Why the fuss? It’s hardly the first time someone’s been tanked up in Torry.

View from the midden; rural affairs with Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s been an ironclad wik in the village. Some of you micht have seen that a great muckle tank wis spotted trundling up Wellington Road in the distant royal burgh of Torry. Noo, if onybody had looked closely at the driver, they would have seen a muscle-bound thick-set figure, wi a lantern jaw and eyes close-set in concentration, nae unlike Sly Stallone in his pomp, chawin’ on a massive cigar. At’s richt, it wis naen ither than Feel Moira taking her new run-aboot for a spin. It truly is amazing fit ye can find on Gumtree. She’s delighted wi the purchase; the caterpillar tracks are ideal for the rough terrain aroon aboot Meikle Wartle, and the 30mm L21A1 Cannon comes in real handy for clearing a path through the roadworks at Oldmeldrum.

As regular readers will ken, Moira is nithin if nae public spirited, hence her descision tae drive her newly acquired mobile artillery doon tae the Red Road flats in Glasgow tae help the City Cooncil there “finish aff the job proper”. Nae doot she’ll mak a helluva mess, but at least she winna be the only een. Cheerio!

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands Most Eligible Bachelor

Jimmy wiz shocked, stunned and saddened to see that Playboy is to drop nuddy women. At first, I picked it up wrang. I thought the plan wiz to drop them delicately onto a feather-bed to observe the effects of gravity on the female form, and tak mucky pictures o’ the result. But no! It turns oot they’re going to stop publishing pictures of wifies in the buff. Well, Jimmy canna get his heid roon that ava. Playboy withoot nudes is like the sky withoot stars, Morecombe withoot Wise, or a Pittodrie pie withoot meat. Actually, scratch that last een.

Playboy’s editor reckons that wi a’ the nudity available free on the Internet, they should ditch bare skuddy nakedness and sell an aspirational lifestyle message instead. Well I’m sorry to disappoint him, but the lifestyle the average Playboy reader aspires to involves hinging oot at the Playboy mansion surrounded by gorgeous dolly-birds, and let me tell you, we do not aspire to have them standing roon in their duffle-coats.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports columnist who’s still in a job despite disappointing results

What a week it’s been for Niall McGinn. Not only has he seen his international team, Northern Iceland, qualify for the finals of the Euros, but he has also won the Ladbrokes Player of the Month. That puts him one up on me. I never managed to not do neither of them things. Mind you, I have won a few off Ladbrokes, in my time, including the 5-horse accumulator what paid for my Jag. I is really chuffed for Niall, who is a great lad and has been pure stalagmite up front for the Dons this season. He scored or was involved in every goal the Dandies scored last month. I can claim a similar stake about January 1992 when I was playing for Longside, because that particular month we was mince and only scored the one. I remember it like it was yesterday, the corner come over, up went the heads and I bulleted it past the goalie. It was our goalie, admittedly, but still, I fair showed the boys where the net was.

I wouldn’t not swap the career I had for no-one’s, but last weekend, watching our rugby team win that 69 point thriller against the Samosas, I did wish that I’d had the chance to resent my country. I must admit I feel a prang of jealously for McGinn playing at a major finals. The closest I got was Mexico 86. I was in great form with Inverurie Locos at the time, halfing strikers for fun and elbowing folk off the ball without getting caught like you wouldn’t believe. I think if Big Jock had still been manager I would have been on the plane. But of course Jock was tragically taken from us and Fergie took over. Me and him hadn’t not spoke since I left Pittodrie near the start of his rain. Even so, I hoped we could bury the hat-stand and let Bygraves be Bygraves, but he picked Stevie Nicol instead. When I next seen Fergie I couldn’t not let it lie. I says to him, I says, “What’s he got that I haven’t?” “Three first division titles and a European Cup.” he says. And that’s football.

See us live next year in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen

Heathrow Terminal 5 – the final frontier.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Far be it from me to revel in the discomfort of a political rival, especially one such as Alex Salmond, with whom the Council has always enjoyed such a constructive relationship. But I did have a wee chuckle when I saw that British Airways had refused to allow Big Eck to board one of its flights after he made his reservation under the name of ‘James T Kirk’. His choice of moniker does little to live down his reputation as a man puffed up with his own importance – it won’t surprise anyone that he considers himself to be captain of the ship – but I should have thought ‘Scotty’ would have been a more appropriate alias. In that respect, Nicola Sturgeon is an undoubted improvement on her old boss. It’s hard to imagine her trying to book onto a flight as one of her childhood heroes, like Princess Leia or Supergran. Overall, though, the surprise is that Salmond would countenance flying by any airline with “British” in the title.

