‘Deflation’. Sounds exciting, but in fact, it’s a bit of a let-down

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

Fit a week it’s been for those of us fa like to keep an eye on wir spending. The “One Big Switch” energy bills campaign his certainly got me thinking of switching – switching aff the telly faniver I see Michael Stewart’s crimson fizzog leering oot fae the screen.

Meanwhile, the news that inflation had turned negative for the first time wiz a real boost for consumers. According to the papers, ‘deflation’ means that a basket of goods that wid hiv cost £100 last April noo costs £99.90 (or potentially less, if you buy it fae my pal Mick the Pill, and pey cash. He winna tell the VATman if you dinna, ken fit I’m saying?). I celebrated the good news by blowing my buck-shee 10p on a fifth o’ a can o’ Skol, but the mair prudently-minded might choose to invest theirs. Stick it in an ISA and efter 10 years compound interest at current rates, it wid soar in value to 13p.

The ither story of interest tae value-hunters this wik was the news that First Bus had offered a free travel pass to Decker, the rooster that wiz found waiting by the bus-stop in Drumoak. The company have denied rumours that the bus wiz so late that fan Decker sterted waiting he wiz jist an egg. But news of their generosity got me thinking, and so I clarted myself in wallpaper paste, rolled aboot in some feathers and then pulled a marigold glove over my heid in to approximate a cockscomb. Then I shook my tail-feathers over tae the terminus to get the number 11 into toon. I hiv to report that my attempt to gain free travel did not find favour wi’ the driver. Still, on the plus side, as he clapped the bus doors shut on me, he did at least recognise that I wiz dressed as a cockerel. At least, I think that’s fit he said.

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I think its a real shame that we’ve seen so much in-fighting and back-biting fae the political parties fit got a hiding in the election. I canna stand tension and hostility in the workplace, cos nae job’s worth yer health, ye ken. Fan things get tetchy in the office it can be difficult, so here’s my guide on foo tae stay classy and rise above it.

First of a’, some disputes tak place afore ye’ve even entered the building. The car park can be a tricky place and some numpties jist hinna got a clue aboot the etiquette. My advice is tae ayewiz park atween the lines and tae tak swift action against onyb’dy that disnae. My preferred form of anonymous complaint is tae scoor abuse on the bonnet of the offending vehicle wi’ a bull-dog clip. Worked a treat wi’ this one quine. Her parking never got ony better, but that didna matter, ’cause her car wis niver oot o’ the garage!

Some fowk leave passive-aggressive notes lying aroond, like “Would people please not use my Billy Elliot mug on my day off?” or “Can people please remove coloured paper from the photocopier when they are done?” These is just an attempt tae lord it ower ab’dy else, so the only wye tae respond is by fighting fire wi’ fire. I tend to leave an equally polite reply, like “I’ll use fitiver mug I like, a’right?” or “Someone’ll need tae remove YOU fae the photocopier if ye dinna shut yer face!” Red ink is a nice touch, or ye could clip letters oot o’ newspaper headlines for that ‘psycho’ effect.

But perhaps the biggest source o’ workplace conflict is the fridge. There’s nithing mair upsetting than discovering that some thieving radge has chored your sandwiches or taen a scoof of your smoothie. It can mak ye a bittie paranoid, suspecting ivry person ye see of snaffling yer pot noodle; and that’s nae wye tae live. Tae get ‘closure’ ye need tae expose the tea-leaf. Fan it was happening at my work I took in a specially prepared lunch. It looked like a boring casserole, but it packed a punch. I’d pit in a hale jar of Naga chillies and twa tablespoons of syrup of figs. Then, eence I’d removed a’ the bog roll fae the lavvies, the trap wiz set. 10 minutes intae the lunchbreak there wiz an affa commotion. It’s safe tae say the culprit made themsel’s kent, fit a state! I wiz creasing masel. Until I minded I wiz the cleaner!

 

Democracy: delivering the government most folk didn’t want since 1707

Struan Metcalfe, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North

Well, put me in a head lock and call me Douglas Alexander, what a result! Super Dave back at Number 10, an overall majority in the house, and Alex Salmond has to spend the next five years at Westminster, he’s going to hate that!

I expected that we’d win more seats than Labour, but not that the Red Menace would suffer a full blown Jockocalypse! The total annihilation of the whinging Lib Phlegms was election cat-nip. But the icing on the cake came when not only Knickerless Clegg, but Red Ed both did the decent thing and committed political Hari Kiri on the same day. In fact, until Farage un-resigned, the Tories were the only party in the country NOT being lead by a girlie. (Yikes!) I think that tells us something very important.

As soon as I saw the exit poll I was straight down to the Turriff Conservative Club (membership is very exclusive) in all my finery; plus-fours, Blue Rosette, Maggie Thatcher Mask. I may have got a little bit carried away with the Krug and jaeger-bombs because we started a drinking game which involved removing an item of clothing whenever anybody won a seat from Labour.

