Maria’s toughest court appearance may lie ahead.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s performance is never enhanced

These days the papers is sometimes always printing stories about yet another sports star who has failed a drugs test. So much so, in fact, that old Kenny has become desanitised to it. But when I seen that the latest offender was Russian tennis star Maria Champagne-Supernova, my jaw hut the roof.
For once, Old Kenny went and done some research about this story before jumping to any contusions. And I have to say that after finding out what I have finded out about it, I do feel a bit sorry for the lad. She says she’s been taking the drug for 10 years and she never knew that her totally innocent unlicensed Latvian heart-disease medicine had become an inhibited substance. The drug only got banned on New Year’s Day and poor Maria was none the wiser as she hadn’t opened the attachment on her email. I can’t say I blame her. Never mind emails, after a cracking Hogmanay party old Kenny never even opened his curtains on New Year’s Day!
Some folks is saying she should get banned for life, whilst others is saying it’s just an accident but one thing I do know is that ignoramus is no defence in the eyes of the in-laws. It reminds me of my playing days when I was still with the Dons, and Fergie says he was fed up of players turning up for training hungover. To stamp it out he told us he was going to do a urine test the next day. It might be hard for my readers to tell, but old Kenny was never all that any good at tests, so after training I went to calm my nerves with a pint at the White Cockade.
When I got there, I bumped into one of my old Kincorth pals, Kenny Carle. We got chatting and I ended up there til chucking out time. When I told him about my test in the morning, Kenny had a cracking idea. He says to me, he says “Take some of Melody’s with you in a bottle”, which I done. When Fergie got the test results back he comes rushing over to me with a face like a mauchie day at Foveran. I says to him, I says “What’s the problem Gaffer?” And he says to me, he says “Well Kenny, the good news is there wasn’t no alcohol in your system.” “And what’s the bad news?” I says. “The bad news is I can’t play a left back who’s 6 weeks pregnant.”

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding Nether Regions.

Good old Boris! You do have to love the Latin-spouting floppy haired man-child.

It turns out BoJo got one of his lackeys to send an email to all of his staff saying that they must not publicly express an opinion on the Brexit question unless it was his one. Basically, everyone who works for him has to support him, or keep their big mouths shut. Then, when Mr Tumble is called out for delivering a diktat of staggering pomposity and hypocrisy (once the email is leaked to the BBC) he immediately blames the lackey who sent it (even though said flunkey was ordered by Boris to send the email in the first place – allegedly). Of course Old Boris hilariously calls it an ‘almighty cock-up’ and everybody laughs and says “Oh, that’s just Boris”.

And that’s what’s so bally irksome. When I do something jolly naughty – like calling my constituents ‘a bunch of incomprehensible tractor botherers’ or giving Annabel Goldie a wedgie – I get firmly reprimanded by Tory Party Central Office and forced to publicly apologise for my actions. Yet the boy Boris does something wrong, he just says something like “oh, well, gosh, I am a silly billy. But I do have adorably chubby fingers and hilarious hair” and everyone just laughs and lets him off with it.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a Boris fan (well – in so far as Super Dave will allow it!) but this is the chap who might yet lead the party and as a result, the country. So what can we expect from PM BoJo? “Ah, yes, well, the thing is, ah, yes, I did invade Finland. And that was a jolly rum thing to do and I wont do it again.” or Whoops, I appear to have accidentally spent the entire defence budget on jelly babies. Mea very much culpa, now who’s for a game of whiff whaff?”.

Craigievar Castle Tour highlights: drawing room, great hall, nudie wifie…

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru
I hate it fan a new romance fizzles oot.  Ye ken fit like, one minute yer sookin i face aff some loon in the smoking shelter at Soul, then a few wiks later, yer squeezin the plooks on his back files watchin Ant & Dec on telly.  That’s why I’m eyewis on the look oot fer new wyes tae pit some spice back intae yer relationship.  Fan I seen that there’s been a stooshie ower nudie photies teen at Craigievar Castle, I thought yous might like my top tips fer using boudoir photies tae pit a bit lead in yer pencils.
Firstly, it’s important that yer photies is tasteful.  That disnae mean flowin curtains an chaise-longues – it means they should be teen by someone else.  A selfie o yer bits is nae a good look, despite fit a’ the blokes I’ve met through online datin’ think!
Secondly, ye need tae mak sure that the ambiance is ga’n tae mak ye look glamorous. Ging fer soft focus an use props like a cushion or a mock chop supper to hide yer love handles.  My pal, Big Sonya, got photies teen in the buff fer her last boyfriend.  She draped a chiffon scarf with yalla dots roon herself to try to look allurin’.  Her lad took one look and said “Fit wye are you giving me a photo of Mr Blobby?”.
Maist important, ye need tae mak sure that ye’ve got permission tae tak yer photies at yer chosen location.  This is fit’s caused a’ the bother ower at Craigievar.  Mind, it still sounds like lot less trouble than my ither pal, Nae-wise Natalie, got intae fan she treated her man tae saucy snaps.  She thought some shots o her in the skud, draped ower the bonnet o his dream car, wid look great.  It’s jist a peety the staff at Arnold Clark didnae agree!

