Santa Claus is coming to town. Hope he likes massive inflatable rabbits

J. Fergus Lamont, arts critic

This year, the City Fathers have excelled themselves by commissioning a public art installation of the highest calibre. I speak of the Christmas Village. Situated discretely in the quiet oasis of Union Terrace, it has received little or no publicity and could easily be overlooked by the casual passerby, but it is the most coruscating satire of the vapid commercialisation of Christmas I have ever seen, and I include Funbox’s ‘Santa’s Sleepover’.

Along one side, an avenue of plastic christmas trees – symbolising the artificiality of the modern yuletide and the ecological impact of globalisation – facing them, a series of flimsily constructed emporia, referencing the foolish transience and impermanent nature of all man’s enterprises. There are auditory elements too – a brave commentary on the impact of rising food prices in the form of regular shouts of ‘How much?’ and ‘For a sausage?’.

Next one comes across a group of grumbling rock musicians, notably not producing their usual cacophony. They are, of course, performing John Cage’s famous composition, “4.33 of silence” in recognition of the corruption of all forms of art in the service of Mammon. I wait the allotted span and then applaud them warmly. ‘Bravo’ I cry.

Then come the terrified screams of the people being whirled around by the metallic leviathan that towers over the area, a crane-like instrument of torture – a powerful physical metaphor for the plummeting dread of the consumer who has maxed out their credit cards.

But perhaps most daring of all, the artists allude to the feelings of disorientation and panic many of us feel at his time of year by providing a consciousness-expanding substance called “Gluwein”. It’s hallucinogenic effects include a total loss of all sense of scale – l found myself wandering amongst huge inflatable white rabbits, trapped in an enormous snow-globe and surrounded by giant penguins on a tiny, tiny ice rink. I wept.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands most eligible bachelor

Never let it be said that Jimmy is nae progressive in his views on the fairer sex. Jimmy is all aboot nae objectifying women on the basis of their physical appearance, especially the ugly eens.

So I wis dismayed by the bad press that the phenomenal Miss Universe competition has been getting. Miss Universe is a celebration of women and their achievements in which every country in the world puts forward their maist charming, intelligent and charitable young ladies tae see fa looks the best in a bikini. Its a bit like ‘Miss World’, only better as it allows entrants fae ither planets; although naen of them ever seem tae mak the final.

Onywye, I wiz watching Miss Universe avidly and I nearly fell off my pouffe fan the presenter mistakenly awarded the title tae Miss Colombia and nae the hottest, er, maist deserving een, Miss Philippines. I reckon Miss Colombia must be pretty high maintenance, ‘cos fan it transpired that she wis only the second maist beautiful woman in creation, she reacted like the host had strangled her budgie. I hope she’s single, ’cause good luck if you’re the boyfriend fa his tae find a satisfactory Christmas present for yon.
Cava Kenny Cordiner, even he didn’t get banned for 8 years!

This week, Andy Murray’s heroics in the Dickie Davies Cup seen him crowned BBC Sports Personality of the year. Seeing a fellow Scot lifting the trophy made old Kenny feel very probiotic. Domestically speaking, it was just as well controverbial boxer Tyson Fury never won it. He says in the press, he says “a woman’s place is in the kitchen”. My Melody was raging. When he was on the telly she stormed out of the room to make a cup of tea. The ironing wasn’t lost on me!

The scandal at FIFA has taken a new turn, with supremo Septic Bladder and his hair-apparent Michael Platinum found guilty of contraption and handed an 8 year ban from all football. 8 years?! That is well harsh. The longest ban I ever got was 8 games. Both lads have appealed, but I don’t think there’s a brown envelope the world that’s big enough to get them off with this one.

I has been surprised to see the fall from Greece of the ‘Special One’, Jose Mourinho, who has got his jotters from Chelsea. My mole down at Stamford Bridge tells me that after a series of poor results, Jose had ‘lost the dressing room’, so I think it’s his pride that is to blame. He could still be in a job if he’d just asked for directions.

Tim Peake goes around the world in 90 minutes. Michael Palin must be kicking himself.

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

As  a scientist, people are forever asking me questions; questions like “Are generic drugs really as effective as their branded equivalents?”  “Does the Paris climate deal stand a chance of slowing global warming?” and “It’s 5p for a bag, is that OK?”  To which the answer are, respectively; “Generally, yes”, “I really hope so, or were all going to have to evolve gills” and “Er, well, given that the purchase I have just made is a 50 Shades of Grey starter kit for Mrs. Schlenk’s Christmas, you can more or less name your price.”

