For treachery, betrayal and controversy, even turncoat backbenchers can’t beat the Bake-off.

Shelley Shingles, showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1985

OMG! I’m just back from the big smoke where I seen Kate Bush at the Hammersmith Apollo! I’ve always been a fan, ever since “Wuthering Heights”. What a song that was, and such a story behind it. Honestly, they could make it into a book!When I got home I just had to catch up with the Great British Bake-off and WOW! Talk about fireworks! I couldn’t believe my eyes when that beardie boy’s ice-cream got left out of the freezer and turned into mush! Nightmare! I know exactly how he feels. I had a dinner party once where I looked out the Vienneta before serving it, and when I went to get it my cat was up on on the bunker having a lick! Still, I never lost the plot and put it in the bin like fuzzy-face. It’s amazing what you can cover up with a bit of gravy powder.

Some folk were giving my old pal Paul Hollywood pelters for chucking the poor lad out but I agreed with him. Paul and me go way back. I first met him at the Taste of Grampian in 1999. He was doing a bread-making demonstration and I was the face of Young’s Scampi. When I passed through his tent he was working his dough in quite an energetic fashion. He called me over, with a look of desperation on his mahogany face, and I asked him what he was kneading. ‘The toilet!’ He replied. ‘Take over for 2 minutes, will you?” Wise words from a true gent.

Struan Metcalf, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding Nether Regions – An Apology.

The Conservative party was cut to the quick this week with the news that backbencher and habitual pain in the posterior Dougie Carswell was throwing his political lot in with UKIP. When I heard the news I was in the middle of a spectacularly boozy fund-raising lunch at Trump’s Menie Estate. To be honest, I think we raised more hell than moolah, but in any event, I took immediately to twitter (lazy journalists will invariably print whatever is said by whoever tweets first on any story, as it saves them the bother of contacting people who might have something relevant to say – so get in first and you’ll get your name in the paper! That’s what Stephen Fry always says, anyway). So it was that in a post-Krug fug, barely able to see the phone screen, my fat fingers laden with goose fat, I announced my condemnation of the betrayal as follows:

“So, Dougie Carswell has joined UKIP, the dirty defecator!

Whoopsy. I can only blame auto-correct. And while I disapprove of his switch of allegiance, I must apologise for the suggestion that there’s something abnormal about his intestinal health. On sober reflection, good luck to him. We in the Conservative Party will weather the storm. Well, it’s not as if a potentially game-changing political event is likely to hit us full whack in the gentleman’s trophy cabinet in the next few weeks, is it?

Barclay Lloyd, a Banker you can trust.

As manager of the Mannofield branch of the Aberdeen and District Savings bank, I spend a lot of time dealing with the concerns of customers who are not, as they say, “tech savvy”, regarding online or telephone banking. I have to say that I also have concerns about online and telephone banking. They revolve mainly around whether the Bank will still have any jobs for branch managers in six months time.

Recently, a number of my customers have been called up by highly plausible individuals, claiming to represent the bank, asking for account details, personal information and PIN numbers. Let us be absolutely clear. These people are scammers; fraudsters intent only on emptying your account. They have no connection to this bank whatsoever. We would never phone and ask you for your PIN number or identifying information. Rest assured, when we want to take money off you, we do it by selling you vastly overpriced and wholly unnecessary payment protection insurance.

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

I was sickened to the very pit of my stomach this week fan I seen Jim Murphy getting egged files he wiz oot on the campaign trail. I wiz roond at my pal Mick the Pill’s, making fizzy watter with a knocked-off soda stream so he could refill empty Perrier bottles and sell them at his newsagent’s (I could tell ye fit een it is, but then I wid hiv to kill ye) fan I seen the footage. I wiz disgusted. I jist couldna believe fit I wiz seeing. In Scotland of aa places.

Eggs retail for as much as £2.30 for six and, if eked oot properly with aim-brand mayo, a single large egg can be used in year bairn’s sandwich for three days on the spin. Fit wye wid somebody be feel enough to waste something as valuable as that on a politician? Nah, nah. Booing is certainly yer maist cost effective form of political protest. Breathing in air and exhaling it forcefully is still free. For the moment, onywye.

‘The Ice-Bucket Challenge’; or, as the C.I.A. used to call it, ‘waterboarding’

Jonathan M Lewis, local headteacher

The start of the new term is always the highlight of any teacher’s summer. I personally enjoy nothing more than the sight of pupils and colleagues alike, shuffling in through our hallowed doors, pretending they are not delighted to be back to rejoin the quest for knowledge. And so it saddens me that this otherwise joyous time has been darkened by unfounded allegations of incompetence and negligence on my part.