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman
An opinion poll has ranked Aberdeen City as one of the least Eurosceptic districts in Britain. The Shire is not far behind, and Scotland overall is more pro-European than England. It seems that many people in the South-east, in particular, see no inherent contradiction between employing cheap, industrious Polish builders to knock up an extension and complaining bitterly about the free movement of people.
David Cameron must be regretting attempting to lance the boil of Tory Euroscepticism. Just now, it seems the boil has seized the lance from his hands and is jabbing away furiously at him. Fortunately there are lessons he can learn from Aberdeen. Here, we associate Europe with good things – a sunshine break away from the dreich weather of home, a tasty frankfurter to fortify us when Christmas shopping, and Aberdeen’s glorious victory over Real Madrid in Gothenburg. So all Cameron has to do to secure a resounding “Oui” on June 23rd is send everyone in England on a package holiday, press a knockwurst into their hands and arrange for Arsenal to win the Champions League. Caker.

View from the Midden – Jock Alexander, Rural Affairs Correspondent
Weel, michty, it’s been a celestial wik in the village! Aye, the nicht skies were a’ lit up the ither day wi the maist impressive flash seen since aul’ Jim Bruce did his bet-winning drunken streak aroon’ the village square.
Ye’ll have seen the dashcam footage – a’ across the countryside, efter dark, folk are heard tae swear loudly at the sudden appearance o’ a blinding light. Partly because it wiz so unusual, but maistly as it illuminated the horrendous roads they were drivin’ doon, and showed they were aboot to run int’a pot-hole.
Thinking it wiz a meteorological phenomenon, I askit oor village weathergirl, Feel Moira, fit had happened. She’s afa good at divinin’ future conditions fae the arrangement o’ twigs in her teapot. No matter fan it is, she can aye predict that the temperature will be 5 degrees and it will be dingin’ doon hale watter; and this bein’ Aiberdeenshire, she’s niver wrang. But it turn’t oot it wizna a weather effect of a, but a great muckle meteor explodin’ in mid-air!
This wiz exciting news for a’ o’ us in the village, and fair calmed doon Skittery Wullie, fa is a big X-Files fan, initially suspected aliens, and hid taen to his chunty roof wearin’ a tin-foil hat.
And so, naturally, having learnt there wiz nithin sinister aboot the event, we are going to dae the  decent thing – suppress the mundane truth, and rebrand Meikle Wartle as Area 53, makin sure the stocking the village shop wi’ plenty o’ alien masks and toy flying saucers for ony tourists that we manage tae lure in by! Cheerio!

 

Twitter – for people who prefer antisocial media.