Recently, however, people have been mainly asking me about astronaut Tim Peake, who this week became Britain’s first official astronaut when he blasted off from Kazakhstan with his Russian crewmates.  They will be cooped up together aboard the International Space Station for a mission which is scheduled to last half a year.  (To get some sort of idea of what this might feel like, go to Peterhead, wait for the crew of a Russian factory ship to come ashore, follow them into a lift and then stop it between two floors. For six months.)  As it happens, I know Tim.  We were contemporaries at Portsmouth University.  Somehow, despite the fact I was better than him at maths, physics and trivial pursuit, he is the one who has ended up with this wonderful, unique and prestigious career.  Still, I’m not bitter.  I’m not the one who’s going to miss the Dr Who Christmas Special.

Tanya Souter, Lifestyle correspondent

This wik, the papers was full of the news that a recent survey hid showed that alcohol is a major factor in ambulance call-outs.  In other news, The Pope gings tae Mass on a Sunday, bears prefer to dae their business in the vicinity of a few trees and Alex Salmond enjoys the occasional pie.  My pal Big Sonya asked me the ither day, ‘do you think that Scotland has a problem wi’ alcohol?’  Or at least I think that’s fit she said, she wiz slurring her words and she was busy boakin’ in a wheelie bin, so I could hardly mak her oot, LOL!  But even if it’s nae exactly a surprise, it is still terrible to see that booze is involved in 50% of ambulance call-outs – or 100% fan it’s Mad Friday!  Mind you, fit can you expect fan you’re teeterin’ roond toon in your platforms efter 6 lunchtime Smirnoff Ices?  It’s dangerous; it’s irresponsible; and, efter I’m back fae my summer hol’days, the thought o’ it is the only that keeps me goin’ fae one working week to the next.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who puts the boot in

There was a helluva lot of balls pulled out of a helluva lot of bags in the beautiful game this week.  First we had the draw for Euro 2016, and then they done the one for the Champions League.  I do love my football, but old Kenny has to admit that when I was watching them draws I did feel a touch of the brown-eyed monster.  Melody says to me, she says “You mean green-eyed monster, Kenny!” but I checked in the mirror and they is definitely brown.

The reason I was so jealous was because, incredulously, no Scottish team is not involved in none of them.

Watching England, Northern Ireland and Wales come out of them pots was like watching all your mates get a dance at the disco while you watches from the side-lines like the proverbial cauliflower. Mind you, for the first time in a major tournament England and Wales are going to have to dance with each other . If my experience of school discos is anything to go by, that means one of them is going to go home happy and the other will end up feeling disappointed with an ingrained toenail.

And the Champions league is also Scot free as well! Some of the TV punnets is saying that Scottish football is so frantic now that it will be ages before we see any Scottish interest in the Blatter stages of a tournament.  They says that the Dons’ game on Saturday against Hearts was a good example.  There was broken noses, late tackles, elbows flying and crazy handballs.  I don’t mind telling you, old Kenny was knackered when the full time whistle went.  It was the best game I seen all season!

No Forth road crossing ’til 2016? Well, it is a suspension bridge.

Davina Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

Like any ordinary, busy mum, I rely on our road system and infrastructure to ensure everything goes according to schedule. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Some days, however, it seems as though ‘The Powers That Be’ are determined to throw a spanner in my works.

Take last Friday.  The school run was hell, as usual. I don’t know why so many people choose to be on the roads at 8am.  Haven’t they heard of public transport?  I should have known things wouldn’t go well as soon as I emerged from the driveway.  We were running a tad late as Fidel was uploading his little YouTube diary blog, (it’s called “Stupid Stuff My Stupid Mum Says”. He’s so creative.) so there was no time to scrape the frost from the windscreen. Well, imagine my dismay when I felt a bump and got out to find that a pedestrian had somehow managed to collide with my front bumper! Most thoughtless.  The police now allege that I was driving without due care and attention.  Poppycock!  I could barely see, whilst he had a perfect view,  if anyone was careless, it was him!

As a result, I barely got Emmeline and Fidel to the school gates in time.  In fact, I’m sure they’d have been late if I hadn’t used that lane that nobody but buses seem willing to drive in.  Then I had to hotfoot it down south for my fortnightly appointment with Sergio, my Edinburgh based hairstylist (he’s Portuguese, but he really is brilliant).

Time was tight, but I’ve done it in less than 2 hours before.  Once I’d negotiated the array of Orwellian speed cameras I put the foot down.  Of course, one has to weave in and out of selfish motorists sitting at a sluggish 70mph (what’s THAT all about?!) whilst keeping an eye out for PC Jobsworth of the Yard,  but soon I was approaching the Forth Road Bridge, with time in hand for a chai-latte before my shampoo.  Then suddenly – gridlock.  The bridge…was closed!?!

