A month’s a long time in politics. A few weeks ago, Alex Salmond was ‘the Man’; now he’s the Guy.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

It is a matter of public record that we of Aberdeen City Council have, at times, had a difficult working relationship with Alex Salmond. We have taken exception to his overbearing personality, questioned his method of funding local authorities and sought to ban him from Council property in order to prevent, what we considered to be, cheap political stunts. I do not expect to receive a Christmas card from Big Eck. But I was nevertheless disgusted when I learned that an effigy of the First Minister had been blown up on Bonfire Night in Lewes, East Sussex, despite assurances that this would not happen. I say this because it showed a fundamental lack of respect for one of the giants of the modern political scene; because even the most petty-minded of us would realise that now is not the time for derision and division as between the constituent parts of this United Kingdom; but mainly because, had we known they were going to go ahead after all, we’d have commandeered the Crematorium bus, got the banqueting department to knock us up a picnic and driven down to Lewes to see it ourselves. Grainy video footage on YouTube is just nae the same.

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

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions such as “is stem cell research ethical?” and “could you design an algorithm to show if there is anyone qualified to conduct a judicial inquiry who is not pally with Leon Brittan?” But as a scientist who teaches, I’m forever asking questions such as “seriously, has anyone done any of the reading?”, and receiving mute passive-aggression in response.

On Friday, however, following publication of research by the University of Aberdeen showing that IQ improves with each successive generation, my Foundations of Science class was livelier than usual. I received a flurry of questions along the lines of, “If younger generations are clever than older ones, why do I have to do what my Dad says?” I had hardly begun to answer when another bright spark rose and asked, “Haud on! We’re a’ younger than you. If we’re a’ cleverer than you, fit wye do we hiv to listen to fit you say!?” A specious argument if ever I heard one, and one that I had only just started to correct when the entire class fell upon me, shoved a pair of socks in my mouth locked me in the gas-cupboard.

Impressively, however, even with their tutor incapacitated, they continued to thirst for knowledge, carrying out a range of experiments of their own creation. The discovery that shatterproof glass beakers are not, in fact, shatterproof, when dropped from more than 6 feet was interesting, and repeating the experiment over and over until all had been destroyed showed a commendable, if expensive, dedication to scientific method. The class’s attempt to create cold-temperature nuclear fusion using nothing more than a can of diet coke and a pack of mentos showed imagination, even if it ended in predictable failure. Their final experiment – “see how long a scientist can survive without food and water in a gas cupboard with a pair of socks lodged in his mouth” – would not have received clearance from the Institute’s Research Ethics Committee, and raises one final, all important question; could someone come and let me out please

View from the midden – rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s been an entomological wik in the village. This wik the story fit caught my een wis the plight of top pop songstress Katie Melua. Efter hearing a rustling sound in her heed, she went tae the doctors and found that a spider had set up hame in her lug. Noo, I couldna help but notice the tone of the reporting of her misfortune was fairly hysterical, and nae doot maist of you wid consider a beastie nesting in yer napper a bittie gadsy. Weel, we country fowk are clearly made of sterner stuff than yon willowy pop stars. I couldnae see fit aa the fuss wiz aboot. Fan ye live amongst fairm animals, yer used tae haein creepy-crawlies aboot the place. They perform a valuable service, lik catching files and pollinating the crops. Aside fae that, fit hairm’s a wee spider? Mony’s the tics and fleas I’ve skited aff masel’ efter a long day in the fields. Fowk still spik with fondness aboot yon time Feel Moira sneezed and three foggy-bummers come shooting oot her neb. I’m sure I hiv ingested my fair share an’ aa, especially as I tend tae sleep with my moo open. So let’s hae nae mair horror stories aboot crawly beasties, they’re all a part of the circle of life. Closest tae nature oot of the hale village is Skittery Wullie. He’s spent mony a year with fit can only be described as a teeming menagerie of slaters, forkies and hornygollachs aboot his person. He’s managed tae train them up tae clean his beard, remove his ear wax and fetch and carry his roll-ups and tobacco. But nothing touches his pairty-piece, fan he maks them run in one ear and oot the other. Fit could be mair natural nor that? Cheerio!

Paying for bags and drop-offs at the airport – what is this, trick or treat season?

Jonathan M Lewis, local Headteacher, on the privilege of educating your children

Today truly is a special day for the pupils and parents of Garioch Academy. And the staff, of course, I forgot the staff. Her Majesty’s Inspectorate have announced that Garioch will be the next school to have the benefit of a school inspection. Sadly, this joyous announcement has not come without further attempts to besmirch my leadership from less supportive quarters of our community.

First of all, suggestions that Garioch “finally ran out of brown envelopes” are unhelpful. How little my critics know about the running of the school. We are out of treasury tags, white-board pens and any remaining photocopying budget – but we are replete with manila-coloured envelopes in three sizes.

Secondly, despite cynical comments to the contrary, the concentrated programme of improvements and renovations scheduled for the next 2 weeks are entirely unrelated to the impending inspection. I had always planned for the fortnight long closure of the toilets to remove the anti-Thatcher graffiti and the ‘slogies’ that adorn the walls. It is just coincidence that they will re-open on the day our inspectors arrive.

Finally, conspiracy theorists allege that Garioch Academy will strive to keep some of our more ‘enthusiastic’ pupils at home during the inspection. Nonsense; although I do defend the school’s policy of sending pupils home if we suspect they are afflicted by the winter vomiting bug. So if, the day before the inspection, it should happen to the case that some of the second year lads look a bit peaky, I will not hesitate to take action. Best take no chances where inspections are concerned! Er, health; of course, I meant health.