It turns out that, for security reasons, Salmond always travels under an assumed name. I’m not sure who he imagines would be intent on doing him harm: maybe he thinks MI5 are keen to see him come a cropper. But he needs to be careful: as a well-known trekkie, his choice of pseudonym shows a lack of imagination that will pique the interest of internet hackers. Even now, great batallions of them are no doubt trying to access Salmond’s online banking, trying passwords like “WeAreThe45”, “WillieWallace1305”, and “DavidCameronIsAPudgyFacedNeep”

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

As a scientist with a foreign-sounding name, people are always asking me questions, like, “Are you an immigrant, whose presence here is preventing us from building a cohesive society?” the answer to which is, of course, ‘”No. You’re thinking of the systematic demonising of the poor and weak, the dismantling of the National Health Service, the BBC, and the Welfare State – very institutions that bind this nation together – and xenophobic rhetoric. But it’s an easy mistake to make.”

This week, however, I have been addressing what is undoubtedly the question on everyone’s lips – does Burger King’s spooky, black-coloured Halloween Whopper really turn your number 2s green?

Like all good scientists, I sought to answer the question through a carefully controlled experiment. I had nothing but Halloween Whoppers for a week (imported by courier from the US), while Mrs Professor Schlenk acted as a control group, subsisting on regular Whoppers and the occasional Chicken Royale. After a while, we repaired to the smallest room and compared notes. I will draw a discrete veil over the fine detail of our findings. Suffice it to say that the results were explosive. The conjecture has been proven; the immigrant foodstuffs had no negative effect on cohesion, and our local Co-opie has run out of toilet duck.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who always makes it out of the group.

When your team is riding it’s high horse on the crest of a wave there is not no feeling like it. But when the bobble bursts, you come crashing back down to earth with a blimp. Just ask my old club, the Dandy Dons. It seems like only yesteryear that they had won 8 games on the spin, but after defeats to Hibs, Icy Tea and St Johnstone, oh how the turntables has turned.

The Dons was mince on Saturday. Thankfully I missed the worst of it because when they went 2-0 down after 10 minutes old Kenny done a disappearing act. I’m not normally a party-time supporter, but I was needing to get home to watch Scotland stick South Africa in the rugby.

Regulation readers might be surprised that I done that, seeing as how I has always been a football man, right down to bottom of my barrel. I never used to be a fan of the egg-chasing, but it’s a cracking game once you get into it, and I has been watching this world cup deciduously. Some of the stuff they gets away with is mental. If you done it in football you’d get a straight red, and maybe even a police caution. I know I did. The best bit of the tournament so far was watching England getting beat at home twice on the bounce. They is the first ever hosts to not make the It’s a Knockout stages. Just like Charlie Allan at the Bon Accord baths – they couldn’t get out of the pool!

See us live next year in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen

How can they have flowing water on Mars? I can’t even get a mobile phone signal at Clinterty.

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

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions such as ‘What is the shape of the universe?’, ‘Will retina scans replace Chip and Pin payments?’ and ‘Are you actually going to buy that magazine, sir?’ But recently, people have been asking me all about water on Mars.   “Well”, I advise, “I don’t know about water, but I love them deep fried in batter!” And then we laugh, both at my witty verbiage and my increased risk of simultaneously contracting type 2 diabetes and obesity-related heart disease.

They are referring, of course, to the amazing discovery of evidence of water flowing on the red planet. NASA, having examined images sent back from the ‘Curiosity’ rover have identified black, salty tidemarks on the side of a canyon, which makes me wonder whether or not Mrs Professor Schlenk might be working for them as an image analyst. She can always detect when I’ve had a bath and failed to clean it properly.

The saltiness detected by space probes is what confirms that these images do indeed show the residue of flowing water, as the salt is what allows the liquid to flow in low temperatures. This is the same scientific phenomenon which allows us to clear icy paths and also explains why Margaritas go down so easily.

Should you wish to ‘taste the difference’ between our own Earth water and Martian water, simply fill a glass from the tap, then top it up with grit from one of those yellow boxes at the roadside. Swirl it all together and if you’ve done it right it should have the consistency of a rice crispie cake.

What NASA believe is that the water flows down the edges of craters and canyons during the Martian summer, when temperatures reach a rather chilly -23oC. All of this is heartening for 3 reasons. Firstly, it suggests the possibility that microbial life might yet be found on Mars (finally answering David Bowie’s 1971 poser in the affirmative); secondly it might be feasible for a manned mission to Mars to access a renewable water supply; and thirdly, because it shows that you need only travel 54 million kilometres to find somewhere with a worse summer than Aberdeen.

