that he can take into Wimbledon. If he can just get more first serves in, rule out the unforced tremors, and slip a ground-up packet of laxatives into Novak’s barley water, then I think he’s got every chance.

Mind you, the disappointment what I felt when I heard Andy had lost the tennis was like nothing like the disappointment what I felt when I heard that Muhammad Ali had passed away. Muhammed was more than just a boxer; he was one of the great light-on’s of the 20th Century. He was the most amazing physical specimen I ever seen, and I’ve shared a dressing room with Doug Rougvie. No-one could never forget Ali’s way with words, like when he said he floated like a butterbean and stung like a flea. And he managed to mix politics and sport too, something that very few people manage to pull off. Apart from Sebastian Cocoa. Mind you, if Donald Trump was to take up boxing, I reckon I’d buy a ticket for that.

I’ll always remember sitting up as a kid, watching the Thriller in Vanilla and the Rumble in the Jumble. Even now, remembering that famous ‘Soap-on-a -rope’ fight, it fairly makes the hairs on the neck of my back stand up a when I think about how Ali withstood that pounding from George Foreman. I know how agonising tangling with that man can be – I once caught my thumb in the hinge of a Lean Mean Grilling Machine.

PC Bobby Constable, Community Policeman (Retired)

I see a karaoke performance given in the Waterloo pub in Glasgow by Sergeant Jon Harris of Police Scotland has gone viral on the Internet.  Sergeant Harris had been called to the pub to deal with a disturbance and having sorted it oot it wis prevailed upon to get up on the stage and belt out a version of “I Will Survive”, to a wildly enthusiastic audience. I canna help but think that something by The Police might have been more appropriate; but still, he could have chosen worse.  “Can You Feel the Force?” would have been an error of judgment.

Opinion seems to be fairly evenly split on whether he should have done it or no, which is sad, but mair or less par for the course.  Abody ayewis says they wint the police to show some common sense and exhibit a light touch, until we do, at which point they gets aa po-faced and accuse us o’ being unprofessional.

Fan I wiz oot on the beat, I wiz awyse happy to try something unorthodox to defuse tensions.  I mind fan I wiz jist a young Bobbie, I came upon a right rammy outside the Star and Garter, fan twa loons were fighting ower a lassie.  I decided that what they needed to get them back on good terms wiz a common enemy, so I wint aff wi the quine myself.  The tactic wiz very successful – so much so that within minutes, the twa of them hid forgotten their differences and come thegither as one to kick in the windaes o my panda car.

Don’t miss the Flying Pigs live in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at His Majesty’s Theatre Aberdeen until Saturday June 11th

‘Activities Week’ – when ‘trip hazard’ takes on a new meaning

Jonathan M Lewis, Headteacher at Garioch Academy

Educating the ‘whole child’ is a remit we at Garioch take very seriously, and Activities Week is at the heart of our programme of learning beyond the classroom. Yes, the traditional model of pupils learning disparate subjects from specialist teachers has its place, but when young people experience things out of their ‘comfort zone’ – that’s when the magic happens.

Naturally, these school trips are not without risk, and breaking news of an incident to parents is one of the hardest jobs a headteacher ever has to undertake. This year, however, I’m delighted to report that our list of casualties is exclusively comprised of staff.

First of all, given her daily lectures on the importance of pupils using factor 50 sunscreen, Miss Forrest is all too aware of the irony surrounding her hospitalization for sunburn in the Ardeche. Apparently, the ‘Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil’ she was applying was not a protection, but an accelerant. Happily, I hear her blisters have now burst and she assures me she’ll be back at Garioch as soon as the bandages are off.

Mr Grieve is well on the road, or should I say canal, to recovery in Amsterdam where his concussion is expected to have no lasting ill-effects. It seems he stood up to remind the pupils of canal boat safety just as they passed beneath the Magere Brug. There is no truth in suggestions that his unsteadiness may have been connected to a visit to the Mellow Yellow Coffee Shop. Mr Grieve simply enjoys coffee, particularly ‘black’. From Morocco.

Lastly, our thoughts are with Mr Strudwick following his accident on the school ski-trip to Chamonix. He is due out of traction shortly. I’m sure he will never forget what a ‘black run’ is, and how important it is that beginners steer clear of them. I mentioned that when I phoned him in hospital in Geneva the other day. He said that he’ll never forget hitting a tree legs akimbo at 50 mph, either. Which sums up Activities Week rather nicely. It’s all about the memories.