I set the Land Rover for off-road and made my way across country to the barrier preventing bridge access, in the hope that common sense would prevail  With a 40 mile detour, my appointment with Sergio was a write-off, and I faced the prospect of two more weeks of split-end misery. Sadly, there I became embroiled in a fruitless exchange with a lickspittle government lackey who told me that the bridge was closed in my best interests, before allowing an ambulance to cross!  It seems that some people have a very skewed idea of what constitutes an emergency.

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

I see that Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan have celebrated the birth of their baby, Max, by giein’ away £30 billion to a charitable trust.  That’s the maist expensive head-wetting I’ve heard o’ since my pal, Mick the Pill, lost the plot in the Regency Casino and pit a year’s shop takings on 32 reed.  Widna hiv been a bad bet – if he hidna been playing blackjack.

Mark and Priscilla say they are making the donation because they want Max to grow up in a better world.  Is at nae sweet?  I think I speak for young Max fan I say, “Hoy, dad.  I may be less than a week old but even I am pretty sure there’s mair wrang wi the world than you can fix with £30 billion.  Noo pit the cheque-book doon and stick the readies back into the piggy bank marked ‘baby’s first yacht’ afore I gie ye a nappy change ye’ll never forget.”

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

As I think we all recognise, these are difficult times to be responsible for the administration of a major UK city. Threats are being posed to our way of life the like of which we have not known for decades.

This is no time for shilly-shallying, political correctness or pussyfooting about. That is why I am pleased to announce that Aberdeen has today closed its borders. Some will wonder if this is paranoia or an excessive reaction to world events. To them, I say, extraordinary threats demand extraordinary measures. A point of principle is at stake here. I believe that as we put our wheelie bins out; as we go to the chipper; as we nip down the Co-opie for a 6-pack of Caramel logs – as we go about the simple, day to day business of our lives, not one person – not one – should face even the remotest risk of encountering Donald Trump.

Hot spiced wine? I’d have to mull it over.

Archie Fraser, City Centre denizen and gentleman of the road

I am unlikely, in my remaining years, to venture out with this good city; being a fellow of somewhat limited means as well as being banned from Aberdeen train station for an as yet undefined period. As a result, my dreams of traversing the globe to take in all of its magical Christmas sights, sounds and smells are unlikely ever to be realised. I will never visit the Winter-markets of Trier, Germany; go ice-skating in Central park, New York, or roast chestnuts on an open fire in a snowy Wenceslas Square in Prague.

So, imagine my delight to find that I no longer have any need to visit these far flung places, now that Union Terrace Gardens have been transformed into what I can only describe as a veritable Winter Wonderland!

As a long-time observer of Aberdeen City Council’s approach to Festivals and ‘events’, I have firsthand experience of the success – or otherwise – of their previous endeavours. In previous years I have marvelled at – and slept in – the Nativity Scene at the St Nicholas Kirk yard, recreated the final movement of Torvill & Dean’s iconic ‘Bolero’ after two tins of special brew at the Castlegate ice rink, and regurgitated a second hand KFC Club Sandwich over Angus the Bull during the Christmas Lights Parade.

However, this year the council has surpassed itself. We have our very own German market – and what riches therein lie, for a gentlemen of the road! My goodness, the bins along Union Terrace are packed with discarded bits of bratwurst and mince pie, and a cavalcade of disposable cups each containing a drop or two of Glühwein, truly the nectar of the Gods. On Sunday night, the legend that is Muffler Mitchell was at death’s door. In the freezing temperatures, he was not long for this world. That was until I managed to nick through the back of one of the tents, grab a beaker of the sweet, spiced elixir, and pour it down Muffler’s throat. The next 5 minutes were unforgettable.

For those of you who have seen the film “the Mask” then I may not need to say much more. Suffice to say Muffler found a new lease of life in that magical combination of cloves, cinnamon, orange and lukewarm Jacob’s Creek.

Jumping six feet in the air, Muffler let out a cry that would rouse even the most somnolent Councillor from his slumber at an afternoon meeting on Marischal Square and went tearing towards His Majesty’s at a speed that would rival Usain Bolt being chased by a lustful Loraine Kelly. He ran straight at the wall of the theatre, ran up the wall à la Donald O’Connor in Singing in the Rain – regrettably leaving footprints apparently disappearing up Elaine C Smith’s nostrils – and landed perfectly on his tattered Doc Martins. The next thing I knew, Muffler had a policeman in a head-lock and was singing “Silent Night” at a volume which can only be described as genuinely ironic. Shortly thereafter, Muffler enjoyed a cosy night in the cells, incarcerated, inebriated and full of something akin to the Christmas Spirit.

