“Winter is coming” – well, that’s a June wedding in Old Rayne for you.

Shelley Shingles, showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

O M actual G! It was a celeb-spotting bonanza here in the North East last weekend when the cast of hit TV drama Game of Thrones descended upon us for the wedding of heartthrob Kit Harington and local lass Rose Leslie! They got married at Rayne church then had their shindig at Warthill Castle, and when I heard that I immediately looked  both places up on google maps to see if I could spy me some stars –and to find out exactly how far from the middle of nowhere they were.

Whilst I was at it, I had to google “Game of Thrones” as well, because I’ve never really watched it. I did catch a bit of it once, but it was a bit gadsy for me. I’m not really a fan of fantasy stuff anyway, I prefers my TV to be a bit more grounded in reality. So I turned over to watch something more educational, like ‘Cake Boss’.

Anyway, a load of famous folk made the trip, including film stars like Peter Dinklage and Marcus Mumford from the pop group Mumford and Sons (fun showbiz fact – the band are all brothers and their dad was in Rentaghost!) but top of the bill was none other than the Khaleesi herself, Emilia Clarke! She was looking stunning when she went into the church, though to be honest she’s so totes gorge she looks stunning coming out of Lidl.  But even she couldn’t overshadow Rose Leslie, the beautiful bride.

Me and Rose go way back. I first met her at North Rayne Primary  in 1993, when I was spokes-modelling for the Tufty Club and she was doing some colouring in.

‘What are you meant to be?’ She thoughtfully enquired.

I’m a squirrel’ I replied. And I’ll never forget what she said to me next.

‘My Daddy shoots them!’

Wise words from a great lady.

View from the midden with Meikle Wartle Televisions’ Jock Alexander

It’s been a gaseous wik in the village.

The big news this week is that pig welfare is at risk here in the rural areas, thanks tae a chronic shortage of CO2.  Apparently at least five gas producers a’ across Europe hiv been offline for maintenance, and it has been described as “the worst supply situation to hit the European carbon dioxide business in decades”.

Noo you toonsers may be unaware, but CO2 has twa affa important uses – een of which is pitting the fizz intae yer carbonated beer, cider and saft drinks, and the ither is giving fit Skittery Wullie euphanistically cries “a trip tae Baconville “ tae his aminals.  Noo I’m nae pig expert, so I’m nae entirely sure precisely fit role CO2 plays in this act, but I’m pretty sure he disnae jist hit them o’er the heed wi a bottle o’ Irn Bru.

But onywye, that’s the harsh reality o’ the rural life, ye ken. Nature reed in tooth and claw, and a mannie in a rubber apron wi’ a great big bolt gun. We dinna keep a’ these beasts fer cuddles and companionship, ye ken. Weel, nae jist fer that, onywye. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s still in the sweeper

The World Cup continues to be full of controverbial incidents, mostly around this VAR technology they’ve ruined the game with.

Portugal got stitched up by it the other night, when Iran scored a pen from a soft handball decision. Then they nearly scored another which would have seen Ronaldo and co catching the first flight home, what would have fairly let the cat out of the bag of pigeons. Mind you, Ronaldo himself had a lucky escape after he clocked one of the Iran boys in the puss with a stray elbow but only got a yellow card. It’s all about reputation- if old Kenny had done that (and he did, several times) I’d have got a red (and I did, every time).

The punnets is fairly banging on about England thrashing Panorama 6-1. Fair enough lads it was a good result, but tone down the celebrations a bit, eh? They are the diddiest of all the diddy teams at this World Cup, true footballing mintoes – beating them is like winning at blow football against an asthmatic.

Don’t miss The Flying Pigs live on stage all this week in Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ at His Majesty’s Theatre Aberdeen; a pucklie tickets still available!

Up yer kilt? That’s for the Chope!

View from the midden- rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It has been an egalitarian wik in the village. I wis reading about Government plans tae ban the unsavoury practise of ‘upskirting’. Noo this is baith a delicate topic and a fem’ly paper, so I shall nae dwell on fit’s involved. But suffice it tae say it’s the kind of thing that wid hiv fairly got ye banned fae Boots back in the day.  However, in response tae an urgent question in Parliament on Monday, it has noo been confirmed that mannies wearing the kilt will also be protected by this new law, thus preserving the “bodily dignity’ of baith sexes. This his been hailed in the village as a notable victory for equality. Nae that mony fowk of either gender here hiv o’er much bodily dignity in the first place. And, truth be telt, the wifies in the village dinna ging in much for skirts onywye. The shoppie’s best sellers in the clothing department are invariably Feel Moira’s lines o’ unisex biler suits and dungers, accessorized wi’ matching Nick-tams.