Tim Bee, the conscientious objector

At times of deep recession, history demonstrates the inevitability of the rise to power of those visionaries who protest against job cuts, rising living costs and pointless road-works at Auchinyell. With this in mind, I write now to object to two blatant money-making scams announced this week, to which I object.

Firstly, I was outraged to hear that family members, loved ones and innocent non-airport taxi drivers are going to be charged for the privilege of dropping off passengers at the airport. I might object less if I thought there was a problem with over-crowding of cars and taxis dropping off, but when is the time that you do get delayed? The taxi queue when you get back! “Welcome home, Tim”, I think to myself when, after half an hour of unbearable cold and worse chat from those around me, I eventually enter the cab of a taxi-driver who is STILL banging on about the referendum. I recently objected to a driver on this very point. I shan’t be doing so again. The walk home from Forrit Brae to Peterculter is pretty grim at night. That reminds me – must write to the council to complain about lack of pavements on that route.

Secondly, imagine my dismay to discover that I was going to be charged for using plastic bags for my weekly shop! Well, I marched right down to my local supermarket to object in the strongest possible terms. “I will not carry bags of my own around with me!”, I declaimed. “I object to being made to conform to a stereotypical weekly shopper by a corporate behemoth whose tight margins are destroying the UK’s agricultural and farming industry!” Then I further demonstrated my displeasure by seeing how many tins of tomato soup I could knock over with a well-aimed kumquat.

Naturally, I object to being carried away in a police van shortly thereafter. My letter of complaint to Police Scotland is a work in progress.

View for the Midden: Jock Alexander, presenter of MTV (Meikle Wartle Television)

Weel, it’s been a recalescent wikend here in the village. Reports hiv indicated that it wiz the warmest Halloween since records began, and michty, I can confirm this. Usually at this time o year, the residents o Meiklewartle are hunkered doon in front of their roaring fires wi within but a flagon o nettle an neep and the intermitent broadcast signal fae MTV studios oot in my shedie. But this year we’ve seen temperature’s soar tae the tropical heights of gye near 10 degrees. We’ve nivver seen the like! It wiznae only those planning elaborate Trick or Treat activities that were plottin, let me tell ye. But it’s true, Halloween traditions have changed o’er the years. I’m sure mony of ye can mine the time when wee kiddies jist went door tae door ‘guisin’.

Noo, their parents come an’a, and ging door to door ‘bleezin’. It’s much the same, but they demand a wee dram rather nor a sweetie. And they do tend tae fling dung at ye if the drinks cabinet’s run teem. Halloween’s just become an excuse fer aulder fowl tae pit on their funcy dress. And indeed this year’s balmy heat has only increased the amount o’ Sexy Witches, Slinky Cats and ghosts and ghoulies stottin aboot the streets efter dark. I’m sure I’m not alone in wishing for a return tae the good aul days of only needing tae worry aboot wee kiddies gan aboot efter dark, wi nae the additional worry of some twenty something dressed as a cave girl boakin on yer lawn and daein’ a face-plant into yer chuckies. But I did get a frisson of good aul-fashioned terror just past midnight fan I took a trip tae my outside cludgie, only tae bump intae a hideous, hairy creature wi a gaping maw, restin against my gable end. Michty, a heatwave-filled Halloween is frightening as ever fan ye stumble o’er Feel Moira wi her top aff haein a snooze against yer wa’. Cheerio!

Drink-drive limit to be reduced. At last, an excuse to refuse Mulled Wine.

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 ‘Will it be possible to clone extinct animals?’, ‘Are e-Cigarattes harmful?’ and ‘Do you realise your flies are undone?’ Recently, people have been asking me about the legal blood alcohol level for driving.  “Well”, I tell them, “If you buy me a pint I’ll explain everything”.  And then I laugh uproariously, snort through my nose, wipe the tears of mirth from my eyes and look up, only to see my inquisitor has gone.

When we drink, alcohol passes through our stomach into our bloodstream like water through a defective damp-proof course (curse those builders!). It is then carried to our brains, where it impairs our balance, reaction time and ability to talk at appropriate volumes in restaurants.  Blood-alcohol concentration can be determined in several ways but the police’s method of choice is the breathalyser, the science behind which is remarkable, especially as there isn’t actually any blood in your breath.  Unless you’ve got a pulmonary oedema, in which case you probably shouldn’t be driving anyway!

The Scottish government plan to lower the limit from 80mg per 100ml to 50mg. For most people, this would mean even one pint or glass of wine would see them providing a positive sample.  The reduced limit is due to be in place before Christmas which provides an extra headache for motorists.  Many will be only too pleased to decline a mulled wine but can one truly resist Sherry trifle or those devilish liqueur chocolates your Auntie always brings?!

Scotland’s reduced limit will bring us into line with much of mainland Europe but I for one hope that the changes stop there.  They drive on the right of the road over there but having tried that here when I first arrived I wouldn’t want to try it again!

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

This week brought the news that the Urban Realm website had shortlisted Aberdeen for the dubious honour of one of its Carbuncle awards. “Aberdeen”, they say, “is where architecture goes to die.” As a civic leader, I must respond.