So I do need to apologise unreservedly to Banff & Buchan Constabularly who picked me up on my way home at 6 am, quite tired & emotional. By that point the only thing protecting my dignity was my blue rosette, and I don’t think PCs Kinnear and Mearns appreciated my singing. Perhaps “Blue Moon” wasn’t the best song choice. LOL!

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

What a dreadful week for the Smythe-Barratt household. We had high hopes that the electorate would oust those beastly Tories! But sadly we are condemned to five more years of austerity. That’s a nightmare, as I said to ‘the girls’ at our weekly prosecco ‘n’ spa day.

If Ed Miliband had got in, he would have abolished ‘non-dom’ tax status, and that would have made a massive difference. There’s something truly tragic about an ordinary mum who’s separated from her ordinary husband because he chooses to aggressively avoid paying corporation, income and capital gains tax. I’m beginning to wonder if Milo will ever be able to set foot in the UK again.

But the biggest shadow hanging over us is the in-out EU referendum. In one fell swoop the anti-immigration brigade could isolate the UK from our nearest neighbours and stop the free movement of EU citizens to our shores. That would be awful, we simply could not replace our au pair, Snezanna (she’s Bulgarian, but she’s marvellous). Because if we employ a UK national, we’ll have to pay minimum wage.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Try as we might to put a brave face on it, last week’s result has left we in the Labour movement more bruised than 12 rounds with Mike Tyson. All my jibes about Alex Salmond being a “political heavyweight” have come home to roost, and it would be churlish not to congratulate the SNP on their success. Still, it is disappointing to see that petty political hostilities have resumed so soon after the result, with the SNP wasting no time in suggesting that the policies of Aberdeen’s Labour Council had an influence on our prospective MPs’ political fate. Well, hardly. The swing to the SNP in Aberdeen was in line with that across the rest of the country. It would be pushing it to suggest that Marischal Square caused a haemorrhage of votes in Dunfermline East. I think we should look elsewhere for scaegoats – I mean, explanations. While I – of course – remain full square behind Jim Murphy, I would venture to suggest that selecting a leader who looks like Skeletor and sounds like a talking action-man that needs new batteries might have been counterproductive. But perhaps my view – like the new political map of Scotland – is jaundiced.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit for hard working families

I have never been a follower of polytechnics, but I couldn’t help but smile when UKIP refused to accept the resignation of their fingerhead, Nigel Garage. It minded me on a similar moment in my short lived career as a manager. When I was in charge of Forres we had a string of bad results and speculisation about my future was ripe. To spare the board’s brushes I goes to them and offers my resignation. ‘We’re sorry Kenny’ the Chairman says to me, he says, ‘we can’t accept your resignation’. ‘How?’ I asks. ‘Because you’re sacked’ he says.

 

 

                          

You cannae shove your granny aff a bus.  But you can escort a supermodel off a plane.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been an intemperate wik in the village. It’s been fit can only be described as unseasonably het this last three or fower days. Or “summer” as we like the cry it. We dinna usually get fine weather in June. We dinna usually get fine weather at aa. And, michty, we’re hoping the torrential rains return soon, as fit a state ab’dy’s been in. There’s been reports that kiddies hiv been setting fire tae Tam Wilson’s bails.  And, as you can imagine, he’s nae best pleased aboot that.

In fact, there’s been bad behavior aa o’er the place.  You’ll hiv heard aboot yon famous skinnymalink Kate Moss, supermodel and dochter of racing legend Sterling, “kicking aff” during a recent EasyJet flight fae Turkey. Weel, willowy catwalk queen Kate is nae half the quine that is Feel Moira. In fact, Moira is at least fower times the quine that is Kate Moss, possibly even six. But, like Kate, she was also in trouble this past wikend, for her conduct during a journey fae an exotic destination. In Moira’s case the number 380 bus trundling hame fae the Taste o’ Grumpian festival in the seething metropolis of Inverurie. Moira had been exhibiting her famous (some would say notorious) hame-made date loaf. Unique among cakes it is tasty enough to be served as a dessert, yet firm enough tae be stuffed in a sock and used as an offensive weapon. Sadly, she got a wee bittie cerried awa wi’ the free samples on offer at the Brewfest Marquee, alang wi’ Norman Calder’s shortbread fingers and Jean-Christophe Novelli’s seared scallops. So, afore she was halfway hame she wiz fully awa. Kate Moss got intae trouble for getting up tae ging tae the lavvy files the aircraft wis experiencing turbulence. Weel, it wis pretty turbulent on that bus afore Moira needed the lavvy. God only knows fit it would have been like if they’d tried tae stop her!