First of all, Garioch Academy is not ‘a warzone’ and our student population are not ‘completely out of control’ as implied by some of the many phone calls I have received recently. Yes, Mr Reid, our new media studies teacher, did indicate to a parent at the school gates that it was “like ‘Dawn of the Planet of the Apes'” but this was a reference to our technologically advanced teaching materials, akin to the CGI work in that summer block-buster; not, as some have wilfully misinterpreted it, to liken the teachers to a band of embattled human survivors who are at the mercy of fearsome, rampaging simian creatures whose eyes burn with a terrifying intelligence. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Staff members are not being ‘hunted down’ by marauding groups of young people. These silly scare stories seem to have come about because the pupils have been enthusiastically pursuing their latest charitable cause, and who would be so mean spirited as to criticise them for that? The fun all started when three of our sixth year boys nominated Mr Taylor from Geography to take part in the ‘Ice Bucket Challenge’. He was reluctant at first, and in the spirit of the thing he pretended to ‘put up a fight!’ but a very significant number of pupils very quickly showed impressive community spirit and good citizenship by helping him to fulfil his fundraising obligations.

I’m no social media expert, but the video footage of Mr Taylor hooded and gaffa-taped to his chair being drenched in bucket after bucket of ice cold water certainly caused me to ‘ROFL’. And what an inspiration! The young people have since nominated all the remaining teachers, and those who haven’t already will be taking up the challenge just as soon as the barricaded staffroom door gives way. Meanwhile, the hospital tells me Mr Taylor’s pleurisy is clearing up nicely, and I’m sure that he’ll be delighted to discover that his efforts have raised the princely sum of £5, when he eventually regains consciousness

Doddie Esslemont, leader of the campaign for independence from Scotland of 39G Seaton Drive

There has been a great deal of talk in the papers this week about Scotland’s oil. How much is left? Will more be found? How will we cope when it has all been used

These are important questions, but they are hardly specific to Scotland. We (by which I mean, I) in the People’s Democratic Republic of 39G Seaton Drive, also face the difficulties associated with a dwindling supply of oil. How much is left? About half a chip-pan full. Will more be found? It is hard to say. We can be confident that there is not any new oil to be found at the front of the press, although there are areas towards the rear that remain comparatively under-explored.   How will we cope when it has all been used? This is the hardest question of all. At the moment it is a toss-up between re-cycling it by trying to strain it through an old sock, or switching to margarine.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports reporter who goes in studs up

You could have knocked me down with a tether this week when I seen a message from Sir Ian Botham pop up in my twitter feed. To tell the truth, I never really followed his sporting career too close, because I’m not really a croquet fan, but I is a great admirer of all the work what he has did for charity. In that reflect, we have a lot in common, what with him doing all that charity walks, and me with the sponsored hot-dog eating contents I used to run in Enforcer’s winebar. One year I had 25 and Melody got in touch with the Guinness Book of Records, but regretfully, my frankfurters was not regulation.

So I was chuffed to get a photo message from Beefy, but when I opens it up and seen what it was I nearly lost my breakfast out my nose. My mate Dunter Duncan messaged we straight after, saying “At least Beefy still getting a bit of shape through the air, and there doesn’t seem to be any trouble with his googlies!” “LOL”, I says, which is what I sometimes always put when someone texts me a joke what I do not understand. I says it recently to Makly McKay. I’m just really hoping that one doesn’t come back to haunch me.

Anyroad, Sir Ian says it wasn’t him what put the photo up and it was the work of a hacker. I don’t know about you but that just doesn’t sound right to me. I was a total hacker for the whole of my football career, but I never stuck no pictures on the Internet of croquet players in the buff!

Those crazy guys from the O.E.D are totes adorbs! Whatever that means.

Tanya Souter, Local Lifestyle guru

I dinna ken aboot yous, but I hiv ayewis thought of masel as something of a trailblazer. Ye gets fowk fit follow fashion and ye gets fowk fit mak fashion and I’m definitely een of the latter. I am nae kint as the Vivienne Westwood of Walker Road for nithing, ye ken. In fact, I’m confident that the current trend for metallic fabrics his come aboot efter yon nicht I couldnae find a clean top to wear and fashioned a boob tube oot of bacofoil. It wisnae comfy, but it did dae a rare job of keeping my kebab warm on the wye hame.