There is too much name-calling and incivility in modern life, and this jibe from Urban Realm is just the latest example. I don’t intend to provide them with the publicity they obviously crave by getting drawn into a slanging match. They are plainly a band of sneering, hipster-bearded ninnies whose condescending opinions amount to no more than spit in the rain. But I’m certainly not going to get personal about it.

Clearly, though, these people have no concept whatever of what we in Aberdeen have been trying to achieve as we renovate our great city. Of course the new Children’s hospital looks like it has been built out of lego. What better material to give a sense of comfort to kids who have had their childhood cruelly interrupted? Yes, we know that the plans for a new 12-storey glass office block looming up out of the façade of the old Capitol theatre are nightmarishly out of proportion. It’s a subtle homage to “Attack of the 50-foot Woman” – Eric from the planning department is a big fan of classic 1950s B-Movies. And of course we are aware that the new Accident and Emergency facility is mind-bogglingly awful. That is the point. Imagine that you have been seriously injured at work and are being rushed up to Forresterhill in an ambulance. What train of thought would you rather have in your mind: “Am I going to make it?”, or “Good God, who the hell designed that?”

This sums up Aberdeen’s architectural strategy in a nutshell. It is there to make people feel better about themselves. Great architecture does not do this. No-one has ever gazed at St Peter’s Basilica without feeling humbled. But now, in Aberdeen, the common man, although wholly untrained in design, can look at any number of faintly comical buildings, say, “I could have done better than that” and feel curiously uplifted.

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

If there is one thing what my 50 inch OCD telly is designed for, it is for watching Champions League matches in HD. HD stands for High Defamation, and no player lived up to that title more last week than Liverpool’s bad boy – Super Mario Balotelli.

I feel dead sorrow for Super Mario, mainly because I sees a lot of myself in him. The medium is always describing him as ‘tempura mental’ which is the label old Kenny got stuck with! His gaffer was not chuffed when he seen Mario swapping shirts with Madrid’s Pepe Le Pew at half time. He says that players should wait til the end of the match. I can see Balotelli’s point, though. After 90 minutes that boy’s shirt would have been reeking of sweat and all covered in grass stains. And that stuff is murder to get out of a white shirt – just ask my Melody!

The hotbedded Italian’s antics reminded me of an occlusion when I fell foul of a shirt swap. It was back when I was playing for Culter and we’d just thrashed Turriff United 1-1. When the ref blew for full time one of the Turriff boys comes up to me and hauls off his shirt. Well, to a lad who grew up in Kincorth, a gadgy stripping to the waist means one thing – a square go. So I lamped him. You can imagine how daft old Kenny feeled when my team mates pointed out he just wanted to swap shirts! I never knew what was going on because that was the first time in my career I’d lasted 90 minutes!

Some folk are so hard to please. Since when has an after-hours lock-in been a bad thing?

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

An American tourist made the news this wik fan he got locked in a branch o’ Waterstones by mistake and used Twitter to pit oot a request to be rescued. I hiv to say, that struck me less as an amusing sidebar story and mair as a opportunity missed. If I’d discovered I’d been locked into a shop, the alarm system of which didna seem to hiv been activated, I’d hiv been right onto my mobile, too – to my pal Mick the Pill, telling him to cover up the number plates on the Transit and get it backed up to the loading bay, quick-smart. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Me, Mick and Futret McKechnie used to dae it a’ the time at Bruce Millers. Then, to celebrate, we used to ging to the Red Lion, hae a half pint, then pit on wir snorkels and hide in the cauld water tank until closing time, fan we’d mak aff wi a keg each and a full cardboard strip o’ scampi flavoured fries.

I also seen there wiz a big to-do on the Island o’ Coll this week after the free watter tap at the pier got turned aff. I seen later on that they forced bosses at Scottish Watter into daein’ a massive U-turn, which is all well and good, but I think they’d hiv been better advised to get their watter supply turned back on than to make some big-wig dae some trick driving in a lorry. Mind you, it’s nae often that you get something for nithin, these days, is it? Especially seeing the daffies on Mounthooly roundabout is oot of season. My top tips is as follows:-

1. Bog roll. Diz onyone who has sense, pooches, and access to the toilets at the Bon Accord Cintre ever actually buy this? If so, why?

2. Libraries. Nae only do ye get a free heat and the opportunity to expand your intellectual horizons, but, wi the benefit of a false I.D. package that the Futret can pit thegither for a surprisingly competitive rate, ye can walk oot wi a bag full of books, CDs and DVDs quicker than you can say “platinum ebay seller”.

3. Insects. Niver pass a deid insect by. Molluscs either. At any one time I hiv up to 15 deid wasps and forkie-tails and slugs secreted aboot my person in a match-box. Aroond aboot the end o a bar meal, I select a particularly sorry-looking specimen, lob into the gravy and start to scream blue murder. I hivna hid to pay for a denner oot since 1993, fan I foolishly pulled the trick twice in quick succession in the Tilted Wig. Absolute schoolboy stuff.

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

OMG! OMG! OMG! Totes dreamboats alert! I know it’s not completely professional for a serious journalist to drool while they work, but I totally bumped into the actual David Beckham last week! Goldenballs himself was up in Inverness filming some adverts for whisky with that bloke who used to be married to Madonna and – phoowar! Talk about lush! I was there for a very similar gig, shooting a Health & Safety video for the Drumnadrochit Nessie-hunter boat trip, when I caught a glimpse of him looking smoking hot by the banks of the river Affric. There’s not a lot of men who can wear green velour without looking like they’re playing Peter Pan in Panto, but Becks carried it off with his usual aplomb. I read later that David reckons Inverness is “ridiculously beautiful” which is quite a compliment, coming from someone who has lived in Madrid, Los Angeles, Milan and Paris, but knowing him as I do, I’m sure he meant it and wasn’t just saying it to be nice.