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

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions such as “Are homeopathic remedies effective?”, “Will we ever have holographic TV?” and “What are you looking at?” to which the answers are, of course, ‘No’, ‘Yes’ and ‘I don’t know, I’m not very good at jigsaw puzzles’. Recently, however, people have been asking me about Mars.  “Well”, I tell them, “I think they’ve been getting smaller, or maybe we’re just getting bigger!” And then we laugh, and fondly remember ‘Spangles’ together.

They’re referring, of course, to NASA’s planned mission to the red planet.  Their preparations are not going terribly smoothly and their bad luck continued when their attempt to safely deploy the Low Density Supersonic Decelerator landing module from 180,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean ended with an enormous splash.  To put those figures into context, imagine Charlie Allan doing a belly flop off the top board at the Uptown Baths.

Luckily, for them and me, I think I may have solved their problem.  My ‘Eureka’ moment occurred in the kitchen yesterday morning when my breakfast had an unexpected interaction with gravity.  The solution struck me as soon as my buttery hit the floor.  If NASA wants to ensure their lander hits the ground the right way up, I suggest they deploy Murphy’s first law of aerodynamics, and smother the bottom of it with jam.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports writer whose hemoglobin is beyond reproach

It’s been another contraverbial week in the world of sport.  A TV documentary has made some damning alligators about some big names in athletics using performance-enhancing drugs.  I is scratching my head with that one, I have to say.  Apart from that one time when I had to be subbed off for Inverurie Locos against Kintore after I got Vicks Vaporub in my eye, I’ve never touched no drugs. But that doesn’t say to mean I don’t know nothing about them. I seen that film ‘Trainspotting’ and the lads in that took heaps of drugs, but it never enhanced their performances one jotter – if anything, they looked like they would of been a liability, sport-wise.

Mind you, I suppose there’s all different kinds of drugs.  They was saying that one of the runners was taking something cried Testarossa.  If it’s anything like the one my old pal Frank McAvennie used to drive, what a speed he must have been going!

One little lady has been grabbing all the headlines. And there’s a royal baby!

Hugh Gravelle-Scrope, Royal Correspondent

And so the country rejoices at the news that the Royal Couple, Catherine and William, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, Earl and Countess of Strathearn, Kate and Wills, have been blessed with a daughter! And I rejoice too, as I will finally get home for a shower and my bed after 3 weeks hanging about outside the hospital. I must say, I was initially most concerned about the lack of public interest in the birth. As we wore past the due date, I was the sole member of the press camped at the gate, and where was the joyful band of underemployed enthusiasts who normally bring such colour to proceedings; hanging about for day after day without sustenance or sanitation in the hope of catching a glimpse of royal car-seat? So I was greatly relieved to learn that her Royal Highness was not, after all, confined at Aboyne Hospital but in St Mary’s, London! I must say, I feel a bit silly now, but I was tootling out past Crathes when the editor called and told me to get to the hospital, so I went to nearest one! He did laugh, when I told him. Or at least I think that’s what the noise was. Here’s hoping he approves my expenses claim. 16 days’ worth of tuck from Strachan’s of Royal Deeside is hard to justify in the circumstances! Still, being in the wrong place didn’t stop me from undertaking a few on-street interviews, or “pop socks” as we journos call them. The first chap I spoke to was very enthusiastic when I asked him how he felt now that we have a new Princess at last. He said it was long overdue, although he personally always preferred the Austin Allegro.

Shelley Shingles, showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

OMG what a week! Not only has the election provided a celeb fest, but there was the trifling matter of a royal baby! Amazeballs! I’ve never really gotten into politics. I think the biggest problem is the politicians themselves. They’re all totes bland and they’re always droning on about NHS this and Benefits that instead of CSI this and Benefit Street that! Thank goodness some famous folk popped up this week to tell us who to vote for! I’ve decided to vote for Russell Brand. He can reduce my deficit any day! And as for little Princess Charlotte isn’t she just totes adorbs?! And what a nice touch giving her middle names after her late grandma and her great grandma. Kate did very well didn’t she? Not only did she pop a sprog but she managed to leave the hospital the same day looking like a million dollars! I bet you’re thinking what I’m thinking. “How come she looks better after childbirth than I do after putting out my wheelie bin?”. Well, as my Nana used to say of the Queen Mother ‘ I’d look wonderful for my age too, if I’d never washed a dish in my life!”