Tanya Souter, Lifestyle Correspondent

You might hiv seen in the papers the ither day that hunners of students wiz involved in a “lock-in” at the Bon-Accord and St Nicholas Centre in Aiberdeen! I used to ging oot wi’ a student, years back, but the only lock-ins he iver took me to wiz at the Reed Lion! Apparently it wiz a special offer event, far they get generous discounts in a range of stores. Well, fan I heard that I naturally tried to swick my wye in. I flashed my rent card, and telt them I wis a post graduate at the University of Life, on a bursary fae the School of Hard Knocks. ‘Oh aye’ says the boy on the door ‘Fit are ye reading?’ Quick as a flash I says, ‘Take A Break’, but he wizna fooled. I asks him, “Fit wye do ye gie them a special discount night?” He says, ‘They’re students, they need a discount cos they dinna hae much disposable income.” So I says, “I’m a single mum wi’ three kids living in a Cooncil hoose – I dinna hae muckle disposable income either.” And he says, “Aye – but you dinna hae access to yer daddy’s credit card.” I wiz totally raging. I’ve written to the manager demanding a similar lock-in for folks fa earn less than the living wage. And I tell ye – I’m dead serious aboot it. If I dinna get a positive answer, I’m going to start shoplifting somewye else.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football columnist who doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘unethical’

When I seen the other day that Jack Warner had been banned for life from all football-related activities, I felt dead sorrow for him. I always thought his biology of the Dons was very good. I reckon he’s just been made an escape coat. I bet it’s because he’s from Maud. My pal Dunter Duncan was from there, and he was forever getting red-carded by refs, sometimes for things that was not even not totally deserved. Just because someone’s leg’s been broke in two places does not mean it was a foul. But that’s what you get when you get refs who have never played the game. Or who had to give it up early because they got their legs broke.

 

Initiation ceremonies: how to get ahead in politics

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North East and Surrounding Nether Regions

Cripes.

Now, look here! There’s been a terrific rumpus across the Twitter-sphere these last few days over the totally ridiculous allegations about what Super Dave got up to in his Uni days. Let me be clear, I have no intention of giving these lurid stories the oxygen of publicity. In fact, I wont even offer up my usual “slightly sozzled on the obligatory 5 G&Ts after work” perspective. Central office have been VERY clear about that.

Oh, the tweets I’ve had to delete.

Let me just say this. Boys will be boys. And speaking as someone Annabel Goldie continues to call “you, boy!” I should know. Also, I’m no stranger to initiation ceremonies. Since 2006 I’ve been responsible for administering wedgies at the Tory Party Conference, and that includes Eric Pickles (mind you, he was a two man lift. Big up to Ruth Davidson for the assist)!

But…student pranks, well, we’ve all done it, haven’t we? I mean, look; at the start of my first year at Uni I was invited to join the infamous dining society The Prince Alberts. Crikey! Some of the stuff I had to ingest during the initiation ceremony would make your hair curl – they left the crusts on the cucumber sarnies!

But, trust me, no animals were involved during that initiation. It was pretty wild, I grant you, but we didn’t go the whole hog.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who has it in spades

My regulatory readers will know that whenever the law gets involved in the sporting arena, old Kenny gets winded up. Sometimes, though, I is prepared to make an extension; like when I seen in the paper that a High Court Judge is to decide if Bridge is a sport, or just a game.

I’m not much of a Bridger, but I hope the beak says it’s a sport because if he done that, it would set a legal president. If Bridge is made a sport, then a lot of old Kenny’s favourite pastimes could follow. Bridge involves studying information and predicting who’s going to win – just like going to the bookies. Bridge involves 4 people sitting at a table trying to trump each other – similar to me swapping old football stories in the Butcher’ Arms with Dunter, Chopper and Bill ‘the Barker’ Barclay. And, most best of all, Bridge is a game of chance that has an element of skill to it – exactly the same as playing the puggy in the Kintore Arms. At this rate, my Saturday evening trip to the boozer could become a high-paced cardigan-vascular work out!

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

As a scientist, I’m forever being asked questions such as “Do the risks associated with building nuclear reactors outweigh the benefits?”, “Is eating a chili-heavy diet good for you?” and “Do realise that your fly is open?” (The answers are respectively “probably”, “yes,” and “yes, it’s for ventilation purposes after all those damned chilis.”)

This week, however, the question on everyone’s lips has been:“Did Volkswagen really fool the US regulators into believing that their cars produced only a fraction of their true emissions?” Well, hard to believe as it may be, it seems that it is possible to dupe the regulatory authorities of a land where Donald Trump runs a decent chance of becoming President. Volkswagen have admitted that they included in their cars a clever little piece of software that could detect when the emissions were being tested and manipulate the results. If only they’d put a similar amount of ingenuity into actually reducing the vehicles’ emissions, they might not be in this pickle. I fear that the person who made that decision is going to have plenty of time to practice his Golf in the not too distant future!