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North
Of an evening, after a hard day representing the plebs, I like nothing more than to dis-robe, pour myself a large Brandy and perch my considerably hirsute posterior on the office pouffe to watch re-runs of Blackadder. This, I find, is the ideal state in which to fully appreciate the utter wonderfulness of that fellow ex-public schoolboy, Stephen Fry. A national treasure to rank alongside Dame Judy Dench, Sir Bruce Forsyth and Michael Portillo.
So I was bally horrified to hear that poor Stephen, after delivering one of his trademark witty asides at the BAFTAs earlier this week, has been so attacked, so harangued over the Twitter-sphere that he has decided to leave the social medium entirely. He is, presumably, moving across to Instagram which has considerably less in the way of cultural zeitgeist and social commentary but significantly more images of top-class totty in the altogether.
Notably, Stephen has not apologised for a joke he made at the expense of an old friend. He clearly doesn’t have Central Office breathing down his neck! I had to express ‘sincere regret’ immediately the time I tweeted that my old pal Ruth Davidson looks like Kim Jong Un!
Anyhoo, it turns out that the BAFTA winning bag-lady, Jenny Beaven, was not in any way offended by his joke, but thousands of Twitter-users took umbrage on her behalf. What a humourless lot! You shouldn’t be berating the king of quips – you should be congratulating Miss Beaven on winning such a prestigious award, in spite of her homelessness. If only the rest of the great unwashed had her spirit!
Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman
It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, as they say, and the recent downturn in the oil and gas industry has provided the local authority with our latest batch of victims – I mean, a new pool of talent – as we try to attract fresh blood into teaching; specifically, unemployed North Sea Tigers.
Announcing the initiative, I spent some time with a group of former oil workers at a local primary school the other day, and let me tell you, watching a huge burly man, clutching a crayon in his oil-stained hand, I thought ‘This is the future!’.
It will take time for this new intake the adjust. There was considerable disappointment when they learned that free lunches are only available for children, However, the likely change in the male-female ratio will be well-received by the boys in the school, who have been lacking positive role models, and also by the dinner ladies, who have been lacking mannies to ogle. Most importantly, ex-oil workers have a range of skills that they will be able to pass on to our students. Their ability to work out 3-dart finishes is going to provide a fun new twist to mental arithmetic, and with all due respect to the current crop of teachers, very few can match our new intake when it comes to rolling their own cigarettes, chatting up strippers and drinking heavily on long train journeys.
Jonathan M Lewis, local Headteacher
If there’s one thing that we at Garioch Academy pride ourselves on, it’s our unswerving commitment to dealing with conflict in a restorative fashion. We firmly believe that solution-focused reconciliatory discussions are best conducted face-to-face. Which is why it saddens me to hear about schools in England sending letters to the entire parent body encouraging them not to “use cannabis” when dropping their children off in the morning. I refuse to believe that the situation required that every parent receive such a letter.
Regrettably, some of Garioch’s parent community have got the idea that this is how all schools conduct their business. We have begun to receive ‘tip-offs’ which the senders hope will lead to a school-wide ticking off.
For example, I recently received an anonymous letter, from which I shall quote directly, “Could any parent who has recently won the lottery please refrain from lording it over the rest of us by turning up in his flash sports car with his designer suits and statuesque new girlfriend. All you did was pick a few random numbers, mate, you didn’t invent penicillin.”
I’ve investigated the matter and it transpires that object of this ire wasn’t a parent at all, but our janitor, Mr Grieve. I am very happy to report that the matter is now closed because he finished working his notice yesterday.
Does anyone know how to switch off the fire alarm ?

A sliced backhand lob – and the nappy’s in the bin

Shelley Shingles, showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

Oh. My. Actual. G! There is nothing more exciting than the patter of tiny celebrity feet, and Scottish tennis grumph, Andy Murray has had a little girl! Well, he hasn’t, his wife Kim has. God – can you imagine how miserable he’d look if he popped the sprog instead?! I’m made up for the pair of them though, and I’ll bet Andy was glad to get home from Australia in time for the birth.

Of course, me and Andy go way back. I first bumped into him at Wimbledon in 2004. He was playing in the boys’ championships and I was there as a spokes-model for Kia Ora, who were mounting an ill-fated campaign to break the stranglehold of Robinson’s Barley water. First thing in the morning I was setting up my stall when I saw this young lad warming up on the practice courts. Even then, you could tell he was going places. He was training so hard he looked totally puggled, so I thought I’d try to help him cool down. “Hey,” I shouted over, “Squash?”.

I’ll never forget what he said to me.

“No, tennis.”

Wise words from a lovely lad.

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and king of the grips

This wik Age UK got caught oot receiving a kick-back fae an energy company for recommending an expensive electricity tariff to its members. Ken ‘is? It’s nae jist electricity that can gie ye a shock. Elderly readers should note that my ain long-standing advice on how to reduce your energy bill remains unchanged: either get my pal, Mick the Pill, to jerry-rig you a connection fae a street-lamp; or, if you absolutely insist on not stealing electricity, pull oot a’ yer fuses, get yersel doon to the central library and tak up residence in the local interest section.

Of course, we a’ ken that the world o’ commerce is a cut-throat place. That’s why I recommend haggling for everything fae bus fares to sweeties. Bus drivers love it if you haggle. Honest. They may sweer at you, but trust me, they love it. Vending machines are tough negotiaters, leaving it to you to dae maist, if not all, of the spikken, but if you shout at them for long enough, the mannie that comes to re-fill them will eventually gie you a Mars Bar to clear aff.

It is terrible, though, fan ye canna trust the advice you are given by an apparently reputable organisation that is supposed to be on your side. How Age UK didna recognise it hid a conflict of interest is beyond me. But I would like to assure a’ my loyal readers that my ain money saving tips are completely impartial, and you can have complete confidence fan you pit yer dosh into my recommended investment vehicles – K. Cash (Vegas Holiday Fund) Pte, and hightimekevgotanewmotor.com

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who always checks his balls

Scottish football has always been a bit of a laughing stick, but Monday night’s Scottish cup quarter final draw was the sherry on the icing on the cake. You wouldn’t think pulling some balls out of a bowl would be too big an axe, but those lads looked like they couldn’t organise a press up in a brewery.