So, on behalf of Muffler, myself and all those who call the stars their ceiling, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank our City Fathers for the greatest gift of all this Christmas – temporary licensing laws permitting drinking in the streets again! God bless them, everyone.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports columnist who’s just as good on clay

I was glued to the tennis at the weekend to see Britain win the Dickie Davis Cup for the first time in 79 years. What made it even more impressive was that they beat their opponents, the Belgiums, in their own barnyard. All I can say is “Take a bow, Andy Murray”.

The Scottish hero practically done single-handed. Not only that, but he won a heap of games playing with his brother, so he done it doubles-handed as well. Legend.

After the match, the commentators was coming out with all these stats, saying that Andy had won all 11 of the matches he’d played in the Davis Cup this year. Only one lad won a game that Murray never played in. So the rest of the team have a bit of a cheek standing anywhere near that trophy, to be honest. The fact is, they would never have won it if it wasn’t for Andy’s Hercule Poirot efforts.

How can Scotland beat obesity? Pass me a yum-yum and I’ll tell you.

Tanya Souter, Lifestyle Correspondent

I see the Scottish Government’s been getting flak over the country’s obesity crisis, wi’ the boffins saying that little progress his been made since 2008.  Weel, there’s been some progress. We’ve swapped Alex Salmond for Nicola Sturgeon, that must have brought the average doon a bittie. Mind you, I da think the boffins is as brainy as they likes to think they is – is the best time to be pittin’ oot public health info aboot watching yer weight really the same wik Iceland’s Christmas advert hits the telly? Apparently, over two-thirds of adult Scots is ower-weight!  I da ken aboot you but I find that figure really disturbing – but nae quite as disturbing as the een I see wobblin back at me fan I look in the mirror, although in a wye it’s fine to ken that those of us that’s cerryin’ a bittie timber is in good company!

Mind you, my weight’s getting beyond a joke noo.  I used to say, ‘yer nae really fat if you can still see yer feet’.  But efter a couple of bad months, I’ve hid to change that to ‘if onyb’dy can see yer feet’.  I blame the climate.  I often buy lettuce and cucumber and aa that keigh wi’ the very best o’ intentions, only to see a dreich, dreary day and decide to cheer myself up wi fit my pal Big Sonya cries a “sauté potato salad wi’ sea sa’t an balsamic dressing”. And twa battered sausages.

Mind you, the maist worrying bit in that story wiz the news that one in six kids is at risk o’ obesity.  I found that really shocking. so, I did fit I awyse dae fan I get upset.  I got wired into a box o’ Tunnocks tea cakes.

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

As a scientist, I am forever being asked questions.  Questions like, “Did climate change cause the drought in Syria that led large numbers of farmers to lose their livelihoods, turning them into insurgents?”  “Are there now strands of malaria that are drug-resistant?”, and “Is Nicole Kidman’s on-stage portrayal of pioneering female scientist Barbara Franklin accurate?”  To which I can only answer, “Regrettably, yes”; “regrettably, yes” and “I believe so”; I only managed to see the play 16 times before they took out that restraining order.

This week, I have been being asked about Pintosh and Babysha, the two iguanas from Aberdeen that have had an epic falling out and are currently with the SSPCA in Drumoak, awaiting rehousing.  Sadly, it is not uncommon for scaly, reptilian creatures cooped up in unnatural conditions to develop an aversion to each other.  If you don’t believe me, just watch Tony Hadley and Lady Colin Campbell on I’m a Celebrity.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who never calls it ‘soccer’

I could not believe it when I seen that Celtic and Dundee is trying to arrange a league match in America next season!  Well, old Kenny is dead against it.  You might say that I’m just an old sick in the mud, but I think the only flag flying at a Scottish Premier League football match should be the Saltire, not the Star-Bangled Spanner.

And what about the fans?  I’m not sure if they is going to cry it a home game for Celtic or Dundee, but somebody’s season ticket is going to be a fixture short.  One of my old Brechin team-mates, Stamper Stevenson, is a Celtic fan and he leaves no scone upturned trying to go to every match.  He once caught 3 trains, a tram and 2 taxis to travel to a friendly against Bolton.  Imagine what he’ll need to do to get to Boston?!  The mind bobbles.

It won’t be great for the players either, because travelling long distances before a match always leaves you feeling bread on your feet.  I mind one time when I was playing for the Dandies we had an away trip to Stranraer for a cup match.  It was a hell of a journey, and by the time we finally got there old Kenny was struggling with a nagging neck strain – mainly because I was playing 3-card brag with Doug Rougvie and Stewart Kennedy in the seats behind me.  Our bus left Pittodrie at 7 in the morning for a 3 o’clock kick off that day. What time would we of needed to set off to get to America for that time?  Mental.