But perhaps the most shocking aspect of this story is the fact that it is not the most disgusting news to come out of corporate America this week. That distinction falls to Turing Pharmaceuticals’ CEO Martin Shkreli, an oleaginous blob of sub-humanity who has hiked up the price of an essential HIV medication by over 5000%.   In so doing, he has rewritten the laws of medical science: it seems that is possible for a man to live, breathe, and become fantastically wealthy without having a functioning heart.

The SNP are playing the Generation Game. If only we could shut that door.

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding Nether Regions

I was exasperated to hear this week that those pesky SNP chaps – and chapesses (wouldn’t want to be accused of being sexual) – are including plans for a second independence referendum in their Scottish Election Manifesto. Well clench my buttocks and call me Moira but isn’t that the most infuriating thing one has ever heard? We were promised that the indyref would be ‘once in a generation’. The last one cost me 7 friendships, most of my hair and a stomach ulcer. At one point I had to share a platform with Alistair Darling! I can’t afford the stress; I have my dashing good looks, portly aristocratic frame and floppy public schoolboy hair-do to protect. What’s more, I don’t think I could bear a rerun of those depressing, half-baked TV debates, which only demonstrated that Scottish politicians couldn’t run a bath, let alone a country.

What really riles me is when the Nats say they’ll ‘let the Scottish people decide’. What they mean is they’ll keep asking the Scottish people the same question over and over again until they get the answer they want. Who do they think they are, the West Midlands Police?

Well, not on my Apple Watch, Nicola. The Nats promised there wouldn’t be another independence referendum for at least a generation! I suppose our mistake was assuming that they were referring to a generation of humans. Turns out they were talking about iPhones!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s always top of the league

There’s only one word to describe last Saturday’s top of the table clash between my old club, the Dons and defending champs Celtic – bibliographical. The rain was certainly bad enough for Noah to get his ark out of the garage, but, unlike in the good book, this time David gubbed Goliath 2-1. What a belter of a game, though, and well worth the price of a ticket. I never had to pay for my ticket, thanks to some corporate hostility, but if I had did, it would of been well worth it.

The game sparked into life when the ref gave a penalty against Considine for holding back Celtic frontman Leigh Griffiths. The Celts is raging that the whistler never gave Considine his marching powders, saying he prevented a clear goal-scoring opportunity. But I reckon the official got it spot on because, although Griffiths was one-on-one with the keeper, four yards out, he is mince.

The Dandies got back into it when they scored a pen of their own, and a late goal from Paul Quinn put us top of the league. But the home fans had some of the wind sucked out of their wings when the ref sent Johnny Hayes for an early bath. Now, in my playing days, I was no stranger to a red card on those occasions when I halfed somebody, but in my professorial opinion, the ref has had a shocker. When they seen the replays the Dons says they is going to appeal against this mismarriage of justice. That’s where Hayes and me is different, though. Whenever I watched my red cards back in slow-mo, they always looked even worser!

Tanya Souter, Local Lifestyle Guru

This week has seen some truly momentous announcements. The Labour party has unveiled a leader who is a left-winger! Fit a shocker that wiz. Buzz Aldrin announced that we wants to nuke Mars (I dinna get it. If he disna like their chocolate, why diz he nae jist buy Cadbury’s?).

But maist important of aa, Mark Zuckerberg is spikkin aboot introducing a ‘dislike’ button on Facebook! Will it work? I think Zucky-baby has missed the mark here! Facebook is faur ye ging to escape the troubles of the real world. It’s a bubble – a big comfy bosie of a place. It’s far ye post a picture of yer kids nae wrecking the joint, yer pets nae wrecking the joint or a roast denner ye’ve cooked fan ye didnae wreck the joint, and folk ye hinna spoken to since primary school gie them a virtual ‘thumbs up’. On Facebook, ye either ‘like’ something or ye keep yer trap shut. And that’s the wye it should stay. Dinna let the harsh winds of reality in! Dinna turn it intae a forum far folk can freely express their low level antipathy and irritation towards people they dinna really ken. That’s fit Twitter is for!

63 years – more reign than a Scottish summer

Hugh Gravelle-Scrope, Royal Correspondent

Yesterday Her Majesty Elizabeth II, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, Northern Ireland and the realms of the Commonwealth, became the longest reigning British Monarch, having ruled for 63 years and 213 days.

And what times she has lived through! War, the loss of Empire, devolution and the decommissioning of the Royal Yacht Britannia. How culture has changed – she has seen the rise of the Beatles and the Stones, sky-dived with James Bond and lived through the era of the soap opera, before being unwittingly cast in the biggest one of all. She has lived through personal disappointments – not least the fact that 3 of her children’s marriages ended in divorce whilst her own did not. She has had to cope with the death of a beloved mother and sister, as well as the survival of Nicholas Witchell. She has had to tolerate intruders, assailants, and regular conversations with David Cameron.