To make it worse, Celtic wriggled out of playing Dundee United away and got a cushie home tie against Morton in the second draw. Lots of people think that Celtic gets presidential treatment, and the fact that they profited out of this balls up is just more fuel for the conservatory theorists.

I’ve been watching that reality show “The Jump” and I was horrified to hear about the injuries the contestants has picked up. There’s been dislocated shoulders, broken arms and even a broken back. Them injuries has no place in a bit of light entertainment. They belong on the football field, and I speak of what I knows, having caused most of them in my time.

I stayed up into the wee small hours on Sunday night to watch the Superbowl. Now, old Kenny is all about impounding his horizons, but that American football goes way over my heads. I fairly enjoyed the half time show, though. With Beyonce, Coldplay and Bruno Brookes strutting their stuff, no stop was left unpulled out! But I don’t even understand why it’s called ‘football’ in the first place. It couldn’t be more differenter from the beautiful game as I used to play it. Except for the tackling, of course.

Don’t miss the Flying Pigs live in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen June 2nd-11th 2016

A steak bake, an Irn Bru and a slice of history.

Ron Cluny, official Council spokesman.

I see that Gregg’s the Baker has opened a shop at the location where Robert the Bruce began his bid to become Scottish King, and has put up a plaque to commemorate his achievements. Well, really. Some other local authorities seem hell-bent on cheapening their civic inheritance with inappropriate commercial tie-ins, don’t they? What next? Perhaps Ann Summers will be permitted to open an Ayrshire branch in the house of Scotland’s Casanova, Robert Burns. Maybe Campbell’s soup and McDonalds could have a cafe in Glencoe. Or perhaps The Carron chipper, inventors of the deep-fried mars bar, will be allowed to set up shop in the Golden Jubilee National Hospital – the scene of Scotland’s first heart transplant.

When I attended a recent conference on the preservation of the built environment I heard that there is even one local authority that, at a time when half the shops on its main thoroughfare are lying empty, is building a massive new shopping centre which will face one of its most iconic buildings, and completely surround another! Madness. Still, never mind. It couldn’t happen here.

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz Correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

I was so sorry to hear that Terry Wogan had passed away. Growing up listening to him on the radio, he felt like a favourite uncle, only a bit more likely to quote Aristotle in a lilting Irish brogue, and a bit less likely to get drunk at a wedding. It’s hard to imagine that we’ll never see him on Children on Need again, tugging at our heart strings, coping admirably with everything live telly could throw at him, and taking the mick out of Fearne Cotton.

Nobody who knew him seems to have a bad word to say and there is no doubt he could charm the birds out of the trees. After all, there aren’t many folk who could say that butteries taste like a mouthful of seaweed and still be welcome in Aberdeen!

Me and Tel went way back. I met him when he was up at Thainstone Mart to open the bidding on their Livestock Spectacular. I was there doing a favour for a local farmer who wanted to generate a bit of excitement by having me parade his prize bullocks round the ring.

I bumped into Terry afterwards and asked him if he’d recovered from the terrible thump that Grace Jones had given him on his chat show. I’ll never forget what he said to me, with that famous twinkle in his eye:

“That was Russell Harty.”

Wise words, from a true gent.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who knows the score

When Man City announced that Manuel San Pellegrino would be getting his jotters at the end of the season so that Pep Gorgonzola could take over the Maine Road hot tub, a little part of Old Kenny died inside. Football used to be all about loyalty. You played for your local club and you honoured your contract long enough to earn a matrimonial. We’ll not see that days again. Pellegrino must be gutted. He’s won the League and the League Cup with City, but as soon as Gorgonzola says he was wanting a gig in England, he could hear which way the writing on the wall was blowing.

I says all this to the lovely Melody, but she was unsymptomatic. She says to me, she says “Big deal Kenny. Folk get replaced all the time – he’ll just have to carry out his duties professionally”. So, to help her see it from a different prospectus, I asked her to imagine how she’d feel if I announced that, even though Melody had been doing a perfectly good job up til now, I was replacing her with Hazel Irvine in the summer. I think Melody finally understood, because she told me that if I done that, she’d go absolutely mental. And she’s stopped me following Hazel Irvine on Twitter.

I see my old club, the Dandies, has signed the lad Church on loan from MK Dons on transfer deadline day. It will be handy for the lad to go from one team called ‘the Dons’ to another. It’ll save him heaps of time not having to learn shouts like “Come on Dons” or “Mark up Dons” or “Get intae them head first Dons”. Best of luck to the lad, though. I just hope he stays away from the demon drink, because as we all know, all the Churches in Aberdeen eventually get turned into boozers.