Fit’s mair, the only mannie in the village that iver gings in for traditional highland dress is Skittery Wullie, fa jist wears the kilt ence a year, fae Burns Night tae St. Andrews Day.   Of course, being someone fa spends his entire working life surrounded by pigs and their doings, his full 9 yards of wool diz give off a distinctive aroma, so thankfully naeb’dys ever got close enough tae tak a picter up his kilt. Cheerio!

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes Hunte, 13^th Earl of Kinmuck

Well batter my britches and serve them deep fried with a selection of pickles, what a fuss and bother has been made about Sir Christopher Chope’s decision to object to the proposed upskirting Bill.  My family are noted Parliamentarians – we have sat continuously in the House of Lords since the Act of Union, and while it has caused a few pressure sores over the years, the cleaners are now used to hoovering round us, and it is a proud boast of the Fawkes Huntes’ that each and every one of our lunches have been paid for out of public funds since 23 January 1847.  So it is as a lawmaker of skill and experience that I provide this message.  The vilification of Sir Christopher must stop.  Although of the lower orders  (a mere “Sir” can never truly be considered to be blue-blooded – mauve, at best) he went to the right sort of school and is a decent enough sort of commoner.  His objection to the Bill was not made on the basis that he thinks upskirting is acceptable, but on the basis that he, as a matter of principle, believes that all Bills should be debated.  And surely that must be the correct approach for the Mother of Parliaments to take.  Clearly there are competing rights here; the woman’s right to privacy, and the lecherous man’s right to a cheap thrill. Balancing these requires anxious consideration, but I am sure that after a full debate the predominantly male, sometimes sozzled and perpetually priapic elected members will reach a decision to make Britain proud.

Cava Kenny Cordiner’s World Cup Round About

If I could parrot phrase the famous play writer Wilbur Shapesbeer, I would say “if football be the food of love, get stuck in lads, it’s dinner time”. And the lads what are at the World Cup is getting stuck in good and proper to the feast of football what they has served us up on a silver platter made into the shape of Russia!

There’s been at least 3 games every day since Friday and almost every one of them has featured the controverbial VAR technology. We’ve seen pens given, not given, handballs spotted and missed left, centre and right. Old Kenny is very clear on his feelings about this development. The punnets is saying it’s time to eliminate refereeing errors, but what’s this going to do for players at the grass-roofs level? With all this expensive equipment, these days, how could someone like me build a career on getting away with halfing folk?

But the best bit so far has been the results. Who would have thought that Mexico would beat Germany, Brazil would draw with Switzerland and Senegal would stuff Poland? I’ll tell you – old Kenny! And my bookie is sick of the sight of me! Mental!

Don’t miss The Flying Pigs live on stage in Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ at His Majesty’s Theatre Aberdeen; all next week from Tuedsday the 26^th June. Tickets available now.

‘Ooray For ‘Ollywood!

Kevin Cash, money saving expert and king of the grips

My flabber was well and truly gasted the ither day fan me and my mate Mick the Pill were loading up some aul ile drums into the back of my transit in an offshore equipment yard oot in Oldmeldrum. Sitting there amongst a’ the junk wiz a 50 foot high white letter ‘H’. I wis so shocked I clean forgot the address of the steel band we were planning tae flog the ile drums to.

It turns oot it wiz the actual original ‘H’ fae the Hollywood sign fit had been bought by some artist wi’ mair money than sense back in 1978 and and has noo been “recreated fae the original panels”. Just like my transit, though probably a bittie mair likely tae pass an MOT. Onywye, it turns oot that the Hollywood ‘H’ is gan tae be the centrepiece of an exhibition that’s on a world tour for the next five years.

I find that staggering, ken fit I mean? Partly that such an iconic thing is sitting aboot in Oldmeldrum, but maistly that folk’ll pay good money to see it! For five years! A’ across the globe! I had nae idea letters fae signs wiz sic a big draw.

So me and Mick have come up wi a scheme, tae offer local punters the chance to see some iconic signs here in Aiberdeen. We’ve got the sign fae Cape Canaveral, and famous street signs like Elm Street and Abbey Road. “Are these the actual signs, Kev? Or is that one for Cape Canaveral’ nae jist black marker applied tae a sign for ‘Codona’s Carnival’?”, I hear you, and the boy fae Trades Descriptions, ask. But it’s a above board.  Jist like the een in Oldmeldrum, we’ve “recreated” them fae the original letters.  Weel, the same letters. We’ve liberated letters from a variety of roadsigns and shop fronts in Aberdeen. So if you’re passing by and are wondering why your local Tesco is missing a ’T’, it’s because it is noo appearing in  ‘42nd Street’. This scheme is nae without its perils, of course. Mick hid a lot o’ explaining tae dae fan got the bobbies found him unscrewing the ‘C’ and the ’S’ fae ‘Canal Street’.

Cava Kenny Cordiner; the sports writer who’s recently discovered an interest in cricket.