 

Living legend commits vandalism – it’s a sign of the times

Tim Bee, the conscientious objector

Dear Sir,

Having lived in Aberdeen all my life, I have become somewhat accustomed to the City Council’s flagrant disregard for due process and the rule of law. However, I am shocked, horrified and appalled by their conduct regarding “No Ball Games” signs.

Let me make myself clear. I object! Yes, I objected when these eyesores were erected, but I object even more vehemently to their removal, and the tidal wave of football-kicking ‘youths’ who will follow, as surely as ‘Watchdog’ follows ‘EastEnders’. These signs provided a useful focal point for concerned citizens, such as myself, allowing us to add ‘pointing at the sign’ to our arsenal of weapons (tapping on the window, wagging a disapproving finger and mouthing “I’m calling the police”) in the fight against the rising social menace of children playing in the street.

But most of all I was shocked to see that these acts of Council-sponsored vandalism were being perpetrated by none other than Aberdeen’s most famous septuagenarian son, Denis Law. Mr Law may be the greatest footballer ever to come out of Printfield Terrace, but he should know better than to go around pulling up sign-posts. Mark my words, if we continue down this route it’s only a matter of time before the Local Authority enlists the 1983 Cup Winners Cup team to cover our bus shelters in graffiti! Madness.

Tanya Souter, Lifestyle Correspondent

Mary Portas his fair pit the boot into the Cooncil aboot Marischal Square, his she? She’s crying it “madness” that they’re ga’an to spend hunners of millions on a new build project files half of Union Street stands empty. I dinna think she’ll be getting the key to the city onytime soon – locked oot, mebbe! But the Cooncil has taen her criticisms right weel. Even Willie Young, fa normally responds to criticism like Broad Street’s answer to Kim Jong Un, wiz saying he’ll tak her points onboard. He even said he’d be willing to work with Mary on ideas for civic regeneration. This kind of touchy-feely style is a real change in direction for the Cooncil. In the recent past, dissenting voices hiv been aboot as welcome as a taxman’s letter. Mind you, they’ll hiv to watch. If they’re going to offer to work with abody fa objects to their ideas, they’ll hiv to stert hauding Cooncil meetings at Pittodrie.

I div think Mary’s got a point, though. The toon’s looking a right state. There’s mair foliage growing oot of the chimney pots in Union Street than there is in the Duthie Park. If you ask me, there’s ower much emphasis on shopping centres these days. Nae jist because it’s led to the death of the quirky, independent shop in Aiberdeen, but also because if you get banned fae the Bon Accord Centre and Union Square, there’s naewye else to ging. I wiz raging fan they took those ASBOS oot on me. Fit evidence did they hiv that I wiz using the old five-fingered discount? Nithin! (They says they’ve got me on CCTV trying to stuff frocks into a tinfoil lined Sports Direct bag-for-life, but I’ve seen Spectre. They can dae onything with video these days). So, if I’m going to be confined to Union Street for my Christmas presents this year, it looks abody’ll be getting mobile phone cases or a line fae the bookies.

Entertainment news with showbiz insider SHELLEY SHINGLES (Miss Fetteresso, 1993)

I ran in to my old pal George Clooney down in Edinburgh, last week. I was there doing some high-profile promotional work for a major sports organisation; holding up the “Golf Sale” sign on Princes Street, when I heard he was in town to visit the Social Bite Cafe, just round the corner on Rose Street. OM actual G!!! I went rushing round – just in time to bump into the man of the moment as he was getting out of his taxi, and go sprawling all my length on the cobbles! What an actual affront!

Of course me and George go way back. When he broke through in 1994 as Dr Doug Ross on ‘ER’, I used to watch it every week. He didn’t remember me, which was hardly surprising, of course! It was a long time ago.

Still, he was very kind as his bodyguards helped me to my feet, asking if I was OK and taking the time to tell them to make sure that they deposited me feet-first into the wheelie-bin, not head-first, as they had initially planned. Ah, George. He really is the perfect gentleman. Worse luck!

WADA shocker for the Russians

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports columnist who’s sample is always clean.

I is sad to say that once again, the world of sport has been plunged into a sandal. The World Anti-Doping Agency has made alligators about the Russian’s cheating at athletics, and they reckon that the corruption goes right the way to the tip of the iceberg. They is talking about banning Russia from sport, but isn’t that stabling the horses bolt after the door is already shut? Let’s be honest, this has not come as a surprise to no-one. When I seen the Russians was in the frame, I had de ja vu all over again. After all, we all seen what they got up to with Ivan Drago in ‘Rocky IV’.

All this doping business is so complicated that I’m glad I’m not competing at the top level no more. These days, after they’ve done their stuff, athletes have to report to the WADA and provide two samples. In my day, after a match, I used to report to the Masada and go through a similar procedure after 2 pints and 4 whisky chasers.