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner

I see that the papers have been full of talk about a so-called “violent scuffle” interrupting Jim Murphy’s attempt to address a crowd in Glasgow the other day. At the risk of facing suspension proceedings from my party’s trigger happy disciplinary committee (i.e., me), I would venture to say that as usual, the pro-Union media are making a mountain out of a mole-hill. I’ve seen worse fighting down Union Street on a Friday night. Mind you, now I think about it, I’ve seen worse fighting down Union Street on a Friday night than in Helmand Province. Even so, what is politics coming to when you can’t scream abuse and invective into the face of an opponent? I made this point, forcefully, at volume and from a close range, to the Lib Dem canvasser who rang my bell on Tuesday. She said it was the nicest thing that anyone had said to her all day.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands most eligible bachelor

Jimmy has been genuinely conflicted in the run up tae this General Election. I wiz swaying towards the SNP, partly because I am in favour o’ anti-austerity measures, partly because I want tae stick it tae the Westminster elite, but maistly because Jim Murphy sometimes maks up words that sound a bittie funny. But I’ve just heard that Sturgeon wifie saying that her top priority is to stop the Torry Party. Weel, she’s lost my vote. Some o’ the best parties I’ve iver been tae wis in Torry.

There’s gold in them thar dubs!

View from the Midden – Rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been an excavatory wik in the village. There’s been great excitement since news broke aboot the discovery of gold in the village of Towie, a seething metropolis 12 mile past Alford. Here in Meikle Wartle we are only half an hour fae there, as the craw flies, or, as they say in Lanarkshire, ‘as the dog drives’, so we may weel be sitting on similar riches.

Feel Moira can ayewiz sense a money-makin’ opportunity, and wasted nae time in stripping doon tae her dungers and attaching a cunnle tae her hard-hat. She has spent the last fower days burrowing, wi’ nithin but a look o’ grim determination on her face, and those huge shovel-like hands ga’an at the earth like a bull at a gate. And I must say, I dinna fancy the earth’s chances. Moira has tunnelled in a South-Westerly direction and is noo 500 feet aneath the Sewage Works. She is communicating wi’ the surface by carrier futret, and reports that she has come upon a rich seam of fit she cries “Broon Gold”. Fit inabootcomer corporations might pay for the mining rights is onybdy’s guess, but Moira claims there are ‘vast deposits’ and an apparently inexhaustible supply. So ab’dy in the village is verra much looking forward tae being filthy rich. Or something affa like it. Cheerio!

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner

Ed Milliband has tried to pep up his flagging campaign by being interviewed by Russell Brand. Apparently he thinks that being associated with the “edgy” comedian will curry favour with the youth vote. I’m unsure why Russell Brand is considered “edgy”; he seemed pretty tame on Strictly Come Dancing, and his horoscopes are always very jolly.

This interview is the latest cheap trick in a campaign of cheap tricks. The Independence for 39G Seaton Drive Party is unanimous that we (by which I mean “I”) will not be following suit. We have the self-confidence to allow the sovereign will of the people (i.e., me) to speak for itself. We will never insult the intelligence of the electorate (myself) by stooping to such gimmickry. But perhaps most importantly, despite endless emails, telephone calls, and the throwing of several bricks with notes attached through journalists’ windows, no-one seems to be willing to interview me.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

I see New York State has decided to turn off public illuminations in order to aid migratory birds. Apparently artificial light confuses the little feathered fellows and prompts them to lose their way, crash into things and fall to the ground in the manner of my Uncle Harold tumbling out of the French windows after a snifter. As a huntin’ shootin’ fishin’ type, you might assume that I would view this as a load of bleeding heart liberal poppycock. But no, I think it’s excellent news. I hadn’t realised that getting the little blighters out of the sky was so easy. This time next week, the North Wing of Kinmuck Big House will be lit up like a Christmas tree, and my ghillies will be lying in wait to despatch anything and everything that comes crashing to the ground. Mental note: must warn them to keep eye out for Uncle Harold.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s never had a brain fade

I doesn’t normally dangle in politics, but I couldn’t help laughing when I seen the guff the Prime Minister made last week. He’s always said he was a Aston Villa fan, but at a press conference he forgot, and said his team was West Ham! What a howler for the lad.

On one hand, Kenny is a bit septic about whether or not DC really likes football at all; but on the other foot, I suppose I should synthesise with him. There is none of us is perfect and we all make mixtapes.  I remember once coming out of the bookies the night before a big match between my team, Inverurie Locos, and Forres Mechanics. I bumped into a fan who says to me, he says, “Who’s the smart money on tomorrow, Kenny?” And I says, without thinking, “Forres”. You could see he was knocked for sticks. So I says, I says ”.…T. Nottingham Forest. I fancy them to get a result against Man United.” Phew! Kenny was off the book. Mind you, that fan never forgave me; he stuck a ton on Forest and they got gubbed 8-1. Just like we got beat by Forres after I got sent off in the 3rd minute. Criminal.