Throughout it all, she has endured, dauntless, exhibiting more staying power than a marathon runner after an illicit visit to a blood-bank. 63 years!   Let the republicans and satirists say what they will – it is a length of service you will never see from an elected politician. With the possible exception of Robert Mugabe.

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, ordinary mum

Like all ordinary mums, I cherish quality time with my husband. For tax reasons, these trysts usually take place on foreign soil (like our ‘wee butt & ben’ in the Cayman Islands). But this week the kids and I got a rare treat, as Milo was scheduled to attend the Offshore Europe Exhibition. It was a flying visit, however, because the fascists at HM Revenue & Customs would have declared him UK resident if he was here for more than 6 hours.

Naturally, I kept Emmeline and Fidel off school so they could see their father. We ordinary mums don’t half get a hard time from schools these days for term-time absences. Even though it was just one day, the rather strident Headteacher kept raking up ancient history like our Slovenian skiing trip in May and last month’s jaunt to our Patagonian yurt.

Milo was busy at the conference from noon until 5.30pm, but he had very thoughtfully scheduled 30 minutes of family time before the chopper picked him up. You’ll be as astonished as I was that our 5pm journey through Aberdeen was absolutely beset by traffic! It’s just my luck. The one time I need to drive across town to meet someone at the venue of an international conference, hundreds of selfish polluting gas-guzzlers get in my way.

Fidel had a brainwave. Why couldn’t daddy’s helicopter come and pick us up from Muggiemoss Road? He’s so practical, that boy. Incredibly, despite being informed of our plight, the pilot refused! Instead of a ‘can-do’ attitude, all I got was “Air Traffic Control” this and “Risk of fatal injury” that. Appalling.

Eventually, we made it to the AECC only to find a jam-packed car-park. Luckily, Emmeline spotted a space right at the door labelled “Emergency Vehicles Only”. Thank goodness someone had made provision for situations like ours. We had 3 lovely minutes on the helipad before Milo’s departure. His was a lot faster than ours, though, as an ambulance driver had chosen to park right behind the Range Rover. People can be so inconsiderate.

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

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions like, “Is travelling to Mars really feasible?” “Is fracking safe?” and “Will we ever be able to eradicate the defective gene that makes some people support Rangers?”. The answer to those are respectively yes; yes – with appropriate environmental controls; and don’t be ridiculous, that’s not genetic – it’s a personality disorder.

This week, people have been asking me about zero gravity whisky. Ardbeg distillery sent a vial of the water of life into space to mature for three years – talk about space-aged! – and have recently compared the taste to an earth-bound sample of the same maturity. The papers have been full of stories about the “noticeably different” aromas and taste, including an “intense and long after-taste, with hints of wood, antiseptic lozenges and rubbery smoke.” These results are fascinating – they hint at ways of modifying the behaviour of terpenes, the building blocks that make up whisky’s flavour profile. They also solve the mystery of where Jilly Goolden has been hiding since she did “I’m a Celebrity”, and conclusively prove that Ardbeg’s PR people have an Einstein-like genius for publicity. Live long and prosper.

 

 

Balking at a Winter Wonderland

Archie Fraser, Gentleman of the Road

I noticed in Tuesday’s Evening Express, shortly before I stuffed it inside my vest for warmth, that during December, Union Terrace is to be transformed into a ‘Winter Wonderland’.

I’m sure the powers that be have the best of intentions, but as a resident of the City Centre (I have slept in most, if not all, of the doorways on Union Street and dined from the bins of the town’s finest restaurants) I have to ask – why bother? It’s not as if we live in Edinburgh, with the grandeur of a Castle on a hill, framing the city skyline and attracting thousands of tourists every year. If we are lucky we might get a confused Japanese couple grasping their pac-a-macs and thermos flasks, utterly bewildered by the St Nicholas Kirk nativity shed, and politely fending off the efforts of my compatriot, Foggy Fraser, to denude them of the price of a tin of Tenants Super.

Aspirations are all well and good, but they should be tempered by reality. Who needs a skating rink opposite HMT when we have the icy pleasures of an un-gritted Belmont Street? Who needs a long wait in a freezing queue for a fairground ride when you can have the same experience trying to get a taxi home from Back Wynd after Christmas shopping? And who needs a simulated ‘Winter Forest’? Union Terrace Gardens is already covered in needles. It’s just a pity they’re not pine.

View from the Midden; Agricultural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been a seminal wik in the village. I wiz reading in the press the other day that the National Sperm Bank in Birmingham is struggling, as so far it has only has nine depositers. The Chief Executive is hoping tae boost levels of interest, because apparently only about 10% of sperm is hardy eneuch tae survive the freezing process. Weel, that’s far Meikle Wartle excels! It’s helluva cauld here at the best of times, so we jist hiv tae get on wi’ it, if ye ken fit I’’m saying, eh? Eh?