When I seen this week that US Soccer has banned kids from heading the ball, I couldn’t believe my ears. Mental! Apparently they is doing it so the kids won’t clash heads and suffer from percussion. If you ask me, that is madness gone politically correct. Over the years I has headed more balls than you could throw a hot dinner at, and I got knocked out a few fair times as well, but it never did not do my brain no harm.

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

As a scientist, I am often asked the big questions, such as “Does the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics logically mean the ultimate heat death of the universe?” and “Do I have to really have to pay taxes?”. To both of which the answers are, of course “1) Yes, it’s inescapable”, and “2) See 1), unless you’re very, very rich”

But people are bound to have questions if they continue to get their scientific information from television. Take, for example, John Lewis’ “Christmas advert”. Now, Mr Lewis may be an excellent fellow and a proficient shopkeeper, but in matters of science he is an ignoramus, for this documentary manages to pack more inaccuracies into its short running time than Brian Cox managed in 3 series of ‘Wonders of the Universe’ (for my money it was all downhill for him after his appearance in the X-Men films).

For a start, a telescope sufficiently powerful to zoom in on a close-up of a human eye from the moon, (a distance of 384,400 kilometres) would rival the Hubble, and retail at £5.85 billion. In addition, we must take delivery into account. Balloons, though charming, could not idependently escape the Earth’s atmosphere, and even an unmanned moon-shot, by one of the less reputable space agencies, couldn’t be launched for less than £150 million. This would make the total cost of the gift £6 billion; which is beyond the purchasing power of even a John Lewis customer, never mind the pocket money of an 8 year old girl, (particularly after she has blown her savings on a frankly superfluous supply of helium balloons).

But, perhaps more importantly, viewers should be aware that is impossible to survive to pensionable age in a complete vacuum; as I recently came perilously close to proving when I accidentally got my head stuck in a goldfish bowl.

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

OMG! It’s one of my fave weeks of the year, with the announcement of the ‘I’m a Celebrity…’ lineup. It’s always totes delish to see which retired sportsmen, unknown pop acts, lads-mag cover stars and out of work TV presenters are set to be screaming, cowking, and being passive aggressive to each other in the jungle.

But for me, the biggest star this year is one of my all-time favourite hunks, Tony Hadley!  Of course, me and Tony go way back. I met him backstage at a Spandau Ballet gig in Glasgow in 1983, when I was a spokesmodel for Cremola Foam (Which the Spandau boys always put on their rider) . They’d just finished “True” when Tony came running into the wings and grabbed me by the shoulders, looked deep into my eyes and said “Where’s the toilet, love? My back teeth are floating!”

Wise words from a true gent.

 

V&A reject Thatcher’s outfits. Well, it’s a museum, not a chamber of horrors.

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North East and surrounding nether-regions

By Gove, I have to admit that I do have a soft spot for a tough lady who knows her own mind, takes no nonsense and can jolly well keep a chap in check. A woman who who would fix a fellow with a steely glare and say “Struan, you rapscallion, you are a very, very naughty boy”. Only three women could ever have put me in my, well deserved, place like that. Mumsy, Mrs Spitweather the comely Gordonstoun matron, and her Magnificence, Baroness Thatcher of Kesteven.

So if anyone were to snub one of those marvellous lady-folk, I would immediately leap to their defence and cry “You, sir, are a bounder of the highest order. You sir, are a knave and a cad and should to be taken to the Tower to have the back of your legs flayed with an iconic string of pearls”.

So imagine my dismay this week when I read that the short-sighted lefties at the Victoria & Albert museum rejected the opportunity to exhibit Maggie’s twinsets and sensible blouses on the basis the collection did not have ‘intrinsic aesthetic value’, What an insult! These are the navy-blue suits with white piping which took on the Argies, the pencil skirts which crushed the Trade Unions and the handbags in which she kept Michael Heseltine’s family jewels! What could be more aesthetic than that? (Note to researcher – pls check meaning of ‘aesthetic’).

Of course, upset at the news, and my eyeballs floating in Vermouth, I regrettably took to Twitter:

“If V&A turn down Iron Lady’s attire, I’ll buy at auction. Then dress up for First Minister’s Questions. If lucky John Swinney will mistake me for Annabel Goldie – pulled”.

Now, I must apologise. There is, of course no resemblance whatsoever between Ms Goldie and me in a frock; and as the longest-serving premier of the 20th Century and Britain’s only female prime minister Baroness Thatcher’s clothing deserves more respect. We are talking about, amongst other things, the first M&S nightie to hold the highest political office in the land, the first playtex 18 hour girdle to occupy 10 Downing Street and, I fervently imagine, the first brassiere to have a finger on the U.K’s nuclear button. We should all think about that for a moment. I know I am. Woof!