 

 

Man with scythe required: must be tall, Poldark and handsome.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands Most Eligible Bachelor

I canna stand the run up to a General Election. There’s nithin’ on TV but reed faced MP-types shouting ower each other, banging on aboot getting rid o’ Trident. I think it wid be a shame, ‘cos as chuddy goes, it’s nae bad. The lads at Wrigleys will be laughin’ a the wye tae the bank if Sturgeon gets her wye. But wi’ aa these debates on the gogglebox, you’ll end up watching jist aboot onything as an alternative. Ma Hollywood hiz fair gotten intae ‘Poldark’. She says it is visually stunning. I dinna ken if she’s spikken aboot the beautiful Cornish vistas or the boy in it, fa’s like a cross between Dick Turpin and David Hasselhoff in ‘Baywatch’ – and fa keeps getting his kit aff and his scythe oot.

Of course, ‘topless gairdening’ is a historically proven winner wi’ the chicks, so yesterday I thought I’d tak a leaf oot o’ Poldark’s book. Fit a palaver. First of all, could I find a scythe onywye? I tried Dobbies; hopeless. B&Q? They were nae better. Eventually I hid tae ging aa the wye doon tae the Lewis Grassic Gibbon Centre and chore een fae the Sunset Song display. Then I whipped aff my pastel pink singlet and suit jaicket wi’ the sleeves rolled up and started flinging my scythe aroon like Morrissey wi’ thon daffoldils on ‘Top o’ the Pops’.  And that’s how I came tae be detained for public indecency and possession of an offensive weapon.

It wis a fair cop. So I chatted her up, she let me aff, and we’ve a date on Friday. Cheers, Poldark!

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

The ongoing uncertainty over the price of oil continues to cast a pall of over the city, but for all that,
there has been no shortage of good news recently. The sun is high in the sky; Piers Morgan has again been questioned over phone hacking, raising real hopes that, even if he can’t be prosecuted for presenting Life Stories, he might still get what is coming to him; and now we hear that, with the
continued growth of Aberdeen airport, there are to be direct flights from Aberdeen to Las Palmas, Gran Canaria.

This is the best news of all. For too long, too many Aberdonians in search of summer sun have had to fly from other Scottish airports, wasting time, money and leading to the need for painful inoculations. Now, at last, they will be able to depart direct from this fair city. Great news for them, and great news, too, for the local economy. I am sure that taxi drivers, airport lager sellers and suppliers of aftersun, pepto-bismol and morning after pills will join me in raising a glass and saying “Salud!” to this welcome new development!

Of course, the local authority doesn’t claim the credit for the instution of the service, but without us, would there have been the same demand from people who want to get as far away from Aberdeen as possible?

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who has never written a letter to anybody.

I thought I’d seen it all when I seen a linesman what was not a linesman, but a lines woman. But the SFA’s decision to hand Inverness defender Josh Meekings a cup-final ban for handball really does take the pritt-stick.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against players getting punished for things what they done what the ref missed; but only for the really bad ones like ‘Stimulation’ (which is the modren name for diving) or ‘Unsportsman’s bar conduct’ (which is halfing somebody with both feet).

But where will the SFA draw the line? When I played for my school team, our PE teacher told us to
shout “Kincorth’s ball” every time it went out for a throw-in, even if you’d leathered it into the car park and there wasn’t no other players within 30 feet of you. Now all it needs is for Harlaw’s old coach to send the SFA a postcard and I could be punished, rhetorically.

If Meekings can’t play in the cup-final it would be a terrible mascara of justice. He has got a chance
to appeal the decision, so I’ll be crossing my fingers that common sense will prevail and he’ll get his ban upturned. Mind you, he’d better make sure he’s not wearing a short sleeved shirt or they’ll see the big red ball mark on his arm!

‘The Good Life’? Surely the P.M. is more ‘To The Manor Born’?

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire north East – an apology

Sometimes, when I say something “off message” or inflammatory to women, poor people, or other minority groups, I get into hot water with Central Office. So I am pleased to report that the tweet I sent after an all night sesh with the Young Conservative Farmers of Fetterangus (jeepers, those lads can knock back the Blue Nun!) was met with a wry smile and a gentle smack across the back of the head from Chief Whip, Mickey “Ready Steady” Gove. Must admit, I quite enjoyed that bit.

“Super Dave launches new manifesto. It’s a bosker. Vote Tory, get ‘The Good Life’. I baggsy Felicity Kendal. Woof!”

Of course, I must apologise for being flippant about our manifesto pledges. But it was also quite wrong of me to objectifly Felicity Kendal. I was always more of a Penelope Keith man, myself.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

Well, the election campaign is hotting up. Or it certainly has been at the ancestral pile, where I have been using the various leaflets to light the fire the Great Hall. The Labour candidate who had the effrontery to chap on my door very nearly ended up on it too. No Fawkes-Hunte has ever voted Labour, and the last man to suggest it ended up in the local cottage hospital with a backside full of buckshot. My father, the 12th Earl, went to visit him. “Now, my little Bolshevik friend,” he said, “My family built this hospital in 1720. If it wasn’t for your hated aristocracy, you wouldn’t be here now.” The fellow had the nerve to point out that that would also have been true if Papa hadn’t shot him. There’s no reaoning with some people.