Of course, me and Becks go way back. I first met him in 1999, when Fergie took his star-studded Man United squad to Pittodrie for Teddy Scott’s testimonial. I was there in a promotional capacity – as the face of Bovril – and he was trying to rebuild his reputation after his infamous World Cup red card fiasco.

Fergie had substituted him not long after half time and the Dons ended up victorious so it was no wonder he looked so glum, sitting with Ryan Giggs in the lounge afterwards. I thought some of the UK’s premier meat extract beverage might cheer him up so I offers him a cup. “No thanks” he says, “when I’m down, I prefer something with a kick.” that’s when Giggsy pipes up “Just ask Diego Simeone”.

I noticed that his missus, Victoria Posh, had not accompanied him to the Highlands, so I thought I’d chance my arm. As we cruised past I gave him a bit of a trout-pout and my best ‘come-hither’ stare, reclining seductively on the pointy bit of our boat. I asked the cameraman who was filming my video how I looked. “Beautifully ridiculous” he says. It did the trick, because once I’d caught his eye, poor Becks clearly couldn’t concentrate on the job in hand. “Hold on Guy,” I heard him shout, “We’ll have to wait ’til the Little Mermaid’s mum is out of shot.”

Wise words from a ridiculously beautiful man.

Did you hear about the sportsman who wrote his own autobiography? He didn’t have a ghoster!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who still has a book in him.

Sport has always had more than it’s fair share of colourful characters, but it’s amazing how some of them can still hit the headlights long after they have hanged up their boots. Former Man United hardman Roy Keane and England croquet star Kevin Pietersen are both raffling a few feathers at the moment because of them having done a book where they take a pop at some of their former teammates and gaffers.

These days, when any sportsman does his autobiology, it’s not so much about how he scored on the pitch, but more about what scores he can settle off of it. (The lovely Melody told me I should put that bit in, so I done it. Though I am not sure what it means.) What matters most is the revelations. Selling books is all about spilling the cats out of the bag. And the more cats the better. Especially if they is really big cats.

That’s why Keano has been all over the papers in his tramp’s beard saying he’ll never forgive Fergie for whatever it is Fergie done and K.P. even got onto Graham Norton on Friday, sitting next to Taylor Swift. She looked dead impressed by his stories about how sad he got winning the Ashes. So that got me thinking it might be about time old Kenny put paper to pen hiself.

As my regulation readers know, I has attracted more than my fair share of conservatory in my career, and I’ve got so many stories and antidotes that could go into my memoirs you could write a book about it. I’ve had a few longstanding bones to grind, too, but I’m not sure I would want to be sneaky like Roy and Kevin was. I always liked to bare my grievances with players I never got on with face to face. Although to be honest it was usually studs to shin rather than face to face, unless I bit someone. Which I never done.

There are still a few folk what I never got the chance to get my own back on though. Like that wee nyaff John Duncan who skinned me more times than you could skin a cat in my last game. Or the boy who chaired that disco-plenary hearing where I got banned for 2 months for snapping Turriff United’s new striker. While he was warming up. So I suppose I could half them, metaphysically speaking, in my book. Mind you, those things was a long time ago, and you know what they say, it’s better to let bygones under the bridge.

The Reverend Edmund Everend, Minister for Holburn North North East

As regular readers will know, I am no longer content to preach from the pulpit alone, and have been engaged on a mission to bring debate on major religious, ethical and societal issues of the day to the public spaces of Aberdeen.  There have been a number of setbacks along the way, including a banning order from one prominent local dance-hall and several trips to our splendid A&E facilities at Forresterhill, where staff shortages have meant that I have had ample time to canvass the views of fellow patients. And though I am sorely tested I look to the example of Job, so the mission continues.

Recently, I was in a number of pubs in the Belmont Street area of Aberdeen, discussing the implications of the election of Douglas Carswell as UKIP’s first MP.  A politician formerly on the right wing of the Conservative party now stands under a different flag. In one sense, his views and policies have barely changed, so this change of allegiance does not matter. This, I think, was the view of one reveler with whom I addressed this issue.  But it is one with which I profoundly disagree. The rise of a new party, one that has as it’s core an ethos of difference and isolation, is a challenge to us all. In difficult times it is love, not distrust, to which we must turn. Only love can bring unity, and only through unity can we prosper.

The gentlemen gave my views careful consideration before responding by calling me a “saft-heided auld goat”, and sticking the nut upon me. As I fell, I saw the blood on my shirt and raised my hands to staunch its flow. But the blood was not mine. My assailant had burst open his own eyebrow, and was reeling back, crying out in pain.

I could have gone on to develop a discourse about how the use of force invariably rebounds upon wielder, but by this point the bouncers had me in an arm lock. As they manhandled us both from the premises it did not seem to be either the time or place for ruminations on Galatians 6:7. So I merely observed, “Not so soft-headed after all, eh mate?” That seemed to give him pause for thought, although I do accept that it may actually have been a mild concussion.

Peace be with you.