Local customs mak a haka tak a back-seat

View From the Midden- agricultural affairs with Jock Alexander

It his been a tralatitious wik in the village. Not only hiv we hid Burns night to celebrate in the traditional wye (wi’ neep bree liqueur, haggis flavoured aquavit, tattie vodka and a wee dram o’ whisky. A’ sweeled doon wi a big dram o’ whisky) but Setterday also saw the first waddin in the village o’ the new year. And fit an unusual waddin it wiz, wi the groom a complete and utter inabootcomer fae hine doon Sooth – the length o’ Sauchen, I think the vratch come fae – and neither the bride nor groom related to each ither in ony wye of a’.

Notwithstanding those grave irregularities, the nuptials wiz permitted to go ahead. And fit a spectacle it wis. You may have seen on the interwebs that a bride in New Zealand got a rare surprise fan the guests at her reception performed the traditional Maori war dance, the Haka. Weel, the Meikle Wartle wadding customs are a bittie like ‘at, but wi’ less duncing. In accordance wi’ ancient tradition, Skittery Wullie confronted the groom in an aggressive manner and roared abuse in his face files ceremonially daubing him wi’ sharn. And losh, if the loon didna respond by decking him wi’ the best right hook seen in the village since yon time the barman tried to tell Shaky Tam he’s a’ready hid ower muckle to drink! Well, we couldna mind if that wiz the traditional wye to respond to the challenge or nae, but hivin seen fit the loon wiz capable o’, naen o’ us wiz in the humour to argee. The ceremony wiz presided ower by Feel Moira, weering the traditional sheep-skull mask, and ab’dy present agreed she’d niver looked sae bonny.

Then, in accordance wi’ custom, the men-folk o’ the village retired to prepare the waddin feast. In the olden days, this involved slaughtering a lamb and slow-cooking it over a pit. Noo, it involves getting slaughtered in the pub and phoning oot for a lamb bhunna. We may love tradition, but niver let it be said that we in Meikle Wartle dinna move wi the times. Cheerio!

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I get pretty hacked off wi’ folk tellin me fit I can and canna dae. Last time I checked (which I’ve niver actually deen) I thought this wis a free country? But if ye listen tae headteachers and the National Lottery organisers ye’d be forgiven fer thinking that we wis in a dictatorship!

Kate Chisolm, fa’s the heidie at Skerne Park school in Darlington, has written tae parents asking them nae tae wear their pyjamas files they drop their kids aff at school. Fit a cheek! If my bairns’ school maks a similar suggestion then I’ll be gan in tae complain. In my jammies. Nae doot this headteacher disnae ken fit it’s like tae get 3 kids up, showered, dressed and breakfasted wi’ their school bags packed and ready tae leave at 8.30am. I’ve nae idea either, like, cos Tyler and Beyonce-Shanice are aul enough tae get ready themsels, and tae save time in the morning, I pit Kenzie tae bed in his school claes. These days my early morning routine consists of randomly shouting ‘teeth’ and ‘shoes’ files watching Lorraine Kelly. But I still think this attack on pyjamas is right coorse. They’re so comfy. I tell ye, if I wis a lady o’ leisure who didnae hae DWP interviews and the occasional court appearance tae dress up for, I’d niver tak them aff!

Which brings me tae the lottery. The ither wik a £66M jackpot was shared atween two tickets, and een o them, fit wis sold in Worcester, hisna been claimed. Now hunners o’ folk are comin out o’ the woodwork saying they’ve lost their ticket. All fun and games, you’d think, but Camelot is saying they’ll take legal action against anyone who’s pulling their leg. Which is a shame fer me, because I didnae hear the news right and called them up saying it was my ticket but I’d spilled Worcester sauce a’ ower it.

Ye canna blame me fer trying, though, because ab’dy wints tae be a winner. Een o’ my aul boyfriends, Craibzer, used tae ging tae Ma Cameron’s pub quiz ivry week and come hame wi’ first prize. He niver entered the quiz, like, he jist waited til the winners got their money and then mugged them on the wye oot!

Trump will make America great again. Every time he  comes over here.

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

Now, look here, even some of the very best politicians are prone to the odd ‘gaffe’. I myself will quite often say, in the heat of the moment – or go out of my way to carefully construct then post on social media – something that is inflammatory and upsetting. And when I do, central office makes me issue a sincere and heartfelt apology for any offence I may have unwittingly – or, indeed, on purpose.

But it’s not just the good politicians who gaffe. Oh no. Really bad politicians do it as well. Witness old Sir Trumpalot and his disgraceful utterances about who he wouldn’t allow into the old USofA, there. He caused such a stir with the bleeding hearts that this week that our MPs had to debate a petition calling for a ban on the US Presidential hopeful from entering the UK.