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, ordinary mum

Like any ordinary mum, I’m keen to ensure my children enjoy cultural events in as traditional a way as possible. It’s our responsibility to resist consumerism and to honor our autumnal festivals in an ecologically responsible manner. Take Halloween for example. There were no American style piles of candy, pumpkins or plastic fangs chèz Smythe-Barratt this year. Instead, we did All Hallows’ Eve in the time honoured fashion. Snèzanna, the au pair, carved an amazing lantern out of a butternut squash (she’s Bulgarian, but she really is a wonder). Then Fidel and Emmeline, dressed up as members of the oppressed urban poor (in their little shell-suits; adorable!), went ‘guising’ around our friends’ houses. Driven by Snezanna in the Land Rover, naturally – given the size of the estates involved. They even had a chance to ‘trick or treat’ (though I loathe the term) their daddy, thanks to the wonders of Skype. He’s in Geneva at the moment for tax reasons, so he had some sweets sent to them by courier. Well, it’s a time for family, isn’t it?

This evening’s Guy Fawkes Night festivities are no different. At the heart of any 5th November celebration is the bonfire, and Mellors, the gardener, has been sourcing the materials for our sustainable eco-friendly pyre from our East stables. They are currently being renovated to take a family of Syrian refugees – although if none come to the door it might also make a light and airy studio for my new passion, colouring-in for grown ups.

Finally, the fireworks. Naturally, we want to have fun, but we also want to ensure we don’t damage the delicate ecosystem with atmospheric pollution. So, we’ve flown in a team of scientists from the US Army’s Pyrotechnics Technology and Prototyping Division who, I saw on the One Show, have devolved a new ‘green’ alternative. A quick exchange of emails and voila! They’ve agreed to treat us to an hour long display (or as they refer to it, ‘weapons test’) Then we’ll all pop back inside to the small dinning room for baked organic La Bonnotte potatoes and fair trade Ecuadorian hot chocolate. But you know, it’s worth going the extra mile to keep it real.

After House of Lords defeat, Osborne goes back into bat.

Cosmo Ludovic Fawkes-Hunte, the 13th Earl of Kinmuck

The 26th of October 2015: a day that will live in infamy. The day the House of Lords took leave of its senses and engaged in disgraceful rebellion. Yes, the Lords have voted against the Government before – the Fox Hunting bill, for example – but that was we Tories trying to protect our people from the machinations of Labour. This was them trying to do it to us, which is completely different.

Immediately after darkness fell, George Osborne emerged from his crypt at No 11 to announce his displeasure. Some imagine he is now going to seek a review of the powers of the Upper House, but George is too canny an operator to get dragged into lengthy consultations on constitutional change. He’ll simply transform into a bat, hang by his talons in the eaves of Parliament to swoop down and bite the heads off those who opposed him; picking them off one by one until the Government can be sure of a comfortable majority.

Never have I been more ashamed to be Peer than when my colleagues voted against Her Majesty’s Government’s sensible, measured and reasonable attempt to grind the poor into the dirt – I mean, balance the nation’s books. One loony lefty – I forget the fellow’s name, Bishop something or other – wittered on about those already in need being forced to shoulder a disproportionate burden of the cuts. Well of course they are! That’s what they’re for! You can’t take dosh off the upper classes; they’ll just slip the mooring rope on the family ketch and set sail for Monaco. But the beauty of soaking the poor is that very few of them actually own a yacht, so when you sting them for £250 a month they can’t afford – they just have to sit there and take it! And as for this business of people having to choose between being able to eat or heat their homes – what an insult to the yeomen stock that make up the British working classes. What these bleeding heart liberals fail to take into account is the sheer resourcefulness of the proletariat. Only last year, a junior ghillie failed to have my gun cleaned for the Glorious 12th. I dealt with the matter in the traditional way and had him bricked up in the attic for six weeks. When we came to release him he was perfectly happy, having subsisted on spiders, rats and rainwater that had dripped in through a cracked lead flashing. Really, I did the fellow a favour. Probably a damn sight safer than the sausages and bacon he used to eat.

Jonathan M Lewis, Headteacher at Garioch Academy

Members of the Garioch community might expect that our increased focus on extra-curricular excellence would be universally championed by all stakeholders; but, alas, no. Once more I find myself on the receiving end of unwarranted criticism from some parents, hostile to my use of cutting edge educational methods.

Take our 15-year-old computer whizz, Lyall Burkhill. Ever since he started here, young Lyall’s talents have been apparent. His classwork stood out, yes, but more striking still was his achievement in ‘hacking’ the 2nd year reports – replacing teacher comments with the lyrics to Sir Mixallot’s “Baby Got Back”. Some of the ‘old guard’ among our staff called for Lyall’s exclusion but I thought it better to harness his talents and put them to good use.