 

1000 Argentinians versus Jeremy Clarkson – those odds seem wrong. Can we have 1000 more Argentinians, please?

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

Some journalists are just waiting for the next celeb to come a cropper and make a totes embarrassment of themselves. They can’t wait for something horrible to happen to them so they can stick the boot in to the poor soul. Well I’m not like that at all, loyalty is my middle name, and the last thing I would do is try to make column inches out of the misfortune of the A-listers I am proud to call my friends. Mind you, have you seen Jeremy Clarkson’s latest international relations gaffe? OMG! Talk about a repeat offender!

Jezzer and his pals, James May and Richard “the Hammond” Hamster, have got themselves mixed up in a bit of Argy Bargie. The three amigos were filming in Argentina for a Top Gear special – which makes the bitter pill of your TV license that wee bit easier to swallow, doesn’t it? Apparently, the number plate on Clarkson’s fancy car looked like a reference to the Falkland’s War and the locals were not best pleased! Before you could say ‘Diego Maradona’, the lads were being chased all the way to the border by an angry mob. If you ask me, the Argies would have had it in for the Top Gear team with or without offensive registration. My uncle Sholto never forgave the Argentinians for what happened in the 60s after he tried corned beef for the first time, so when he went to the World Cup in 1978 with Ally’s Army, he hired an old Ford Anglia and stuck his own number plate on it – but nobody looked twice at ‘TYP4OID’. So I think Jeremy’s “coincidental” reg plate had nothing to do with it – he’s just the kinda guy who’s totally unwelcome wherever he goes, poor lamb.

Of course, me and Jezzer go way back, I first met him at a motor show down at Knockhill race track. He was there to fulfil a contractual obligation to one of his sponsors and I was doing some spokes-modelling work for the Twin Spires Creamery, dressed as a giant tetra-pak carton of Semi-skimmed. Just before he drove a lap he came up to me. ‘Your outfit looks even faster…than my car’ he said, slowing down and dropping his voice at the end of the sentence.

‘Eh?’ I immediately shot back.

‘It’s pasteurised before you even…put it on’”

Wise words from a great man.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

At last, some stout British common sense from the Tories! I had all but given up on the Conservative Party, what with their abstentionist foreign policy (really, what is the point of maintaining a standing army only to leave them standing idly by?) and failure to re-introduce the death penalty for benefits fraudsters and defecting MPs. But at last – with the proposal to free our courts from the oppressive yoke of the European Convention on Human Rights – one can detect a glimmer of life left in the party, and the prospect of Britain becoming Great again.

Mind you, I am not insensitive to human rights. I am a great respecter of equality. If you enter onto my property without my express permission, I will shoot you, irrespective of race, age or gender. Neither do I discriminate on the basis of social class. Of my current stable of seven mistresses, only a bare majority attended private schools. And – to the disquiet of some of the chaps down at the club – I am an ardent supporter of gay marriage: I believe they have the right to be as miserable as the rest of us.

But for all that, I welcome the prospect of British rules for British subjects. For too long Mr Justice Foreigner has been able to stick his garlicky beak into British affairs and bring down his knockwurst gavel on our British laws. As I said to Lady Fawkes-Hunte just the other week (as we were parking the BMW before dinner at Poldino’s and then going to see our own, wonderful Scottish National Orchestra play a selection of works by Beethoven and Mozart), what on earth has Europe ever done for us?

But most fundamentally of all, the repeal of the Human Rights Act would be a clarion call to those of us who have been so badly abused by the current political caste: we, the aristocracy, so self-evidently born to rule, must now awake. The vandalism of the so-called modernising agenda can be arrested and things can go back to how they were. Obviously, returning our country to the glory days of the mid-1700s remains a distant dream. But through incremental, sensible steps – the abolition of the secret ballot and of married women’s rights to property, and the re-introduction of slavery – progress could be made in certain, specific areas. And who wouldn’t support that?

That’s not a rhetorical question, by the way, who wouldn’t support it? Reveal yourselves, so that I, and (if necessary) the thumbscrews used to such devastating effect by the Seventh earl can persuade you of the error of your ways.

 

 

The Queen didn’t really ‘purr’ down the phone to David Cameron. That was just the sound when she hung up on him.

Struan Metcalfe, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North – an apology (from someone else, for a change. Woop!)

Is it too soon after the Referendum vote to proclaim how glad I am that HRH Queen Elizabeth II remains our monarch? I know Mr Salmon insisted that even with a ‘Yes’ vote she would have been retained as Head of State, but that’s jolly odd if you ask me. It’s a bit like if a husband and wife divorce, divide their assets, agree who gets the kids and then the husband takes his Mother In Law as a lodger.

Be that as it may, Super Dave got himself into a pickle this week by gassing to some Yank about the details of a private conversation with Her Maj regarding the result of the Referendum. Now, I am in no position to judge Super Dave on indiscretions. Even one as big as saying that giving Lizzie the news of the “No” vote made her purr like a cat (Doesnt seem likely to me; suerly they’ve got a telly at Balmoral? Why would she have been waiting for Super Dave’s call to find out the result when she could get it from Adam Boulton on Sky? I reckon it’s a misunderstanding and the ‘purring’ noise was simply Her Maj hanging up on him. I’d have done the same, at 5 am!). But he’s got to go apologise to HRH in person. Cripes, talk about being summoned to the Headmistresses Office! It’ll be the paddle for Cameron D., mark my words.

And he’s not the only Tory getting their just deserts at the mo. Brooks Newmark, the Minister for Civil Society, has had to stand down after ‘sexting’ a reporter. So I dread to think what Mark Reckless, MP for Rochestor and Strood, must have done that’s so bad that he has to not just resign from the party, but join UKIP!