Now, I am conflicted on this one. He has said some dreadful things of late. I mean, ban the internet? How is a chap supposed to post his insightful views and inspirational quotes on Twitter? Or privately send fruity messages to smashing bits of stuff?

On the other hand, if he is banned then that could well be the end of a whole host of golfing jollies I’ve got planned for over the next 12 months. I know for a fact that Super Dave, Clarkson, Roy Chubby Brown et al are going to be pretty miffed if they don’t get the promised 36 holes on Trump followed by a night out getting lashed up on Kopparberg in Ellon’s finest venue, The Curry Club.

But perhaps Blighty’s approval doesn’t matter much to The Donald. His presidential campaign has just been endorsed by none other than influential US conservative voice and ticking time-bomb, Sarah Palin. They are a surprising pairing really, one having moved from politics to reality TV, and the other vice-versa. Imagine if the Labour leadership was being contested by Peter Andre with an endorsement from George Galloway? Actually, cripes – don’t imagine that. He’d be a lot more electable than Jezzer Corbyn!

Jonathan M Lewis, local Headteacher

I see that a 10 year old boy in England has suffered the indignity of a police investigation and the seizing of the family computer, because of something he wrote in school. Meaning to write that he lived in a “terraced” house, he wrote instead that he lived in a “terrorist” house – leading to a great deal of stress and unhappiness.

My own experience demonstrates the dangers of leaping to conclusions. Recently, one of our young people wrote “Mr Lewis is a big fat git”. Naturally, I was annoyed, but rather than dispense summary justice, I sought to hear his explanation. Lucky I did, as it turned out there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. He had meant “big fat” not pejoratively but in the modern idiomatic sense of “important” or “impressive”, while his use of the word “git” was an innocent error. He had noticed how popular I was with all his school fellows, and had meant to write “hit”! How embarrassing it would have been to dress him down without knowing the full facts! I told him that I was pleased to be making such a positive impact on the lives of the school’s young stakeholders, but that in future, positive feedback could simply be popped in our suggestions box, rather than spray-painted on the wall of the science block.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit whose match fixing allegations were never proved.

Whenever you read the sporting headlights these days, it seems that half the stories is about drugs, Burberry and contraption. I hope we’ve seen the last of the alligators about the dodgy dealings in Athletics, now they’ve got rid of the man in charge and replaced him with British Olympic hero, Glen Coe.

We’ve come to expect it from some sports, but now the finger of suspension is pointing at the tennis. This week the sport was rocked by revolutions about match fixing. Apparently, there’s secret documents what say 16 top players might have been throwing matches. Old Kenny is horrified, for two reasons. Firstly, because the thought of anyone deliberately losing a game for a bit of cash goes against everything I hold dear to my hearth. And thirdly, because try as I might, I cannot find out who them 16 players is, so I can stick a bet on them losing.

Planet earth is blue, and the granite city too.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

How hard it is when our heroes leave us; how hard it is, too, when our rivals trump us. As a child of the 70s I was a huge Bowie fan, even going so far as to join a short-lived local tribute act (David Rowie and the Chancers fae Ma’s). So it was with the joy of a true fan that I came across the viral footage of an organist giving a magnificent rendition of ‘Life on Mars’; and the sour jealousy of a civic leader that I saw that the video came from Glasgow’s Kelvingrove museum.

Fellow Aberdonians – I am resolved that no rival city is going to upstage us. I have therefore put together a scratch band of Aberdeen’s top musicians so the city can pay its own homage. A supergroup, no less, featuring the homeless mannie who plays the moothie, the Patagonian pan-pipers from outside Markies and the Albanian guitar wifie, performing “Changes” next to the Marischal Square development. Take that, Glasgow!

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

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions.  Questions like “Could new manufacturing methods mean that traditional light-bulbs could make a come-back?”  “Is Scotland really able to supply virtually all of its domestic electricity from renewable sources?” and “Is it really safe to eat left-over Turkey 3 weeks after Christmas?”  To which the answers are respectively yes, yes, and regrettably, no – although Mrs Schlenk and I recently discovered evidence that it can assist with sudden weight loss.  Rather a lot of evidence.  Oh my.

This week, however, people have mainly been asking me about the Bronze Age houses which have recently been uncovered Cambridgeshire.  Archaeologists have described them as “Britain’s answer to Pompeii”, which, given the dramatic scenes frozen for all time by the eruption of Vesuvius, seems quite a bold description of what appears to be some over-sized pick-up sticks in a boggy field.  Apparently, the houses were destroyed in a sudden fire and slipped into the silty water, which preserved them and their contents for three thousand years.  It seems that ancient man’s preoccupations were the same as ours – jewellery and cooking pots, complete with food still in them, have been pulled from the muddy waters.  Recent experience suggests it would be a good idea to give the food a wide berth.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who knows the score.