But I’m nae jist spikkin aboot claes, I’ve often been complimented on my innovative use of language. Weel noo, The Oxford English Dictionary is starting tae catch up with some of the lingo me and ma pals use AA the time, and they’ve pit a hale host of new words in their online version. The boffins at the dictionary offices apparently keep an eye on foo mony times words is used in things like facebook and twitter so’s they can stay doon with the kids. that’s fit wye words like ‘YOLO’, ‘adorbs’ and ‘side-boob’ are noo considered perfect English. It’s good to ken the wye I spik is considered proper. You may find it hard to believe, but I never done that good in English lessons at school, so I’m delighted tae ken my grammar is noo recognised as a right one. I tell ye, I’ve a good mind tae march right up tae my aul English teacher, Mr Biggart and get him tae “unfail” aa my fourth year essays! (‘Unfail’ isnae in yet, by the way, so get using it!) Who knows, if I show a little side-boob, I might even get a D! They dictionary folk did get een of my little phrases wrang, though, fan they said that ‘hot-mess’ wis someb’dy fa wiz still gorgeous even fan they’re blootered. Ab’dy kens that ‘hot-mess’ is fit ye get fan ye leave yer kids’ spaghetti hoops ower lang in the microwave.

Some trends tak a bittie langer tae catch on, though. I’m sure ye’d aa agree that the names folk give their kids hiv become much mair original ower the last few years, an I consider masel a pioneer in that area an’aa. In my day, the primary schools of the North-East wis full of Michaels, Christophers, Jennifers and Karens. But noo, thanks to the trail I blazed with my 3, Jayden, Kenzie and wee Beyonce-Shanice, fowk hiv hid the courage tae be creative; like spelling a normal name as if ye’ve got a rubbish hand at Scrabble, naming yer bairn efter a character fae yer favourite film, or just choosing something that sounds really exotic. The rest of the UK hisnae quite cottoned on yet because they jist released the 100 maist popular babynames fae last year, and they wis aa the usual boring guff. But I reckon next year the new wave of names will sweep the nation. So move ower Colin & Lisa, Oliver & Emma, mak wye fer Kawlyn & Lleesah, Optimus Prime, and Ebola!

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

OMG! Talk about dreamboat central! I’m just back from meeting one of my closest pals for a coffee in a smashing wee spot on the South Deeside Road. It’s got a lovely wee café and I think there’s a little golf course and driving range and the like around the back, but I don’t know what it’s called. Anyway, who should walk in whilst I’m chowing down on my skinny blueberry muffin but golf hunk Paul Lawrie! What are the odds of him being there?! Totes remote, I know! Talk about random. But I will say this, I’ve always had a soft spot for men with an air of authority and he was strutting about like he owned the place. Wowsers!

Me and Paul go way back. I first met him at Carnoustie in 1999 when he was playing for the Claret Jug and I was doing some spokes-model work as the face of Keiller’s Dundee Cake. He was magnificent, coming from 10 shots behind to win the open. He’s still a good looking man 15 years down the line, so when me and my pal saw him in the car park when we left I couldn’t resist giving a little shout of “Phwoar!”. I’m not sure what came over him but he dropped to the floor and covered his head! Crazy.com!

I’ve always kept this quiet but I played a pivotal role in Mr Lawrie’s great Open win. On the last day, just before the play-off began, he and the other two lads, Justin Lee-Collins and Jean Valjean, came through the hospitality tent, and he took a massive peice of my cake. It was so big it almost toppled off his plate as he was discussing something with his caddy. ‘You’ll need to be a wee bit more careful of your slice, Paul’ I said to him. ‘Do you think?’ He replied ‘I’ll try standing a little nearer the ball then’.

Wise words, from a great man.

Unlike Salmond, Celtic have a ‘plan b’. It’s called the rule book.

David “Futret” McKechnie, Aberdeen’s premier petty criminal

Alec Salmond has taen some flak this wik for supposedly nae hivin a ‘plan B’ on the currency. I ken foo he feels. One day, me and Cheesey McLaughlin wiz suffering fae a short-term liquidity problem, on account of having blown all wir Job-seeker’s Allowance in Ladbrokes on a three-legged nag. I suggested we resolve the problem by popping into the local corner-shop wi stockings ower wir heeds and demanding the contents of the till wi menaces. “Haud on though Futret”, says Cheesey, “Fit’ll we dae if the wifie ahin the counter dizna gie us it?” “We d’a need to worry aboot that”, says I. “No sensible corner-shop wifie wid pit up a struggle in those circumstances. It would clearly be both in her, and oor best interests for her to simply hand over the readies”. So in we goes, each teeting oot through a pair of 20 denier Pretty Pollys and screaming to the effect that if she wid kindly place the money in the bag provided, the already overworked doctors and nurses of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary’s A&E department wid enjoy a quieter evening. There wiz a pause. Time stood still. We looked at her and she looked at us. Then she clocked me and Cheesey wi a box o’ coo candy and sat on us til the Bobbies arrived. “Hoy, Futret”, says Cheesey as we wiz getting carted aff, “fit wiz a this aboot nae needing a back-up plan?” “Cheesey” I says, “there’s nae legislating for the illogical actions of ithers”.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands’s most eligible bachelor