Old Kenny is not normally a fan of sports that don’t involve folks kicking each other, but I was on the knife edge of my seat the other day, watching Scotland stick it to the English at the croquet.  When the final Englishman was sent back to the Pavlova, I shouted so loud that my wife, the lovely Melody, came running through the house wondering what was wrong.

“What a fleg you gave me Kenny”, she sayed.  “I’ve nae heard a noise like that since you had that terrible accident hoovering in the nuddy.”  Apparently the English is number 1 in the world for the old balls and bat game, so using the same logic as we used when we beat the Bald Enemy in 1967, when they was the  World Cup holders, that makes us one number below that – Scotland, the new cricketing nothings!

Speaking of the World Cup, it is nearly upon us.  Sadly, Old Kenny won’t be getting any work as a punnet this year.  I’m still a persona-non-gratin in Russia after I halfed a nippy Siberian winger in a pre-season tour with the Dandies in 1977, causing a ligament injury, a 22-man brawl and a diplomatic incident.  Still, I am looking forward to watching it on the new ultra high definition telly I’ve had installed for the purpose.  Melody is right miffed.  I can’t work out what she thinks is worst – the fact that I’ve spent 2 grand on a telly, or that I had it put into the lounge of the Kintore Arms.

It won’t be the same watching a World Cup without the Scots, the Deutsch and the Italians, but with players of the caliper of Sergio Ramos there, you can still be assured of some top class sneaky hacking – which is what the beautiful game is all about.  I always watch the games with a wee tang of jealousy though, having never got to play at a World Cup myself.  Mind you, having seen the look on Putin’s face, I get the feeling that some of the Russian lads might wish they weren’t playing neither.  I think them boys are probably one bad performance away from joining my pal in Siberia.  Still, at least they won’t be short of salt for their chips! Mental.

Don’t miss the Flying Pigs Live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘,  a compilation of their best sketches from the last 20 years.  June 26th-30^th 2018. Tickets available now.

No Man is an Island – Except Lewis and Harris, obviously.

J Fergus Lamont, arts critic and author of “Harper: King Joey’s royal ascension”

It’s always nice to have one’s finger on the cultural pulse. When, upon the omnibus I overheard some local arts connoisseurs simply gushing about the latest unmissable piece of serial drama, I knew I had to witness it for myself.

Alas, having pored over the radio, theatre and opera listings, I could find no trace of the production of which they spake. Defeated, I turned, by way of last resort, to the chattering cyclops in the corner, the television set.

Regular readers will be aware that, like most, I largely eschew the charms of the gogglebox. I find little there to interest me since Russel Harty left our screens – but on this occasion I struck gold. You wont have heard of it, it has received little if any publicity, but ‘Love Island’ maybe the most insightful examination of the vagaries of human relations ever devised; and I include Funbox’s heartbreaking ‘Pirates and Princesses’‘.

The plot centres on a group of young Ingénues and Lotharios who have been marooned on a remote island. There the futility of their existence is laid bare. One might usefully think of it as a cross between Lord of the Flies and Waiting for Godot.

Ultimately revolving solely around their most basic desires, the drama centres on whether or not any of the characters can stop primping and preening themselves for long enough to succumb to Cupid’s archery skills.

Let me tell you one thing about “Love Island” – the cast are acting their socks off! In performances a young Olivier would have been proud of, it’s almost as if they genuinely were utterly vapid, empty vessels with nothing of any interest to say. Bravo!

I can’t wait to see how this unfolds over the next 8 weeks, already, 2 days in. I’m hooked! And when Adam breezed in and stole Kendall from Niall? It was nothing short of Anthony’s betrayal of Cleopatra, in a bikini.

I wept!

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

As a scientist, people are always asking questions, sometimes searching questions such as “Can I just have a quick look in your bag please sir?” “Did you forget to pay for all these packets of Percy Pigs?’ and “Can you accompany me to the manager’s office, please?”

But when not becoming inveigled in confectionary based misunderstandings in Marks & Spencer (you’d think they’d be a bit more grateful for my continued custom, in the current climate), I have been cogitating on matters therapeutic. I was fascinated to learn about the introduction of a “Therapet” named Harley into Aberdeen International Airport to ease the nerves of stressed passengers. Therapy dogs have been used for years in North America but Aberdeen is the first UK airport to use one.

This is a fascinating area of scientific research with strong views on either side. Some would say there is nothing more conducive to easing the stress of missing an imminent flight, being 2 grams over your luggage weight allowance or staggering for several miles to an unmanned and immobile baggage carousel after a 12 hour flight, than rounding a corner to come face to face with a large alaskan malamute. Others may take the view that such things have no place in an airport environment, and that rather than dogs they would be better getting a outlet where a hungry traveller can purchase a bacon roll for less than the price of a small car.