Tanya Soutar, lifestyle guru

I dinna ken aboot yous, but I’ve had a total nightmare wi’ technology and my bairns this wik!

Jordin, my eldest, is fitba daft. So fan FIFA 15 wis released on Friday morning I obviously had nae choice but to let him tak a sickie so he could play it aa day. He’s fly fer a 10-year aul. Fan I threatened to mak him ging to school he said he’d jist bite somebdy so he’d get excluded. Fit can ye dae? At least I ken he’s getting some, exercise playing fitba. Weel, his thumbs is, onywye.

The middle een, Tyler, isnae quite as fitba mad is his brither, but he is affa fer gettin jealous o’ ither folk’s possessions. If Kenzie Hay doon i road gets a new pair o’ Nikes, Tyler his to hae them. And then I hiv to hae a square go wi’ Kenzie’s ma ’cause Tyler’s awa wi’ Kenzie’s trainers. Ye ken fit like. So to stop him fae fighting wi’ Jordin I hid to get him his ane copy o’ FIFA. And an XBox. Thank god my pal Big Sonya’s lad works in the stock room at Curry’s.

Thankfully, the video games kept the loons awa fae the telly lang enough to miss the news that the iPhone 6 wis oot. But my wee girl Beyoncé-Shanice seen it, so she jist hid to get een! Some folk say a 6-year aul disnae need a smartphone, but I think it’s important that she can contact me in an emergency, like fan I’m needing an extra life on Candy Crush. So doon to Union Square I gings, and queues up wi’ aa the spoons to get her a new phone. Imagine my horror fan she come hame fae school wi’ it aa bent! “Come here ye little vratch! I’ll teach ye to be careless wi’ stuff!” I screamed. But then I seen on the telly it wis happening to lots o’ folk. And that meant the two sweetest words in the English language – full refund!

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Aberdeen, like the rest of Scotland, has undergone a fractious time of late, with the Referendum debate pitting brother against brother, friend against friend, and Alex Salmond against what appeared to be a waxwork of Alistair Darling. Even now, division still rankles, with the defeated ‘Yes’s protesting their loyalty to the cause and the ‘No’s finding success by so narrow a margin less comforting than they had hoped.

What is needed is something that can bring the people together, so that they stand united, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, and, speaking in one voice, rediscover the fellow feeling that has been so absent in recent times.

It is with this aim in mind that we, the Council of this fair city, have decided that now is the time to renew the proposal to put a great muckle roof over the city centre.

This plan is not without political risk, but, as individual sniggers about the town gradually turn into a collective guffaw, as we hear the previously divided people choke back tears of laughter and in one voice cry out “What the hell are they smoking in the town house?” We know that our gambit has paid off.

It’s Embassy Regal kingsize, by the way. And the pipe of peace.

Campaign vows MUST be honoured. We need a firm timetable. When, exactly, is Piers Morgan returning to the U.S?

Jonathan M Lewis, local headteacher

I think we can all agree that, contrary to the complaints from some parents, Garioch Academy’s mock referendum was a lesson in democracy; and analogies with ‘Lord of the Flies’ are wholly inapprporiate.  I have nothing but praise for the dedication of the participants which ensured our debate mirrored the real thing so perfectly.

Division and acrimony were to the fore.  Woe betide any pupil who turned up to school with a Union Jack pencil case or a Scotland football top at PE.  Claims of media bias were commonplace, especially when Mr. Reid’s film studies class were shown ‘Passport to Pimlico”, “The Great Escape” and ‘Braveheart’ while Mrs. Rennie in the Music department had the recorder group play only the Communards’ ‘Dont leave Me this Way’, Roxy Music’s “Let’s Stick Together” and ‘Part of the Union’ by the Strawbs for the last fortnight. Last minute incentives also played a part.  Mrs. Moir’s promise to “No” voters of a sneaky peak at the Maths prelim exam came as a shock; but rest assured, I believe a teacher’s integrity should be beyond reproach, and will therefore see to it that she delivers on that vow.

Following the result, tensions ran high, and I wondered as I left the car park on Friday afternoon, weaving through the opposing ranks, their hate-filled chants ringing in my ears, if I had done the right thing.  Imagine my delight when I caught up with events in George Square.  Truly, Garioch’s referendum was as accurate as it could possibly have been!

The Reverend Edmund Everend

One of the great triumphs of civilisation is the ability to disagree gracefully. I hold dearest in my heart the occasions when I have shared unleavened bread with Jewish neighbours, attended the Glasgow Gurdwara with a Sikh friend, and co-convened outreach groups for troubled youth with my colleagues from the local Mosque. So I was deeply saddened by the lack of civility that has attended the outcome of the referendum.  I therefore resolved, on Saturday evening, to go out into the hostelries of Aberdeen to offer words of consolation, guidance and moderation.

In a public house in the harbour area I chanced upon two young partisans ferociously debating their respective positions. I placed my half-pint of shandy on their table and asked if, perhaps, they might care to join me in a prayer of reconciliation. They paused, exchanged glances, and then – quite simultaneously – both punched me square in the face.

As the room span, I rather fancy that I saw them cheerfully flicking the Vs at the bartender and running off together, arm-in-arm. This gives me cause to hope that I shall, yet, be able to look upon a less divided Scotland. Whenever the swelling goes down and I can re-open my eyes.