So, onywye, it’s auld Jock tae the rescue! By the time you read this I’ll be en route doon tae Birmingham in ma Massie Ferguson, puttering doon the M1, (estimated time of arrival, a wik on Sunday). Balanced proudly, if somewhat precariously, on my shoogly trailer I hiv Jim Grunt’s maist prolific bull, ‘David Cameron’ (so cried as he’s hid mair wee calfs than onybody else). This fine aminal will easy produce eneuch tae fill the bank right up tae the …errm… brim.

I canna wait tae see their faces fan I bring him in. Nae need tae thank me, I’m happy tae help. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit whose paperwork is always in on time

I loves transfer deadline day. Mind you, I felt gutted for Man United ‘keeper, David De Gea. When the Red Devils and Real Madrid finally agreed a deal for him he must have thought all his dreams had come home to roost. But it turned out the paperwork wasn’t not lodged in time, so the deal’s off, and the transfer window slammed shut on his goalie gloves at the last minute, metabolically speaking.

With all the news flashes and elevenses hour deals, it was impulsive viewing. When the lovely Melody come home at tea time on Tuesday and found me still in front of Sky Sports News in my kimono she went holistic. She says to me, she says “Have you been sat watching that a’ day?” I says to her, I says, “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous! At lunchtime I put on ‘Bargain Hunt’.”

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

The recent survey of quirky queries received by local authority help-lines just goes to show that the life of the public servant is never dull! One old lady phoned her council for help with her crossword, while another wanted to the know the right size of tin to bake a Mary Berry tart she had seen on the Great British Bake Off! It’s all harmless fun.

Here in Aberdeen, we are kept entertained by a string of similar enquiries. “When are you going to do something about the Haudagain roundabout?” “Why won’t you reverse the decision to build Marischal Square?” “Is there any possibility of you providing sufficient funding to allow the elderly and vulnerable to move into adequately resourced care homes?”

How we laugh!

See us live next year in ‘Dreich Encounter’ at HMT Aberdeen

So what do we call them now? Five Directions?

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

OMG!  1D RIP!  I am so in shock after the Sun announced that everyone’s favourite boy band (since the last one) are going their separate ways!  It seems like the totes adorbs Harry Styles, Louis Whatshisface, the one with too many tattoos and the other one have decided to concentrate on ‘solo projects’ from next March onwards.

I’d rather they stayed together, obvs, but I think it’s sweet of them to announce the split so far in advance.  It gives their legions of fans plenty time to come to terms with it.  And by ‘come to terms with it’ I mean spend a small fortune on downloads, merchandise and tickets to their farewell concerts.

It’s interesting when the members of famous pop groups try to go it alone. There’s always one who goes onto great things and outshines the rest.  The Supremes had Diana Ross, Take That had Robbie Williams and D:Ream had Professor Brian Cox.  I can’t wait to see which of the One Directions gets to be Justin Timberlake and which one ends up pulling pints on Coronation Street. Looking at them, I don’t think there’s any doubt who’s going to leave the rest behind.  With his boy-next-door charm and looking like the lovechild of Mick Jagger and an afghan coat, Harry Styles has got it all.

Me and Harry go way back.  I first met him when I was down in London at the premier of the awesome Russell Brand movie ‘Arthur’.  I was working as a spokes-model for Butterkist popcorn and he was glad-handing the paparazzi on the red carpet. Now, It’s a little known showbiz secret that Harry has something of an eye for the more mature lady, and when he came past my stall to check out my wares (if you catch my drift), I could tell he wanted more than a box of sweet & salted! I’ll never forget what he said to me, with that famous, cheekily flirtatious, glint in his eye.

”Have you got any Soleros?”

Wise words from a true gentleman.

J Fergus Lamont, Arts critic and author of “’My ma was at school with her’- The cultural legacy of Annie Lennox,”

‘Genius’ is a word that is bandied about all too recklessly these days.  Particularly in the world of contemporary art.

Your humble correspondent has lost count of the number of derivative knock-offs, hailed as ‘masterpieces’, which have left him feeling spiritually bereft. Imagine, then, the sense of profound ennui which overcame me in the week which saw the launch of perhaps the country’s most ambitious ever exhibition by modern conceptual artists. Celebrated by some, but sadly, for me, overrated and uninspired.