Having reason to use the airport this week (Comic -con at the Birmingham NEC. Where else could I get the opportunity to meet Christophe Lambert and find out the secret of his immortality) I determined to gain a conclusive answer to this issue, so I conducted my own study by bringing a second control ‘therapet’ to the Airport. Not being a dog owner myself, I managed to lure my next door neighbour’s pet into my car by use of a trail of chicken nuggets. I then drove out to the airport with the animal on my passenger seat. This itself was no mean feat as my car is a 1987 Mini Metro and the animal in question is a 17ft  Burmese Python named ‘Ghengis’. Sadly, however, it quickly  became apparent from the screams emanating from the rapidly emptying concourse area that not all pets have the desired calming effect. I will say, however, that thanks to a totally deserted departures area checking in for my flight was an absolute pleasure.

See the Flying Pigs live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ June 26th – 30th 2018. Tickets available now.

View From the Midden by Jock Alexander of MTv (Meikle Wartle Television) 

It’s been a consumerist wik in the village. I did chuckle tae masel as I read aboot W H Smiths, who hiv jist been voted the UK’s worst high street store in a survey of o’er 10 thoosand consumers. Somedee fae the beleaguered retailer – it may have been Mr Smith himself, I da ken the mannie – countered that only 184 shoppers had commented on their stores in the survey, meanin’ that 9 thoosan’  8 hundred and 16 fowk werenae o’er fussed. Meanwhile, detractors hiv complained that the mannie Smith’s shops are filled wi oot of date stock, are o’er expensive, and filled wi rude staff. Well, if they think that’s bad, it’s aboot time they sampled Maisie’s Meikle Wartle General Store.

Noo we dinna hae a W H Smiths branch here, but Maisie’s store fulfils mony of the same functions. W H Smiths sells a wide range of mags and books. Maisie’s store sells a wide range of fags and a book. It’s een aboot crop rotation in Rhynie in 1956 and it’s been on sale noo for 43 years. W H Smith’s travel branches cater tae the rail traveller on the move, and hae a selection o’ sandwiches and drinks, while Maisie’s offers a large range of foodstuffs fae oot-of-date fine pieces tae butteries at hard they can be used as a weapon. Mony’s the busy traveller who has sampled something fae the store before runnin’ aff. Usually in the direction of the nearest public lavvy. W H Smith has a famous stationary section. Maisie’s store is famously stationary, havin’ been a fixture on the village high street for over 100 years. In fact the high street curves aroon it, as Maisie wiz stubbornly unwilling tae relocate fan they widened the road. And michty if it’s surly staff yer after, ye’ve nae lived till ye’ve had dealings wi her. Even Feel Moira is feart o’ Maisie. But her shop is good for one thing; for makin’ ony branch of W H Smith that any Meikle Wartle expat visits seem like the maist modern weel-stocked consumer’s paradise around.  Cheerio!

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

I seen it reported the ither day that the “Bank of Mum and Dad” is feeling the pinch, and parents arena able to lend money to their bairns like once they could.  Here are my tips to help parents who are struggling to gie their young eens a helping hand up the property ladder.

Expectation management.  Young eens these days hiv a real sense o’ entitlement, thinking that the world owes them as of right a 2-bed Stewartie Milne flat beside a heavily polluted main road.  Well, nae abody can attain that kind of luxury right away.  All around the toon there are a range of void areas underneath decking or in unused outhouses that can be appropriated by a forward-thinking youngster.

Go Green.  Modern building techniques involve the production of large amounts of CO2. Yet there are many unoccupied recesses in the cliffs around Crawton bird sanctuary. Fighting an angry puffin for a place to rest your head also provides a handy workout, lessening the need for expensive gym membership.

Take the expression “property ladder” literally.  Giving your young een a ladder, a screwdriver and some elementary tips on housebreaking.  This will result in the fruit of your loins either obtaining a steady income or getting lifted by the rozzers, and getting 3 months dinner, board and lodgings at HMP Grampian.  Either wye, their accommodation needs will be met.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the player, the man, the leg end 

Saturday night was one the most impotent nights of the year in the Cordiner holdhouse. Champions’ League Final night is when old Kenny gets the boys round, the beers in the fridge and the online betting app open. And what a cracker of a game it was!  It had a bit of everything, except for the things it didn’t have, like a red card, extra time or penalties.

What it was not lacking in, though, was goalkeeping howlers. I felt sorrow for Liverpool keeper Karius after his blunders gifted Madrid 2 goals. After the game, the boy was incontrollable. Basher and my other pal, Dunter Duncan, was both pointing out that the rest of the Liverpool team didn’t go over to him and put their arm round him. “That’s what you would have done, Kenny” Dunter says. And then Basher says, he says “Aye, then you’d throttle him and smack him in the coupon!”