Professor Hector Schlenk, Senior Research Fellow, the Bogton Instutute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions; questions like, “are we now at a tipping point where green electricity is going to become the dominant source of the world’s energy?”; “will we ever see a return of supersonic flight?”; and, “would you mind not dancing like that, sir, you’re frightening the other customers.” To which the answers are “plausibly”; “certainly”; and “I don’t care if this is a KFC, when I feel the groove, I gotta get down.”

This week, people have mainly been asking me about Harambe, the gorilla shot dead in Cincinnati Zoo after a young boy fell into his enclosure: a tragic outcome, and no doubt a heart-rending decision for the keeper that had to fire the fatal shot. I have been asked if the keeper’s actions can be justified. I am in no doubt that they can. There is broad agreement amongst the scientific community that zoo animals should be kept in conditions which closely simulate those which they would experience in the wild. Harambe was a western lowland gorilla, a species which has been hunted close to extinction by poachers. How sadly fitting, then, that even if he lived like a captive, Harambe died like his wild cousins

Archie Fraser, Gentleman of the Road

The life a gentleman of the road is not an easy one. After a high-spirited youth set fire to my sleeping bag in the early hours of Saturday morning, I have been temporarily reduced to bedding down, hamster-like, upon discarded copies of newspapers. I would already have attempted to negotiate the purchase of a replacement from one of the city’s fine charity shops, but my dear friend “Bones” McCracken has promised me his one when he no longer requires it, and given the noises that now emanate from his chest when he lights his first tabbie of the day, it seems that day draws near.

As I lay my head down last night I read that the Council intends to install wifi facilities on park benches. This suggestion has been met with some derision, unfairly in my view. I think any initiative that ehnhances the comfort and utility of our public spaces is to be applauded. So I say yes to park bench wifi! And also to park bench memory foam mattresses, and, if its not too much trouble, park bench drinks cabinets.

Don’t miss the flying Pigs live in ‘Dreich Encounter’ from tonight until Saturday 11^th June at HMT

More Brits are atheists than Christians?  I don’t believe it.

The Reverend Edmund Everend, Minister for Holburn North North West

A recent poll showed that there are now more atheists in the UK than there are Christians, and my parish has been abuzz with the news. By which I mean, old Jessie McGarrity asked me about it yesterday when I visited her in hospital.

Jessie seemed troubled; not uncommon for someone about to undergo a colonoscopy, but I sensed that spiritual matters lay at the root of her discomfort. “Have we become as godless as that, Minister?” she asked me. “What does it mean?” I sought to reassure her. The faithful will still be the faithful, however few we become, I said. And perhaps the news was not all bad – perhaps . now that we are a minority group we will have to be treated with a little more respect than that to which we have become acustomed in recent times. But more than this; Christ and the Church’s teachings still shape the traditions, the mores and the vocabulary of our society, even for those who are non-believers. When people of all genders and sexual orientations do not clamour to be married; when people cease to cry out the Lord’s name when they strike their thumbs with a hammer; when breathless girls stop repeating “Oh. My.God.” into their mobile phones; that is when the Church will be in trouble.

Jessie closed her eyes, settled back in her bed and waved me off, saying “I’m ready for my colonoscopy now.” Truly, what a joy it is to bring comfort to people in their time of strife.

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

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions. Questions like; how long does meldonium stay in your system? Is it true that a high-fat diet can help you lose weight? And do you have any shirts that don’t have ink-stains around the breast pocket? The answers to which are – longer than I initially imagined (sorry, Maria), no – put the big mac down and make your way quietly to the salad bar; and no, no, a thousand times, no.

This week I have mainly been asked about the University of Aberystwyth’s overseas campus in Mauritius, which has been criticised for costing the university £600,000 and has enrolled only 40 students. A former head of the University described the campus as “madness”. Clearly the local seafood and snorkelling opportunities in Aberystwyth must be better than I had imagined. I have already written to my colleagues there, offering to go to the campus to give an expert assessment of its suitability as a venue for tertiary education. Without wishing to pre-judge the matter, I imagine that I would be able to give the venture a clean bill of health. It would be a long and arduous journey, but it is one, in the spirit of collegiality, that I would be willing to undertake. Especially in business class.

It has become standard practice in the sector to open campuses in glamorous locations: consider, for example, Glasgow Caledonian’s campus in New York and Heriot Watt’s campus in Dubai. Hence my own Alma Mater, the Bogton Institute’s new satellite campuses, in Boyndie and Clatt.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s full of exuberance.