It’s always a risk taking players on loan from bigger clubs, and goalkeeper Danny Ward’s form between the sticks has seen the Dandies get their Fish Fingers burned.  Parent club Liverpool recalled him early, and the Dons will have their work cut off, filling his goalie gloves. Especially seeing as how, according to my sources at Pittodrie, the lad took them away with him.

If you is asking me, old Kenny says the blame for this lies square at gaffer McInnes’s foots.  When he’s looking for players to get in on loan he should know better than to get somebody really good.  They’ll always stand out from the cloud, get rave reviews from the press and then get pinched away from us again.  McInnes should be looking for mediocre players that won’t attract retention. The managers in my day were much more savvier.  Three times I was loaned out and not once did the Reds ask for me to return.

I see that Lionel Messi has gone and picked up the gong for being Europe’s top footballer – the balloon door – for the fifth time. Old Kenny thinks it’s high time him and Ronaldo let somebody else win. One or other of those lads has taken it home since 2009, and it’s beginning to look like they’ve got a monogamy!

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

Oh my actual G!  I’m always on the lookout for the latest celebrity nuptials and I got a right shock when I seen that Jerry Hall had gotten engaged to Rupert Murdoch!  Talk about opposites attract!  I’ve never met Jerry, but her latest beau seems a million miles away from some of her exes, Roxy Music crooner Bryan Ferry and rock and roll bad-boy Mick Jagger.  With a 25 year age gap, I can’t help wondering what first attracted her to the 84 year old multi-billionaire.  Still, where there’s a will, there’s a way!

Gye mauchie days, kind.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been a precipitous wik in the village. But we hinna let the recent slightly driech spell get us doon, and hae a’ pulled thegither. Aye, the entrepenurial spirit o’ the plucky Meikle Wartler has been clearly seen this wik, or at least it wid have done if we didnae hae fog as weel as floods. Skittery Wullie and Feel Moira have put their heeds thegither and daen us proud, and last nicht they unveiled oor new tourist attraction, ‘The Meikle Wartle Marina’. Fit a rare diversion it is for ab’dy in the toon fae sitting on their roofs a’ wik and fighting ower the last umbrella.
Tourists will hae no bother finding it, as the Marina is handily located smack bang in the centre of the village; indeed up until last wik it wis the centre o’ the village. Wullie was the brains behind it, and it’s marvellous the see the bobbing of a’ the brightly coloured craft, or, as some folk still insist on crying them, “cars”.
Feel Moira his taken the idea even further with the creation o’ ‘Meikle Wartle SeaWorld’. She has sourced some suitable aquatic aminals and created an underwater viewing platform by repurposing the bay window of the pub. She’s been packing them in 20 at a time tae enjoy the exotic sea life – twa huddock, a pucklie hake, a seal and one affa confused squirrel.
Cheerio!

Sir Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

Dreadful business, the floods of last week, with Royal Deeside badly affected. This confirms what I have long believed – that the weather is a dammed republican. There have been some truly dreadful scenes of destruction. Perhaps most shocking of all, Abergeldie Castle has been left teetering on the brink of the Dee after the swollen waters swept away 60 feet of garden ground. Not even the bolshy Labour government of the 1940s stripped land from the aristocracy so quickly. Baron Abergeldie had to be persuaded to leave. Poor man. If I had one, my very heart would bleed for him. Still, perhaps I can offer him some encouragement. We Fawkes-Huntes know what it is to almost lose a great house. In the 1920s, the 10th Earl, fell into drink and low company in Paris and ended up staking the entire estate on the turn of a card. Fortunately, the episode ended happily. The other fellow won, but great grand-pappy had the wit to follow him outside and shoot him. Saving Abergeldie Castle may not prove to be so easy, but perhaps there is room for optimism. It is a Gordon family stronghold – here’s hoping that it lives up the family motto – Bydand – Abiding!