So now our intentions turn to the World Cup which starts in 2 weeks time. And, as usual, the English medium is doing their best to unsettle their star players. Young Man City speed merchant Raheem Sterling has been copping the flock this week, after some people got angry about his latest tattoo. I says to Melody, I says “this is bang out of order. These people have got no right to slag the lad for a tattoo of an animal on his leg”. And Melody says to me, she says “Kenny, it’s not an animal – it’s a gun”. Silly old Kenny misread it.  I thought he’d got a tattoo of a gnu! Mental.

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick at HMT Aberdeen 26th-30th June 2018

GDPR?  “… Gross Domestic Product of Rhynie?”

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRATT, Ordinary Mum

Like all ordinary mums, I’m getting in a bit of a panic about this whole GDPR fiasco. For those who are not up to speed with their acronyms, I am of course referring to the EU’s new General Data Protection Regulations, and not, as I must confess I originally assumed, the Gross Domestic Product of Rhynie.

It’s causing me strife on 2 fronts. Firstly, my email inbox is awash with communiques from everyone under the sun, seeking my continued permission to be part of their mailing list. Don’t get me wrong, I love receiving emails, but there are just too many of them! Yesterday I only managed to respond to 10 on my drive back home from Pilates at Kippie. Hello! Is it too much to ask for our traffic lights to stay on red a little bit longer?

Some so-called “expert” on Radio 4 suggested we just ignore these emails, as by law they will have to stop after Thursday. That’s all very well for him, but some of those marketing emails are a real lifesaver for me! So I need to read them all, ensuring I sign up to the essential ones (e.g. Quinoa Quines recipe suggestions) and remove myself from the frivolous ones I can live without. (e.g. the Service / MOT plan for the Discovery).

The other headache the GDPR presents is for our monthly family newsletter. Do I need to contact all the recipients for their continued consent to receive the Smythe-Barratt Echo? Well, because it contains fundraising links to various good causes (e.g. Mums against Fur, the Dolphin Asthma Foundation, Hamas), it turns out that some fascist Tory mouthpiece says I do! Well, I’ve never been one to bow to “the man”, so excuse me if I continue to hit ‘send to all’. You can expect my case to be up in front of the European Court of Human Rights shortly! I never thought I’d say this, but roll on Brexit!

VIEW FROM THE MIDDEN – Rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter, JOCK ALEXANDER

Well it’s been a ceremonial wikend in the village. As you wid expect, I spent maist of Setterday amongst a mass of fowk glued tae the TV, enjoying the archaic rituals on display, the festivity, the happy crowds, the singing, the flags and the banners. Folk wiz up tae high doh wi the emotion of it all. And then the ref blew his whistle and a’ the Man U fans in the pub started greeting. Noo I’m nae a fervent fitba follower masel’, and certainly nae of the English FA Cup, but I did suddenly see the wisdom in becoming een for the day, so as tae get the hell oot of the hoose. And so it seemed did a’ the ither mannies o’ the village fa had suddenly become avid viewers, files their wives and their chums sat aboot at hame cooing o’er hats and dresses. Well, I am nae sorry tae say I missed a’ 300 minutes o’ the BBC’s Royal Wedding coverage, though I hiv noo seen highlights of guests arriving on the news. George Clooney brought a bittie o’ Hollywood glamour, Posh Spice looked like she’d swallowed a wasp, and for a minitie I wis wondering foo my Auntie Ina hid wangled an invite, until I realised it wis jist Elton John.

But onywye, watching the game wis useful research for me, as this year’s Fettercairn Show is tae include a ‘three-tractors-a-side’ fitba game, wi twa bales as the goals and a great muckle ba’ six fit across. Michty, noo at’s a fair size, even fer a show which has seen some hefty bulls in the past. Luckily, the good fowk of Fettercairn hiv made twa fatal mistakes, in publishing details of their plans, and nae haeing the game until July, fit allows us here in Meikle Wartle tae nip in and cut the feet. However, it his been tricky gathering enough material tae mak a 6 foot ball of our ain. There’s been nithing for it but tae mak it the traditional wye, oot of sharn. It is currently baking awa in the sunshine, and Skittery Wullie, tae whom we defer on such matters, reckons that by the wikend it’ll be firm enough tae stay intact fan a tractor drives intae it at high speed. I dinna think I’ll play that particular game masel’, but I am happy tae spectate, fae a safe distance. Aboot half a mile ought tae dae it. Cheerio!

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick at HMT Aberdeen 26th-30th June 2018

Israel? Australia? Is Europe holding auditions for our replacement?

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

O. M. Le G!  Yes, you read that right, Shelley is going all cosmoneopolitan this week after watching the Greatest Show on Earth, the Eurovision Song Contest!  It’s my favourite explosion of European culture, cheesy music and dodgy accents since they took Going for Gold off the air (Henry Kelly. Swoon. Totes dreamboat!)

It was certainly a dramatic night.  No more so than when British songstress SuRie had her performance interrupted by some stage invader who started shouting down the microphone.  I was watching with my nephew, who’s into the Grime music scene, and he thought it was all part of the act!  He was really getting into it before they hooked the imposter off the stage.