Although it is a staple gun in the football calendar, I had some respirations about watching the Scottish Cup Final on Saturday. For the first time ever, the trophy was to be congested by 2 teams from outside the top lung in the football bladder. It wasn’t no minnows playing, though. One of them was a club that has a proud history at the top of Scottish football and the other one was Rangers.

I tell you, it was some of the best action on a football pitch I’ve seen for years. It was passionate, energetic, fast-paced and not for the faint hearted. That’s the pitch invasion I’m on about. The game was mince. I must say I wasn’t surprised to see the Hibs fans steaming onto the pitch. Half of them was steaming in the stands!

Seriously though, it is a sad fate of a stairs when football fans can’t not celebrate a victory in a calm and signified manner. Nobody deserves to be taunted and invoked by the opposition fans, even if they do support Rangers. The worst of it was when some Hibs fans swung for the Rangers team. There is no place in the great game of football for fans trying to injure opposing players.That should be left to the professionals, like myself.

Don’t miss the fliying Pigs live in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen, 2^nd -11^th June

 

David Cameron says some governments are corrupt. Weel, if onyb’dy should ken…

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

I observe that the PM has got himself in a spot of the old hot water again, having been recorded saying that Nigeria and Afghanistan are “fantastically corrupt”.

It is said that this will cause him some embarrassment, given that he is soon to be meeting the heads of those particular states.   On some levels, Cameron has only himself to blame for his discomfiture. The man is freer with his opinions than a loquacious Liverpudlian docker after a dozen Guinness. An element of restraint does a fellow no harm on these occasions. Whenever I am going to say something off-colour I always take appropriate measures to ensure that there are no eavesdroppers. Or no surviving ones, at any rate.

But really, the whole thing is political correctness gone mad. It is a verifiable fact that the countries in question are listed as among the most corrupt places in the world in the Corruption Perception Index 2015. Anyone in doubt of that can go and check the document themselves. I do, regularly, before doing business overseas; hence my recent decision to invest in Somalia.

We Fawkes-Huntes, like everyone else who count themselves among the 1%, have long known that entering into mutually beneficial deals with shady characters is a surer route to serious wealth than playing by the rulebook of conventional wisdom. They understand free enterprise much more clearly than those who would seek to tie us in knots with competition law, money laundering regulations and rules against corporate homicide. The ninth earl greatly enhanced the family fortune by getting into the Nigerian gold-mining industry. I, myself, have invested heavily in horticulture overseas, with great success. The profits from my poppy farm up by the Khyber Pass have surpassed my wildest expectations.

So was David Cameron correct to say that Nigeria and Afghanistan are “fantastically corrupt”? Yes. My family’s experience demonstrates that they are utterly corrupt. And it’s fantastic.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who goes in studs up.

There’s an old saying that says that “football without the fans would not be nothing”. It is true that the beautiful game is all about the supporters, but sometimes that very fans can let the side down. Take Tuesday night, for example. Man United went down to the big smoke to stick West Ham in the last ever game at the Anne Boleyn ground. But when they was driving into the car park, some Hammers fans got a bit lairy and chucked bottles and cans and smashed up the team bus.

Now, as old Kenny always says, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of banter, but I think they took it too far there. Back when I was playing our fans used to pull pranks on the opponents all the time, but it was never malnutritious. Mind you, I remember once when I was at Longside and we was sticking local rivals Mintlaw, the fans chucked eggs and flour at their team bus in the car park. We was all laughing at the time and we thought that no harm was done. But it rained during the match which turned the flour and eggs into a sort of batter on the windscreen, and when their bus left the driver couldn’t see. He scraped down the offside of my Bentley and rear-ended Dunter Duncan’s Vectra. Then, by the time they got back to Mintlaw, the bus was a right-on, on account of the engine compartment being clogged with pancake. After all that wonton destruction, the fans never done it again. Because Mintlaw is walking distance from Longside and they stopped taking the bus after that.

Of course, in my playing days I was on the receiving end of plenty of hostile receptacles myself. When I was playing for Brechin we was sticking neighbours Arbroath in a cup replay. When we come out of the dressing rooms the Arbroath fans treated us to the “Gayfield rumble”, which was when they made a heap of noise and stamped their feet to try and scare us. Of course, they never scared me, when I was a Dandy Don, i had sat on the bench at Parkhead. I’ll tell you what did scare me that day, though. When I went to the lavvies at half time, the away dressing room didn’t have any bog roll, and I’d had a smokie for my breakfast. Criminal.

See the Flying Pigs live next month in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen, Thursday 2nd to Saturday 11th June