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

The sound of feather on pillow has never really done it for me, but I sometimes watch the T20 matches because they can be exciting. And when I watched Melbourne Renegades against Hobart Hurricanes, all the way from Austria, not all of the excitement did not happen on the field. One of the Renegade’s batterers, Chris Gayle, got interviewed on the side lines by a female reporter. Gayle never spoke about croquet at all, because he was too busy cracking on to the girl, asking her out on a date. She wasn’t keen, and Gayle’s been slated in the media and fined of $10,000.
Now, Kenny is most confused about the whole affair. First of all, I never knew they used dollars in Austria. Melody’s sister is off there on a skiing holiday tomorrow and she had taken out Euros. She’ll be grateful for Kenny’s contravention, because I sent her back to Markies to get them changed.
Thirdly, I think it’s well harsh that the lad got a fine. He’s already been seen by millions of viewers getting knocked back by a bonnie lassie, so fining him is like adding insult to Ian Dury. It seems that these days, it is sexist for a man to chat up a woman when she’s at her work. It goes to show how much the world has changed. Nobody batted an eyeball when I asked my Melody out. And she was behind the counter, spraying my shoes at Superbowl on George Street.

See us live in ‘Dreich Encounter’. June 2nd-11th 2016 at HMT Aberdeen

                     

Love’s Labours Lost. Alang wi’ aboot a hunder padlocks.

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I’ve ayewiz been a fan of public declarations of affection.  As soon as I’ve locked moos wi’ some young stud in the Three Lums, I wint the world tae ken.  But sometimes posting selfies on Snapgram, Instabook and Facechat disnae reach a wide enough audience, and ye need tae dae something even mair special.  Christmas night, fan I got aff wi’ Derek fae the dry-cleaners, wis jist such an occasion.   I used tae dae the ‘lovelock’ thing, far ye scratch something romantic like “Tanya + Deek 4EVA” on a padlock then attach it tae the railings of a bridge.  It’s a great wye o’ capturing the magic of romunce and can also act as a handy reminder fan ye’ve forgotten the loon’s name.  Mind you, I pit mair than a hunder padlocks on the Bridge of Feugh last year alane, so it’s nae fool proof.    Onywye, me and Deek headed oot the A93 tae publicly celebrate oor relationship.  It wis only fan we got there that we realised we didnae hae a padlock!  Derek’s a resourceful lad, though, and he soon found een, attached tae a Cannondale racing bike that somebody else had left lying aroon. In their locked garage.  Spik aboot lucky!  He wis awa tae scoor oor names on the lock wi’ his Stanley Knife fan I got the shock of my life.  A’ the locks on the Bridge of Feugh had been taen aff!    Weel, I wis ootraged.  A’ that memories – memories of me and Daz, me and Baz, me and fit’s-his-face fae the bookies – gone.  Apparently the Cooncil removed them because of fears that the weight of the padlocks could compromise the structural integrity of the bridge.  Now, I’m nae a scientist, but I reckon that’s a load o’ guff.  I eence played pooh sticks aff that bridge wi’ my pal Big Sonia and her sisters Big Tasha and Big Stacey, and if it survived that, there’s nae enough padlocks in the world tae bring it doon.   Me an Deek headed back intae toon. Oor plans in tatters, the romance hid jist been sooked right oot of the evening – so that’s fan we split up.  Weel, there wis nae sense leaving a perfectly good bike lying aboot!

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and king of the grips

I see a German mannie wis killed fan a money-making scheme went wrang.  Apparently he wiz struck on the he id by some shrapnel efter he decided to blow up a condom machine.  Peer gink, but it wiz a pretty misconceived scheme fae the outset (pun intended).  Jist in case ony of you is wondering – there is absolutely nae value in detonating prophylactic vending machines.  I speak far experience, as some time ago, purely for research purposes, I took an oxy-acetylene torch into the Gents at Exodus. Fit I discovered wis that the resale price of a charred packet o’ three is disappointingly low.  So – for yer ain comfort and safety – I strongly recommend that if you are planning on blowing anything up this Hogmanay, mak it a balloon animal.  It’ll ging doon a bomb, without actually being een.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

In 2015, the City Council delivered to a high standard against our key performance indicators, namely, blaming other people for our failures and making obtuse decisions.  The decision to blame the delay in the delivery of the Third Don Crossing on the Western Peripheral Route’s success at recruiting staff as a master stroke, and the decision to box in Provost Skene’s House, so that it can only be viewed by standing on tiptoes and craning one’s neck round from the top of the St Nicholas Centre, has been rightly regarded as an outstanding example of it’s type.  I can assure citizens that 2016 is rich with potential for more of the same.  In case you don’t believe me, five little words.  “The pedestrianisation of Broad Street.”

Struan metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North

In politics, the proper work/life balance can be difficult to achieve. It is all too easy to find that one spends too much time on Holyrood affairs. And recently, those who work most closely with me have suggested that I’m too ‘hands on” and ought to take a step back. So, my New Year’s resolution is to be more ‘hands off’. Specifically with Tiffany, my gorgeous researcher. I can’t afford another harassment claim. I have my reputation to think of!