The school website, for example, was created by Lyall whilst he served 2 week’s detention for the reports transgression. There were teething problems, yes. A loop of the first line from Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” was perhaps not the best choice of audio for our home page, but he assures me that it was entirely accidental that clicking on my biography redirects the user to a Dutch adult entertainment site.

One of Garioch Academy’s many, many mottoes encourages pupils to “aim high”, and no one embodies this ethos better than Lyall. The lad has put in a power of work on his latest project, spending hours on his laptop (and most impressively, utilising the power of the school’s servers, without even being given the password)! It now transpires that the project was hacking the secure database of a multi-national telecommunications company. And then demanding a ransom while threatening to sell the information to credit card fraudsters. But, boys will be boys!

In the circumstances, I reject suggestions that my disciplinary sanctions were “soft”. Trust me, he won’t forget that stern talking to and educational trip to Satrosphere in a hurry!

Aberdeen beach in October? – it’s the bomb!

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

Like all ordinary mums, I do my utmost to encourage my children’s hobbies. Emmeline has her horses (2 Arabian stallions and a colt sired by Kauto Star; so adorable) whilst Fidel has developed a totally healthy fascination with World War 2. He has some very interesting items in his collection, including an old ration book and a gas mask all housed in an authentic Anderson Shelter, but as you would expect from a 13 year old boy, he craves some more exciting memorabilia to go with his Bren gun, hand grenade and the Iron Cross his daddy bought for him at a very exclusive auction in Buenos Aries.

How serendipitous, then, that a 70 year old German naval mine should wash up on Aberdeen beach on Sunday. Fidel was beside himself, so we hopped in the Land Rover and headed east. Sadly, his dreams were crushed by the oppressive, fascistic regime of our nanny state. The beach was completely cordoned off, with police officers barring anyone from getting within 50 feet of the ordnance. No amount of pleading with the constabulary, nor offers of cash incentives, nor the normally persuasive entreaties of Snezana, our au pair (she’s Bulgarian, but she’s marvellous) would change their minds. What kind of world do we live in, where a 13 year old boy is prevented from handling and storing a historically important lethal explosive device? It’s health and safety gone mad.

Poor little Fidel’s hopes were smashed along with his interest in WWII history. Now he only wants to play with his chemistry set. He says he’s making something called ‘crystal meth’ which apparently everyone at school is into at the moment, like Minecraft and Ed Sheeran. Bless.

Kevin Cash, money saving expert and King of the Grips

I wiz tickled pink to hear that an Aiberdeen charity shop hid recently received donations o’ designer claes worth thoosands. Fit a lovely story that is! The idea, that even in this straitened financial climate, folks wid be willing to gie valuable assets awa fair warmed the cockles o’ my hairt – but nae half as much as the fact that the place they’d gien them to wiz noo selling them at a fraction o’ their value! Me and my mate, Mick the Pill, wiz camped outside that shop overnight and in like Flynn at opening time! And afore onybody says it wizna fair for us to pick the place clean afore onyone else got a chunce, dinna worry – we did leave some stuff ahind for ithers to buy. There wis a Vivienne Westwood frock that wiz covered in coffee stains and fag burns, so we decided nae tae tak it. Imagine my horror later on fan I checked online and seen it wiz supposed to look like that! As for the rest, never fear. We will be giein’ abody a fair opportunity to buy it fae us. Aff ebay, at fower times the price we peyed for it, plus post and packaging at £10 a pop. That’s the value!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports writer who’s always glorious in defeat

We was robbed. Make no trombones about it, Scotland should have gubbed that Austrians big time in the rugby on Sunday. Sadly, yet another refereeing howler left the Scots with their tails between their knees. The ref gave them Ozzies a dodgy pen in the last minute. Incredulously, he never asked the boy with the video replay remote to check the Sky Plus to see if he’d had a mare. Which he had done. Criminal.

I must say, I’ve got right into the rugby during this World Cup and I reckon, in a parable universe, I could have made a half-decent egg chaser myself. They mostly go about clattering folk instead of playing the ball, which is right up old Kenny’s street. Plus, there’s 15 players on a team, which straightaway gives you a 4-man advantage on your opponents. The ref looks like a wee loon compared to the players, but when you see him giving them a telling off, they just stand and take it, instead of shouting “what game are you watching you clown?” right in his face, like what old Kenny always done.

When he blew for full time on Sunday, the ref legged it off the pitch instead of shaking hands, which a lot of the experts said they never seen before. I has seen a ref running off the field plenty times. Usually when I was chasing him with the sharp end of a corner flag.