Struan Metcalfe, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North

Throughout this referendum the power of social media has been remarkable. It has both energised and divided the Scottish nation. Not unlike the Rowie. And it was on social media that in the early hours of Friday morning, a tad over- zealous in my relief as the results came in, that through a mist of Glenmorangie and Irn Bru, I tweeted as follows:

“A big kick in the teeth for The MSP for Banff & Buchan. Get it right up your Jocksie (sp?)”.

I am sorry. I should rise above petty rivalries. Alex Salmond is a politcal heavyweight of immense standing. I know, because he trod on my foot at an MSP’s photocall for the Commonwealth Games. Crikey!

His resignation on Friday was sad but necessary to allow the Scottish nation – and my left big toenail – to heal.

But now is not the time to crow, to posture, to puff out one’s chest and say, “we are the champions”. That time will come when the Scottish Tories rise again and we have Michael Gove as First Minister. Now, I’m off for a refreshing walk around the constituency to blow off some cobwebs and to meet my people. They always give me their own V for victory sign when I pass by in my Barbour and plus-fours!

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner

18 September is a day that shall live in infamy for those of us (i.e., me) of the People’s Democratic Republic Party of 39G Seaton Drive. The day had dawned so differently. Opinion polls conducted by unimpeachable sources (me) had consistently shown a 100% approval rating for independence from Scotland. With a spring in my step, the electorate (myself) processed to the local shop to purchase the milk and honey which I intended to consume immediately after casting my vote. But upon returning, my front door key (which I had previously considered to be apolitical) chose this crucial juncture to reveal itself to be part of the machinery of oppression, by snapping off in the lock.   Unable to gain access, I resolved to shimmy up the drainpipe, a piece of infrastructure which I had always considered to be utterly dependable. Alas, here too, I was deceived. The pipe gave way just as I was about to open the scullery window, and down, down I fell.

I awoke 12 hours later in A&E. My head was heavily bandaged. The time had gone. The polling station was shut. The expected 100% turnout and absolute majority for independence from Scotland had come to nothing. The faint smell of honey mixed with unrefrigerated dairy produce mocked and taunted me. I wept.

 

Referendum Special

Thursday the 18^th of September will see great turmoil throughout the country. A 15^th series of ‘The Gadget Show’ begins on Channel 5. Seriously, fifteen series? It’s like spending an hour locked in Dixons. But some people will also be casting their vote in the Referendum. It’s supposed to be a secret ballot, but that hasn’t stopped folk chuntering on about little else for a fortnight. We asked some of our regular contributors how the vote has impacted on them.

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner

And so, in the People’s Republic of 39G Seaton Drive as in the rest of Scotland, decision day is almost upon us.  Opinion polls (conducted by me) show that the electorate (also me) remains staunchly in favour of independence from Scotland.  However, the leader of the ‘Yes’ campaign (myself) is taking nothing for granted.  The Great Ashvale controversy of 1996 still serves as a reminder of how people, facing a decision of immense importance, can fold under the pressure.  As I entered the queue, I was clear in my mind that I wanted haggis.  But as I placed my order, somewhere, from deep within me, issued the words “mock chop”.  Not the result I had been hoping for, and not one which sat easily with me in the hours and days that followed.

Cosmo Ludovick Fawkes-Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

I have paid little attention to the referendum debate.  As a rule I pay no heed to the shrill squabbling of the lower orders.  But my attention was taken, this week, by David Cameron’s reference to people giving “the effing Tories a good kick”.  At the time of the Jacobite Rebellion, my forebear, the 5th Earl, spent a great deal of time giving his opponents an effing good kick and added the occasional effing bayonetting for good measure.  If we are to see a return to those heady days, then we may yet see a political system that I can believe in.

Davinia Smythe-Barrett, ordinary mum

I can’t wait for this Thursday. Fidel and Emmeline are both off school, of course, and it’s going to be tremendously exciting to be able to show them the electoral process first hand. It’s a pity the hand in question cant be mine, of course, but Thursday’s are super busy! Not to worry, we’ve cancelled Snezana the au pair’s day off (She’s Bulgarian, but she’s marvelous) so she can pop down to the Polling Station with them. Even better, with my polling card and a big pair of sunnies, she can exercise my democratic rights for me while I’m at Pilates.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who makes his mark in the box

Thursday will be a monumentous day in Scottish history, and I will be voting “YES” to Interdependence without no doubt. But it’s not because I’m really periodic, and it’s not because I reckon Scotland will be more phosphorous standing on its own two foots, it’s because I’ve always regretted that throughout my football career, I never got no international experience under my waistband. If we go it alone, then retrospeculatively, that 1984 pre-season games away at Hartlepool and Bishop Auckland suddenly make my C.V. look a lot more glamorous!

Struan Metcalfe – MSP for Aberdeenshire North

Great to see Super Dave back up here appealing to the Scotch to stay with the Union and stick one right up the Salmon. Super Dave was jolly passionate when delivering his appeal to the jockos not to break ranks, sorry break away. I haven’t see him so emotional since that time in Munich I got totally fizzed on peach schnapps and gave Angela Merkel a wedgie. “Nine, nine” she shouted, but unfortunately I was bundled away by some ruthlessly efficient security chaps before I could oblige.

Barclay Lloyd, a banker you can trust

As manager of the Mannofield branch of the Aberdeen and District Savings bank, I have spent much of this week seeking to justify my Board’s public declaration that, in the event of a yes vote, they will relocate.  Let me just say that I see no inherent contradiction in the Aberdeen and District savings bank being based in Prestatyn, and am very much looking forward to being able to watch ‘River City’ dubbed into Welsh.