I’ve never understood the sycophantic clamour around ‘street’ artist Banksy.  The masses may fawn over his guerrilla frescos, but those of us blessed with an intimate knowledge of art history can spot this charlatan as a pale imitation of the great Blek le Rat or Jef Aerosol.  Can his ‘Balloon Girl’ really be said to be more uplifting than the searing insight of ‘Pay No More Than 30 A Score’ inscribed by ‘Anonymous’ on Woolmanhill Hospital? His latest ‘offering’ is an apocalyptic pastiche of amusement parks entitled ‘Dismaland’.

I, for one, don’t feel the need to travel all the way to Weston Supermare to see a dystopian simulacrum of a fun fair. I’m not making an accusation of plagiarism as such, but let’s just say that this weekend I eschewed the version produced by Banksy, Hirst et al and instead visited the original (and for my money, most devastatingly executed large scale art installation on the theme), the ironically named Codona’s Fun Beach.

I wept.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands’ Most Eligible Batchelor

Given my weel-kent proclivities and relaxed attitudes tae ither fowk’s wedding vows, some of youse might be wondering if Jimmy Hollywood has gotten himsel intae ony bother with this online Ashley Madison “hiv an affair” thing. Weel, dinna fash yersel. Files I agree heartily with their mission statement ‘Life is short, have an affair’, Jimmy is nae intae virtual romances. I prefer to dae my chatting up in the real world. And I am the proud owner of 101 actual drinks ower the heid and slaps in the puss to prove it.

Mind you, I did once get intae lot of bother ower the heids of a lassie cried Madison fa bade in Ashley Road. Come to think of it, she was merried. I wonder if that’s far they got the idea fae?

Don’t Mone about Michelle. It’s an uplifting story.

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding Nether regions – an apology

Well, I’ve heard it all now. It’s bizarre enough that a Tory prime minister appoints a leader for entrepreneurship carrying the title of ‘Tsar’. However, for that ‘Tsar’ to be one Michelle Mone – she of rags to riches fame, and ruler of the Ultimo Bra Empire (and hows that for a mental image?) – is staggeringly, bewilderingly AWESOME.

Not only does she run JK Rowling a close second in the contest to find the successful Scotish woman most reviled by the SNP, she is also an absolute hottie-pants! However, my response to her appointment may have been over-enthusiastic. Clearly I should not have sent this tweet:

“Michelle Mone as Business Tsar? Well, she certainly encourages my start-up!”

Now, clearly this was disrespectful to Miss Mone, a business leader of rare acumen, and I would apologise for any inadvertent suggestion that her appointment was in anyway connected to her scrumdiddlyumptious appearance. I’m afraid I was at the business end of a bottle of Scrumpy Jack when I was let loose on the old iPad and was so ridiculously blotto I had no idea if it was New York or New Year. Let me be clear, Michelle is a highly respected individual, and her appointment has wide cross-party backing. I’ve even heard that Lord Sewell has given her his full support. Or perhaps it was the other way round?

View from the Midden – agricultural affairs with Jock Alexander.

It has been a scatological wik in the village. I wiz maist intrigued tae read in the news that the UK’s second highest mountain, Ben Macdui, hiz apparently got fit was described as a “human waste” problem. That is tae say, somed’y his been somewhat mair relaxed upon reaching the summit than they probably should hiv been. Noo, sensitive though I am tae the many travails of the noble art of mountaineering; ‘at’s just gadsy, ‘at! Fit’s wrang wi’ jist planting a wee flag? Thankfully, the RSPB officer fa found it in the first place says it wiz a one-off.   Jist as weel. Though I am slightly concerned tae recall that Feel Moira went a hike up Ben Macdui last month, wi’ nithin’ but a pair of stout walking boots and a knapsack full of her hame-made beef carpaccio.

We dinna hae a problem wi’ human waste in the hills aroon the village, largely cos we dinna hae ony hills aroon the village. Nae unless ye coont the great pile of mineer in Tam Fraser’s bottom field. It is entirely composed of fit drapped oot of the combined village sheep population during last year’s scours epidemic. Michty, fit a size o’ a mound that is. But ‘Ben MacDoldie’, as the village loons hiv christened it, remains a popular spot for a walk or a picnic. But only on frosty days. Fan the sun’s beating doon, the ground underfit does get a bittie saft. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who always wears the trousers

As I often always says, a footballer like me would struggle in the modren game. No tackles from behind, the pass back rule and video evidence would have made me a pale intimation of the player what I was. But it’s the stuff off the pitch that would have landed me in the most hottest water. Especially these social mediums and BookFace that they’re all doing these days.

Old Kenny’s eyes haven’t recovered from seeing Aberdeen’s Andrew Considine in a stag-do video on the Internet what has gone venereal. If you haven’t seen it, Consi is in drag, surrounded by blokes in their pants, miming to Baccarra’s ‘Yes sir, I can boogie’. What was the lad thinking? At least now I knows how that website with all the videos got its name. When I seen it, I says to myself, I says “Considine, you tube!”