One thing that really got my goat, though, was the countries taking part.  I’ll need to have a word with Mr Horsman, who was my Geography teacher at Mackie Academy, because I never knew that Australia was in Europe!  I’ve always fancied a trip to the land Down Under but was put off by the length of the flight. Boy, do I feel stupid!

Eventual winners, Israel are usually thought of as being part of Asia. But I suppose, when they decide the winner by taking a popularity vote from the other countries, I can see why they would want to join in with our contest instead!

I tell you though, wee Graham Norton is doing a grand job of filling Terry Wogan’s shoes isn’t he?!  Me and Graham go way back.  I first met him in 2007 when I was in the audience for his brilliant chat show. He was coming through the audience looking for someone to play a crazy game involving a bowl of custard and Enrique Iglesias. ‘Do you like custard?’ He asked, with that characteristic twinkle. “Not really’ I replied, and as quick as a flash he came back with .’Oh. Right. Moving on’.

Wise words from a true gent.

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King Of The Grips:

Weel, the news this wik has been a’ aboot a certain event full of razzmatazz, eye-watering expense, and arcane ritual. But for those nae watching the Cup Final we hiv a Royal Wedding an’ a’. Noo I ken that some folk hiv got the huff aboot it, partly cause the happy couple are nae top tier Royals and, barring an air-strike on the Braemar Gathering, they’ll niver get a sniff o’ the throne, but maistly cos they’re inconsiderately getting married on a Setterday so naeb’dy’s getting the day aff. Still, I am here tae gie ye a’ my top tips on the best wye tae mak yer Harry & Meghan celebrations as inexpensive as possible. There’s nae need nae ging feel just cos the bride tae be has blown £300,000 on a dress. A dress! I widnae spend that on a hoose! Of course, I bide in Seaton, so I dinna need till. Onywye, if yer ha’eing a proper street pairty tae celebrate the big day, wi’ ab’dy sitting ootside getting bleezing, I can assist. My mate Mick The Pill has come by a job lot of fire-damaged tables and chairs fae the Castle Bar, so jist gie the word and we’ll come round and dump them a’ on yer road. Dinna waste yer money on bunting either, simply tak the lines fae yer neighbour’s whirly and hing them fae the lampposts on yer street, then peg on alternating Spar, Tesco and Aldi bugs, making sure of course, that the order is reed, fite and blue.

And da worry if you dinna hae enough food tae feed yer freens and neighbours either – jist buy one pre-packed sandwich – mak it a good een fae Tesco’s; ye ken the eens,  wi’ gold on the label and an unnecessary extra plastic tray inside –  then cut it intae tiny wee triangles so ab’y in yer street gets een, and tell them it’s nouvelle cuisine. Or if that’s too much hassle, ye can get party food fae Lidl’s for nae money, especially if ye hing aboot the bins roon the back at chucking oot time.

I’m nae hauding a street pairty of my ain; partly ’cause I live in a high rise, but maistly cause I’ll be busy on the day selling my ain range of specially branded Royal Wedding merchandise, including plates, vases and mugs, a’ hand painted wi’ the the faces of the happy couple. Admittedly, portraiture is nae my strong suit, so the likenesses are nae perfect, but If I dinna shift them this wikend I winna get anither chance til Ed Sheeran gets merried tae Russell Brand.

Flushed with the awful consequences of waste disposal

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

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions, and this week they have mostly been asking me about plastics, to which I reply that the Plastics are the most popular girls at North Shore High, and the antagonists in the coming–of-age classic of 90’s teen cinema, ‘Mean Girls’. Until I realise that we’re not talking about Lyndsey Lohan movies and that the depth of my knowledge of her ouvre is making everyone uncomfortable.

Instead, we’re concerned with the possible harmful effects of tiny microplastics, entering the natural world via our bathroom drains. However, it falls to me to highlight the dangers of the very opposite end of the size scale, in particular the issue of ‘Fatbergs’. Despite the name, a Fatberg is not a new item on the McDonalds menu, but an object formed when people flush things down their toilets which should not be so disposed of. Eventually, the resultant matter congeals into a large, useless, unwelcome mass which proves impossible to remove, and sits there obstinately, getting in the way. Think of it, if you like, as a more animated version of Donald Trump.

Despite the name, scientific studies have now shown only 0.5% of a fatberg is actually composed of fat, 7% formed from cotton buds and plastic wrappers, and the remainder, incredibly, composed entirely of wet wipes. These innocuous items are in fact a menace which may require to be banned to prevent the rise of an ecological disaster, and indeed many other things which might bob to the surface once all the sewers are clogged.  Only last September a monstrous fatberg was discovered blocking a London sewer in Whitechapel; at 250 metres long and weighing 130 tonnes, it took 9 weeks to remove. One can only imagine the consequences if such a thing were to be discovered beneath the streets of Aberdeen; using the speed of pothole repair as a guide, removal of such a fatberg here would take longer than the pedestrianisation of Broad Street.