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

As a scientist, I have recently been asked how I intend to vote in the referendum. This has proved problematic, as we in the scientific community are pre-disposed to evidence-based decision making and what is promised by the ‘Yes’ camp is, essentially an attractive hypothesis without any evidential basis; while the ‘No’  camp prophesy a doomsday scenario which may or may not come to pass. Accordingly, to scientifically predict the effects of Scottish Independence, I have bred a colony of 65 million fruit flies in my scullery and then removed 10% of the population and put them in the vestibule. Naturally, I have also established a control group of 65 million more Drosophila melanogaster, to evaluate the consequences of Scotland remaining in the Union. The control group is blind, in that they are in my airing cupboard with the lights off.

And what my experiment has proved, without a shadow of a doubt, is that come September 19^th, the Rentokil man will have his work cut out.

Some useful tips on how tae bluff yer wye in the boring world o’ current affairs

Tanya Soutar, lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I find it affa hard tae ken fit tae say fan folk spik aboot current affairs. The internet has made ab’dy an expert on the news, so instead of chatting aboot fit’s happening in Corrie or the weather it’s aa ‘Ukraine’ this an’ ‘referendum’ that. So, I’ve pit thegither some useful tips for the easiest wye tae get bye. Aye, apart fae actually bothering tae read i news, that is. ‘At wid be bo-ring!

First of aa, faniver sombdy spiks aboot some terrible situation in a far-flung part of the world that ye’ve niver heard of, try to nae ask questions fit expose yer ignorance, like “Eh? Far’s ‘at?” Jist pit on a solemn expression, shak yer heid slowly and say “Mak’s ye appreciate far we bide, does it?” At’ll get ye oot of trouble. “Isn’t the current crisis in the Middle East frightening?” “What do you think about the Ebola crisis in Liberia?” “Did you see John Barrowman is in Panto at the Glasgow SECC?”. All taken care of with one simple response: “Mak’s ye appreciate far we bide, does it?”

Folk in Aiberdeen often bang on aboot something cried ‘the economy’. It turns oot an ‘economy’ is something tae dae with money, an nae just the size of the biggest packet of chicken nggets in Iceland. But fan it comes up in conversation, it is a bit of a heid spinner, and unless yer willin tae plow through the Financial Times ye winna hae a clue. Your stock response should be tae shrug yer shoulders, raise yer eyebrows an say “Oil capital of Europe!” Foolproof. There is no finance related discussion in the North-East fit canna be enhanced with an “Oil capital of Europe!”. “Have you seen the size of that business park out at Kingswells?” “I can’t believe the cost of a one-bed flat in Rosemount.” “You just can’t get parked at Matalan.” “Oil capital of Europe!”

Of course, if ye keep repeating the same phrases folk’ll begin tae wonder if there’s something wrong with ye. If ye find yer beginning tae sound like a broken record then ye need tae pull oot the big guns. Changing the subject tae something controversial will mak ye seem like ye’ve got yer finger on the pulse. My favourite is “Fit aboot the Westren Peripheral Route?” Eleven years I’ve been using that een. And I think I’ll be safe using it for a filie yet.

View From The Midden – Rural Affairs With MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) Presenter, Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s been a tearful wik in the village, with the news that ‘The Singing Kettle’ are bringing their 30 year career tae a sudden and unexpected end. Nae doot the aftershocks of the anooncement wis felt aa ower the country, but, I’d hazard a guess, naewye mair keenly than here in the village. Michty, there was quite the ootpouring of grief, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the toon square fan the news reached us, via a three day old P&J left by a passing motorist in a bin on the A920. Aye, fae aa the parents, fa suddenly realised how much Mair difficult their lives wid be withoot the top-class efforts of this group in distracting, pacifying and mair importantly, tiring oot their young kiddies.

It’s a little kent fact, but Meikle Wartle his mair than it’s fair share of mums and dads. Weel, there really is very little tae dae here in the winter months. And of course, for us that means August tae June. So, fit’s tae be daen? Weel, I did mention that leaving a bottle of my nettle and turnip hame-brew on a low shelf might have a similar effect on the wee darlings, but Dr. Ferguson advised against it. Though nae afore he’d ‘tested’ a hale bottlie himsel.

But there’s nae cause for panic, as Meikle Wartle’s top children’s party entertainer, Feel Moira, has decided that she is the perfect candidate tae fill the gap in the market with her ain version, which has a distinctive rural flavour. Along with Sandy Emslie, the village’s bothy ballad champ on accordion, and Skittery Wullie on the moothie, she has devised a fun-filled musical roadshow provisionally entitled ‘The Skirling Silage-Spreader’. Even noo they are roaming fae hoose tae hoose, vigorously belting oot their opus in the traditional style, fit is tae say, through their noses. The show features a host of top kiddies’ sing-along classics such as ‘The Wheels on the Tractor go round an round (at a top speed of 20 mile an oor)’, ‘Oh ye canna shove the Defra Inspector aff a bus’, and the slaughterhoose favourite, ‘Neck, Shooder, Scrag and Loin.’ They’ll be appearing at a venue near you, whether ye wint them tae or no, and I tell ye, it’s nae just fun and games. This is a show fit teaches affa worthwhile life lessons tae the under 5s. The main een being ‘dinna stand too close fan someb’dy cried ‘Skittery Wullie’ is playing the moothie’. Cheerio!