Still, some of the stag-dos when I was at the Dons did get a bit crocus. I’ll never forget the time we dressed Doug Rougvie up like the Ayahtollah Khomeni. You should of seen their faces at Henry J Beans. When I got hitch-hiked to the lovely Melody, Basher Greig was my best man. He told me that for my stag do we was going to push the boot out and enjoy an evening of salsa music and cocktails, all in the company of some exotic dancers. I says to him, I says “Where are we going Basher, Tenerife?” “No” he says. “The Clover Leaf.”

 

 See the Flying pigs live in ‘Dreich Encounter’. His Majesty’s Theatre Aberdeen, 2-11 June 2016

The Labour Party: if you want to beat them, join them.

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner

As the life president, first officer and chief cook and bottle washer of the Independence for 39G Seaton Drive party, I am the prime, and indeed only, mover in the most radical independence movement in the country. I stand not merely for independence for, but also from, Scotland, with a demilitarised, UN-monitored zone in the common lobby and border controls on the landing. You might think it surprising, therefore, that I have registered to cast a vote in the ballot for the Labour Party leadership. Amazingly, Labour’s due diligence system did not pick up on the fact that I am the leader of a rival party which now commands almost the same level of support in Scotland as they do (1 vote). In order to participate, I have to pay £3 and state that I agree with the core principles of the Labour Party. You might think it would be difficult for someone who believes in the break-up of the United Kingdom to be able to make that pledge, but not a bit of it. I fervently wish the Labour Party to become utterly unelectable, and given the performance of their last leader and the current crop of candidates, that appears to be what the Labour Party wants, too.

J Fergus Lamont, Arts critic and author of “Speak Unto Nations – the Robin Galloway Story”

Truly, commerce is the enemy of art. When I set off for my annual pilgrimage to Edinburgh, to gorge myself on the richest morsels of cultural sustenance the Festival has to offer, I was anxious to avoid being sucked in to the corporate venues, or succumbing to the tawdry sales-pitches of the ticket hawkers. When I first began attending, in the 1960’s, it was possible to wander into a Grassmarket pub and find Steven Berkoff improvising a one-man Antigone, or to bump into the proto-Monty Pythons cracking wise with Clive James and the Goodies up Arthur’s Seat! Now, alas, the great drawback of the incredible success of the Fringe is that one is harangued on every corner by some bean counter, more concerned with bums-on-seats than breaking theatrical boundaries. What a stroke of luck, then, that whilst strolling the Royal Mile enjoying an alfresco lunch (some evocatively nomenclatured ‘chipsansos’. I believe it’s a Nepalese delicacy) I chanced upon a truly magnificent piece of improvisational street-theatre. The solo artiste, a post-modern histrion, shuffled into view, wheeling his props – a broom, dustpan and rubbish bin – on a makeshift barrow, and then bedazzled us with a masterclass in satirical mime. As this modern day Decroux despondently pantomimed a desultory attempt to rid the streets of the detritus of our modern, disposable society, I felt sure my heart would break. His perfunctory sweeping and the insouciant emptying of his dustpan beautifully conveying the profound truth, that one man can only do so much to stem the swelling tide of consumerism.

“Bravo! Encore!” I bellowed, hurling the remains of my ‘chipsansos’ at his feet. And then, the pièce de résistance. With a look which communicated what I can only describe as an infinite sadness, he thrust the broom and dustpan toward me and muttered, “I’m no clearing that up, pal!” I was now a player in this extraordinary improvisation! Giddy with the excitement of it, I swept the detritus into the dustpan, and along with it the shattered remains of the fourth wall. The crowd, thanks in no small part to my contribution, finally appreciating the subtle message of this bravura piece, burst into thunderous applause.

I wept.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands’ most eligible bachelor

Jimmy is nae a man fa is regularly up tae speed wi’ current affairs and fit’s in the papers and that. Fit floats my boat is the ladeez (obvs), posting selfies online and watching Miami Vice on DVD.

But I couldnae help being distracted the ither day by a muckle furore aboot David Beckham’s 4 year auld daughter, Harper. There seems to be a fair amount of do-gooders and “perfect” parents getting in a richt fankle that the wee toot is still reliant on something cried a ‘pacifier’. That wis confusing, ‘til yesterday, I thought ‘the Pacifier’ wiz a Jason Statham movie, but it turns oot it’s fit the yanks cry a dummy.

I hiv tae say, I think it’s unfair the wye the Beckhams ayewis come in for pelters fan ither famous femilies dinna. So gie peer wee Harper a break, she’s only 4 year auld. That Maggie Simpson his been sooking on her dummy since 1989!

 

See the Flying pigs live in ‘Dreich Encounter’. His Majesty’s Theatre Aberdeen, 2-11 June 2016