The oceans are hotting up, too. If the paper is to be believed, haddock and cod will soon be displaced by sardines and squid. I blame the EU. Not content with flooding the country with immigrants, it’s sending them into our very territorial waters. You’d have thought that UKIP would have been on to this threat to the Great British fish supper like a flash, but so far, not a peep. That’s the problem with politicians these days. They are too cowed by political correctness. Just like the squid; no backbone.

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner

What are we to make of the manifesto pledges of the major parties? Having spent 5 years looking after the toffs and big business, David Cameron has suddenly rediscovered his desire to connect with the average citizen, expanding the right to buy, promising a clamp down on tax avoiders and extra funding for the NHS. Meanwhile, “Red” Ed Milliband has come over a funny shade of mauve; pledging to end austerity by locking down public spending and assiduously balancing the books. What next? The Greens coming out against windfarms? Nigel Farrage entering the Eurovision Song Contest?

Politicians can’t win us over by bending like reeds in the wind. Whatever their message, it should be clear and consistent. My own manifesto is simple. I want independence for 39G Seaton Drive. I have wanted it ever since I fell out with Aggie Thomson in Flat C over arrangements for the use of the communal whirlie. My determination to achieve it only grew when Alfie Mutch stole my recycling bag. I hope this manifesto, unchanged these many years, will stand as testament to my unique clarity of vision. And to my ability to nurse a petty grievance forever.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football writer whose column is always a gas.

It’s a shame when the on-field performances of a talented young footballer is overshadowed by off-field shenannygoats. That is what has happened with Liverpool’s Raheem Sterling who has quickly gone from wonder-kid to elephant-terrible. One minute he is stealing the show with his penpoint passing, the next he is passing out after inhaling a balloon full of laughing gas, or as the scientists cry it, Nutritious Oxide.

Shocking. No professional athlete should be taking these substances. Their bodies should be templates.

Of course, footballers appearing on both the front and back pages is nothing new. Back in my extinguished playing career I was no stranger to the papa-pizza. When I was playing for the Dons, Fergie gave me pelters when me and Doug Rougvie was snapped by a boy from the Green Final coming out of the bookies during our lunch hour. Thank god he never seen us 10 minutes earlier, coming out of the St Machar Bar!

Anyone tuning in late to the first Scottish Leaders’ Debate must have thought it was the worst episode of ‘Poirot’ ever.

Struan Metcalfe, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North – an apology

Well, in the words of that great poet, Britney Spears – “Whoops, I did it again”. Old Struan has made a tiny gaffette, but in the run up to the GE, Super Dave has a zero-tolerance approach to egg on the party face, so I’ve been instructed to issue a genuine and sincere apology.

It all came about because of the right bally hoo-ha this week over what Nicola Sturgeon may or may not have said in a diplomatic meeting. The Telegraph alleged that she said something about Ed Milliband being unfit to be Prime Minister and Super Dave Being a total dreamboat. No one knows what she really said to the French Ambassador (in the Holyrood sweeper I had “with these Ferrero Rocher you are spoiling us.”) but the source of the leak was a confidential civil-service memo.

So, I am extremely sorry that my Tweet – typed whilst “Absent de mon visage” on two and a half bottles of Chataneuf Du Pape – has gone viral.

“FM caught slagging off Red Ed. Last time the Scotland Office saw a leak that dramatic was when I got caught short after an all day session on the beers with big Ally Carmichael. ROLF”.

Thank goodness for the Scots leaders’ TV debate which aired on Tuesday night! That deflected all the attention from my tweet. Not the debate itself, not even Ruth Davidson’s bravura performance. No, it was the mysterious appearance of “Moustache Man” which captured the Twittersphere’s imagination. He garnered rave reviews for sporting what appeared to be a slug on his upper lip. And then, after a short while, the moustache mysteriously disappeared. Much like the SNP’s promise not to hold another Referendum. Boom!

 

Tanya Soutar – Local Lifestyle Guru

I dinna ken aboot yous, but I’m right glad the fine weather’s finally made an appearance! For 10 months o’ the year Aiberdeen’s proximity tae the Arctic circle fairly cramps your style. Fooiver ‘on trend’ you may be, it’s nae easy pulling aff a smouldering sexy look in twa pairs o’ socks and a toorie.

Still, the balmy temperatures div present their ain challenges. First of aa, perspiration. We humans sweat the hale year round, but it only really shows up fan yer wearing a tasteful see-through top. Obviously ye can clart on the Impulse (or, for the cost-conscious, Poundland dae a lavender air freshener which is nae too itchy on the oxters), but ye can also alleviate the symptoms by layering yer ootfit. ‘At wye ye can wheech stuff aff as soon as the sun keeks oot fae ahin a cloud, and then 30 seconds later, fan the haar rolls in, stick it aa back on again.