So important is this issue, I felt the need to give a public lecture on it, and so took myself to Aberdeen’s equivalent of Speaker’s Corner, the cobbled bittie outside Markies. After chasing off a Peruvian Pan Pipe Band and a brace of broadband switching enthusiasts, I hefted my megaphone and proceeded to announce my lecture on the “How we must act now to eliminate Fatbergs’. It was not until after sizeable group of young ladies had shouted me down and angrily relieved me of my loudhailer that I realised I had been misheard.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports pundit who is always au naturel

Well, I guess we has just seen the curtain slammed shut on another football season.  I was at Pittodrie on Tuesday night to watch the Dandies stick Scotland’s newest club The Rangers in a do-or-glory, death-or-die second place decider.  Sadly none of them fancied taking the bull by the scruff of the neck and they drew 1-1.  This means the Dons can finish in 2nd, 3rd or 4th depending on results this weekend.  If we end up 4th then we need to cross our eyes & close our fingers that Motherwell don’t win the cup or we’ll miss out on Europe.  I hope it doesn’t come to that because there’s nothing worse than having someone else controlling your density.

Whenever the season ends I always look to other sports to fill the talcum that the football has left, and last week I was watching the snooker.  It was a tense affair, and the crowds in the Cruciate Theatre was so quiet you could hear a pandrop.  This year the 2 finalists was both in their 40s, so it’s great to see that age is no barrier to waddling round a table stroking your arm back and forth a few times.  I was rooting for the Wizard of Wishy Washy, John Hurricane Higgins, but he was beaten by the Welshman, Mark JPR Williams.

The boy Williams said if he won he’d do his final press conference in the nuddy, and he was true to his word!  Fair play to the lad, Snooker is all about getting your balls into the pockets, which is no mean feet if you haven’t got no breeks on.

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ at HMT Aberdeen June 26^th-30^th 2018

Tourist plans suitable for a’ the loons and equines

Kevin Cash, moneysaving expert and king of the grips

I da ken fit wye people say this city disnae push the boat oot for visitors. Jist look at the latest ideas tae pull in a’ that tourists fit places like Edinburgh and Glasgow seem tae be beating aff wi’ the proverbial stick fit hiv been given the green licht by wir cost-conscious chums at the Cooncil. Ony day noo we can expect tae swamped wi’ vees’tors, flocking here because, if they head doon tae the beach on een of the six random fine days we’ll hae this summer, there’ll be a brand new attraction.  Nae only can you get a shottie on a waltzer and an unimpeded view o’ the worlds maist powerful wind turbine, (BTW – I dinna understand folk that are complaining that it spiles the view. Hiv ye seen foo big the sea is? It’s massive! If ye wint a nice view o’ the sea, jist look at a different bittie!) Soon, you’ll be able tae ging for a hurlie along the esplanade in your choice of unsuitable vehicle.

There’s a mannie fa’s offering tae dae tours o’ the seafront in a ‘TukTuk’, fit’s like a cross between a tricycle and milk float popularly used as a taxi in some countries in Asia. Nae longer dae ye need tae ging a’ the wye tae Thailand tae be ower charged for a run aroon’ the block. God, I wish I’d thocht o’ it first. Mind you, a cut and shut on a mini-clubman and a Vespa isnae the easiest.

But the big news is they’re also bringing back horse-drawn carriages tae the beach. Apparently they wiz affa popular in the 40s and 50s, and are set tae return noo that the quality o’ life in the city his returned tae that level.

Weel, I can already see great opportunity tae get some extra value fae this.  Far there’s horses, there’s inevitably horse’s doofers, or ‘100%organic composted equine manure’ as we’ll be marketing it. My plan is tae my mate Mick the pill following ahind the carriages catching fit dobbin leaves behind in een o the twa thoosan’ take-away boxes I picked up for a song fan the Yangtze River got closed doon by the food inspectors. OK, ye canna get much manure per box but I’ve thought of that – I plan tae sell it as ‘Fun Size Dung’ for fowk that only hae wee gairdens, or jist a window box.

Mick has yet tae sign up, but there is nae doot in my mind that he is man for the job.  He has stamina, lightning reflexes and since he perforrated his nasal septum, nae sense o’ smell.

 

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the footballer’s footballer

As yet another season draws to its contusion, Old Kenny is looking ahead to an ever changing footballing landfill.  Next season we could see Video refs with an increased role in games, transfer fees going even more astrologically higher than they already is and, perhaps most surprisingly of all, Steven Gerrard managing The Rangers.  But the thing I is even most surprised about is the possible death of that old football stable, the match-day programme.

English clubs is meeting soon to decide if they need to make one for every game anymore. I’m sure some of them will say “no” as a penny-punching measure.  But I think the loss of the programme would take some of the heart and sole out of the bountiful game. Where else will we get inciteful information on our heroes?

Back when I was playing at Pittodrie, it was a great honour to be chosen for the “Player Factfile”, and the programme boys used to interview you on all the hot optics of the day.  I’ve still got a copy of the one what I featured in.  Aberdeen v Greenock Morton.

Name: Kenneth John Cordiner

Position: Left back in the dressing room

 Height: 5 ft 13 inches

Weight: 12 stone and 1 kg

Favourite club: The Mighty AFC

Favourite music: Phil Collins and Elkie Brookes

Favourite film: Raiders of the Lost Sark

Pet hates: Smoking, fast wingers, horses what don’t run to form

Favourite player: Joe Jordan, because he’s got even less teeth than me.

Ambitions: To own a sophistimicated wine bar in Inverurie what mysteriously burns down just after I’ve insured it to the hilt.

That last answer was a surprise I can tell you!  Who would of known I could be so prophylactic?

“This remarkable work of art  comments on the unequalled quantity of wind to be found in the North-East”

Fergus Lamont, Arts correspondent and author of ‘The Man Who Would Be Kingsford  – The Angus Jamieson Story.

Aberdeen continues to be a bounteous mecca for art of all types! This week I took advantage of the warmer weather by walking the city on the trail of exciting new Nuart festival. You won’t have heard of it; it has received little, if any, publicity, but the City Council should be commended for having the foresight to delay the re-opening of the Art Gallery, thus requiring us to engage our aesthetic senses in the open air for the second year running. Cultural enthusiasts will recall last spring when various unloved and decrepit parts of Aberdeen were painted over with magnificent works of public art, instead of having to be renovated. This year’s event is bigger and, arguably, better than before – extending as it does into what might get be described as the ‘nice bits’ of town, such as Union Plaza and Holburn Junction. I must say, the appreciation of these works is greatly enhanced by easy access to a reasonable decaf skinny latte and not having to trachle around the back of Aberdeen Market, with its unsettling aroma of uncooked meat. However, the most monumental of all the NuArt works does not, inexplicably, appear on the festival’s map at all. Indeed, had I not wandered down to the beach for a vanilla slider from la Café Du Inversnecky, my eyes would never have beheld, a mile from the shore, a series of windmill-shaped structures, over 600 feet tall and gleaming white. I realised immediately that this gigantic art installation was paying homage to the importance of agrarian farming techniques, as well as the bounty of the sea in the historical nurturing of the north-east of Scotland.  Further, the unknown sculptors of this remarkable work of art are clearly passing comment on the unequalled quantity of wind to be found in the North-East. The finished installation will be truly memorable and iconic, and not something any Aberdonian will ever be able to ignore. In fact, so vast will the completed sculpture be that I wouldn’t be surprised if it were visible from Donald Trump’s Golf Course at Mennie. It struck me that even he, not famed for his appreciation of the arts, could not fail to be overcome by the magnitude of the project. We can but hope. With that in mind, I ran pell-mell to the water’s edge in order to shout my approval, my cries mingling with those of the gulls carried by the biting wind over the majestic, unforgiving waters of the North-Sea as they swooped to peck the slider from my very hands. I wept.

Shelley Shingles, showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1985

M. Actual. G!  She’s only gone and done it!  Kate, the Duchess with the mostess, has popped her third royal sprog and the nation has gone baby prince crazy!  And it all happened so fast!  The baby was born at 11 in the morning and Kate and Wills were heading home at 6 in the evening.  That’s what I call express delivery!

As I write this, there’s no name yet for Prince George and Princess Charlotte’s little brother.  The bookies are saying that the smart money is on Arthur, Philip or James.  It’s always nice to back an outsider though, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed they display the common touch we all love and choose what many of their subjects tend to cry their third born child; ‘You’.

It will be tough for them, though, looking after 3 kids; with Harry’s big wedding coming up.  Wills is busy enough that day as it is, with being best man and dashing off to Wembley to present the FA cup.  He’ll hardly have time to neck some Asti Spumante, never mind change one of baby’s dirty nappies!  Mind you, my Royal sources say they’ve got people to help them with that kind of thing. I don’t think it’s Grandpa Charles though! No, in royal circles its an open secret that only person of the older generation who knows their way around a packet of wet wipes and a nappy sack is Camilla.

Of course, me and Camilla go way back.  I first met her at the Braemar Gathering in 2005.  She was making her debut as Prince Charles’ new squeeze and I was there dressed as a mealie pudding, as a spokesmodel for Sheridan’s of Ballater.  I’ll never forget what she said to me: ‘Would you mind awfully moving? I can’t see chaps tossing their cabers.’

Wise words from a great lady.