Secondly, ye really need tae cut back on yer accessories. In winter it’s fine tae humph aboot a massive handbag that would fear Mary Poppins. But noo it’s warm ye only wint tae cairry the bare essentials. Purse, keys, mobile, lippy, mascara and fags. Even those can push the capacity o’ a wee bag, so why not ging multipurpose? I’ve sewed a pocket for my mobile into my bra, and made an ethnic-looking necklace oot o’ 20 Lambert & Butler.

These ingenious tricks has left me with a wee bit space in my bag for my ain essentials. Glasses, a hat and a wig. They, alongside my many different layers o’ claes, ensure that faniver I pop intae toon tae pick up a few things I dinna get recognised by the security guards at Union Square!

 

View from the Midden – Rural affairs with Jock Alexander

Weel it’s been a lyrical wik in the village. You might hae seen that in America, someb’dy paid $1.2 million for Don Mclean’s rough notes tae ‘American Pie’. Ever on the look-oot for new revenue streams, (it’s fit they cry ‘Agricultural Diversity’) I wasted nae time in rootin’ aroon in my coo-shed for some equally valuable cutural artefact tae sell tae a collector, museum or ither feel gype. Weel, would ye believe that inaboot the last o’ the winter sillage I made a maist amazing discovery – the original manuscript tae a world famous Bothy Ballad!

Noo, there’s bound tae be considerable interest in this find amongst musicologists. For michty, files Don McLean might hae hid folk bamboozled ower the years by ‘Jesters’, ‘thorny crowns’ and ‘coats he borrowed from James Dean’; he can a haud a cunnle tae the twisted mind that came up wi’ ‘The Muckin’ o’ Geordie’s Byre!” , Cheerio!

There’s only One Direction – oot the door.

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz Correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

What a week, with Jeremy Clarkson getting his jotters from Top Trumps! I keep hearing what a loss he is to the Beeb, even the Director General called him “irreplaceable”. But surely his u.s.p. was that he was a grumpy bloke in unfashionable jeans, angrily smoking his way through two packs of fags a day and shouting abuse at strangers to impress his mates? You can see a dozen mannies like that any Saturday night outside the Butchers Arms in Inverurie.  At least one of them must still have a driving licence. My other half, Tony, is a big fan, and says he’s not paying his licence fee now that Clarkson has been sacked.  He reckons “allowances have to be made for true originals that fearlessly stick up for their principles.”  I’m not really sure how punching someone in the face and screaming abuse from point-blank range raises fundamental issues of freedom of expression; and after I tried it out on Tony, neither is he.

But for me, the big showbiz news is Zayn Malik deciding that he didn’t like the direction One Direction was going in. He just wants to be a normal 22 year old; watching TV in his onesie, eating pizza, and rush-recording his debut solo single with a superstar producer. Poor Zayn hasn’t had a lot of sympathy, but people don’t know how hard it is do your growing up in public.  I got a taste of it when I was Miss Fetteresso, 1983.  The pressure was massive.  There was hardly a week went by without a photocall for the Leopard or the Scots Magazine. I’m not ashamed to say I had my own showbiz meltdown. They found me round the back of Robertson’s the bakers, sobbing “If I have to open another branch of Michie’s, I’ll scream!”  Fortunately I had the support of my family, and I was back on page 5 of the Deeside Piper within the week, cutting the ribbon to open a new silage pit at Drumtochty. But from then on I knew what it was to stare into the abyss. It was some size of a silage pit.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands most eligible bachelor

See me? I loves the Spring. I loves it fan the clocks ging forward, the daffies bloom and I can swap oot my Winter claes for bermuda shorts, espadrilles and a pastel singlet (think Miami Vice crossed with the Club Tropicanna video). But I canna be dae’n wi’ April Fools Day. Ever since the time my sister switched the milk in the breakfast jug for water and ruined my Frosties, I hiv hid little patience wi’ practical jokes. But for some reason the lads at the Mastrick Sorting Office like tae tak a loan o’ Jimmy, and this year wiz nae different. Efter a tough round a postie can get a bittie pecht oot, and, I’m nae going tae lie, even someone as cool as Jimmy dis, occasionally, perspire. So efter work, I likes a generous all-ower scoosh o’ B.O. basher. That wye, as I stroll hame in my spring wardrobe, I’m a treat for baith the een and the nostrils o’ the ladies of Printfield and Woodside. Aye, except yesterday, fan my Lynx Temptation wis replaced wi’ a can o’ fluorescent green spray paint. Thanks lads!  Ken ‘is? they get me like that ivery year!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who always plays behind closed doors.  

This week domestos football took a back seat to the international matches, so I settled down in front of the 50′ plasma and had a feel day!   Scotland got two good results, and my old pal Gordon Strachan has obviously been a real insulation to the squad.  Of course, in his day he was a rare player his-self; ball control is very important in the game, and that wee Ginger Nut’s was the best controlled balls I ever seen. Saying that, the Northern Ireland match was a bit of a damp squid.  There was not much action to speak of until the late goal and I’m not sure the ref was even paying attention.  I counted 12 substitutes coming on which is almost double the 3 you is usually allowed.  Scotland’s other opponents, the Gibraltos, looked a poor side.  Melody says to me, she says “6-1? Their defence must have been pretty rocky! Ha ha. You should put that in your column” I never had no idea what she meant, but I done it anyway.   Now Scotland are well placed to qualify for Euro 2016, so say what you like about Gordon – but you’ve got to hand it to him.  Especially if it is on a high shelf.

No 3rd Term for David Cameron. At last, a policy announcement we can all get behind.

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

Loathe him or hate him, you’ve got to hand it to Big Eck, he knows how to pick a fight, doesn’t he? In his autobiography “The Dream Shall never Die” (b.t.w what a duff title! Sounds like a Pierce Brosnan Bond film, or a Ronan Keating single!) he takes a pop at virtually everyone he’s ever come into contact with. The only person to escape his ire is long-suffering wife Moira. Golly, poor lady! Imagine what life must be like for her at Salmond Heights:

“Good morning Alex, it’s a nice day isn’t it?’’

“Indeed Moira, and since I became First Minister, Scotland’s days have been, on average, 11% nicer than under the previous, discredited, Labour administration. And with no help whatsoever from Westminster.”

But the bit of his book that really got my proverbial goat (question; is there actually a proverb with a goat in it?) was his attack on Super Dave. He called him a “Tory toff”. How very dare you Mr Salmond? Super Dave’s not a toff. He’s the Toff. Completely and utterly, the poshest person on Earth.

Of course, the leftie press are giving poor Dave pelters for ‘arrogance’ since His Excellency announced he won’t run as PM for a third term, just because he said so before he’s been elected for a second. What rot. Obviously, if he wanted to, The Chosen One could carry on leading the Tories (and the nation) as long as he wants, but as he said : “Terms are like Shredded Wheat; two are wonderful, but three might be too many’.

Actually, call me thicky-thick pants but I didn’t really get that analogy. I’ve always found eating Shredded Wheat akin to trying to choke down a door mat. I know it’s meant to be good for you, but it’s unpleasant to swallow and difficult to stomach. I reckon one would be more than enough for most people!

Jonathan M Lewis, local Headteacher

It came as no surprise to me that my critics should attempt to hijack the Garioch Academy’s “Eclipse Day” to further their own agenda. In fact, there is quite an apt analogy at play. Whilst my efforts are like a beacon energising the lives of our pupils, my detractors attempt to snuff them out. Thankfully, just like the moon, they can only momentarily obscure my aura.

I applaud teachers and pupils alike for the many ingenious ways they chose to mark the occasion last Friday. Granted, there were some minor oversights in Health & Safety procedures, resulting in more than the ideal number of trips to hospital, but, statistically, very little permanent harm was done.

Parents of pupils in Mr Jenkins’ Maths class have been the most churlish, complaining that their children may suffer problems with their sight for up to 2 weeks after staring at the entirety of eclipse without any eye protection. Poor Mr Jenkins feels terrible, as he feels he should have known that unless his pupils were directed otherwise they would spend the entire lesson as they always do, catatonically gazing out of the window.

The most trivial complaint of all comes from parents who were invited to attend an Eclipse-inspired performance from Miss Walker’s 3rd year drama group. Knowing their children were taking part in a celebration the celestial event through the medium of interpretive dance – could they not have predicted how the boys might have portrayed ‘the moon’? I accept no responsibility. We all heard the warning not to look directly at it!

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

So the news that the Council is not minded to grant planning permission for a new visitor centre at Rubislaw Quarry was met by the all-too predictable chorus of disapproval.   “But this is the Granite City!”, our critics wail. Well, thank you for your information, but we didn’t think the town was made of cream cheese. Our point is not that there should be no Rubislaw Quarry visitor centre; it is that there might be better places for a spleet new attraction like that than tucked away up Queen’s Road at the quarry itself. Such a facility, boasting, no doubt, a top quality coffee shop with a variety of fine cakes and pieces should be located in city-centre, ideally within walking distance of my office.

And that is as it should be; granite is so omnipresent within Aberdeen that it makes sense for a visitor centre about it to be in the heart of the city. Using the same principle, we shortly intended to announce proposals for fascinating, interactive attractions about potholes, aggressive seagulls and pound-shops. And they say this City Council lacks imagination!