There’s nae a lot that Alex Salmond and I hae in common. Een of us is an imposing, charismatic figure, fa tends tae get fit he wints by sheer force of personality; the ither is Alex Salmond. So, maybe the only one thing we dae hiv in common is that neither of us hiz ony a need for a ‘Plan B’.

When it comes to chatting up the ladies in Soul Bar, Jimmy only ever needs plan A. My dashing good looks and top drawer chat is guaranteed to secure a ‘Yes’ vote in the referendum of love. And unlike big Eck, Jimmy hiz niver, iver been publicly embarrassed by a wee darling.

Tim Bee, the conscientious objector

I didn’t watch the referendum debate last week. I object to the replacement of Coronation Street with yet another instalment of pointless wittering about matters of no importance.

Instead, I watched the excellent ‘Secret Histories’ TV programme about Fittie, and, as someone with a burning passion for matters of local interest, the following day I decided to venture there myself. Hence I made my way to the bus station where I was directed to the appropriate stand and informed that the service to Fittie would be clearly marked. Well, four hours passed and no such bus departed. I must object in the strongest terms to First Bus failing to provide transportation to this area of historic importance, particularly in light of its recent appearance on The Television. But, other than the apparently incessant services to ‘Footdee’ departing every few minutes, there were none. Disgraceful.

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner – the sports columnist who gets a bye into the play-offs.

What a contraverbial week in football. It looked bleak for the Scottish teams in Europe with Celtic, St Johnstone and my old club, the Dons all tasting the butter taste of defeat, until Celtic got throwed a lifeboat after Legia Warsaw made a giraffe with their paperwork.

It was heartening to see Pittodrie packed to the funnels on Thursday for the second leg of the Europa Cup qualifier against Real Sociopath. “What an Atmosphere!” as Russ Abbot once famously sunged. It’s a shame the dandies got stuffed 3-2 but they certainly did not disgrace theirselves against the Spaniels. I really enjoyed the match, all apart from the wee kid behind me who had gotten hold of one of them Voulez-vous and kept parping it in my lug. I’m all for a bit of a buzz at a football ground but yon tooteroo was getting my goat. I was able to retrain myself though. I waited til his dad went to the bogs then I yanked it off the little nyaff. Kenny’s still got it.

I’m not sure about Celtic’s new gaffer Ronny Delilah, but he’ll never have a luckier week in the Parkhead hot tub. They was gubbed by Legia Warsaw but Uefa reckons the poles fielded an inelegant player and now the Hoops is reinstigated in the Champions League. Now, as regulation readers will know I’ve never not claimed to be no expert on of the rules of football, but I think that is a crock. The boy only played for 3 minutes when the tie was dead and buried, but the beaks have wielded the axe.

I’m not sure what that Polish player’s name is, and I certainly can’t pronounce it, but I have a lot of entropy for him. It’s not often you see a footballer totally ruin an important fixture for his team after spending only 3 minutes on the pitch. Not since I retired, anyway.

These are meant to be the ‘Friendly Games’. Did nobody tell Usain?

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

Well, this morning I feel like the famous Lossiemouth hairdressing salon “Curl up and Dye”. I’ve got a crushing hangover after a 4 day jolly watching the Dons in San Sebastián last Thursday on the invitation of a couple of Aberdeenshire oil barons (very kind of them, hope there’s something I can do for them one day!) then to Glasgow for the Commie games. That seems to be a total misnomer, though. I saw no sign at all of Russia, China nor those funny little North Koreans.

The trip to Spain was dashed good fun, though it was a blinking pfaff getting to San Sebastián. If I hadn’t been able to write off the £500 plane fare as a legitimate parliamentary expense, I might not have bothered, but once there it was great to see our boys getting thrashed two-nil. Can’t wait for the away leg.

But to the point – I really must apologise for an incendiary tweet I sent on Friday.

“I see from the headlines today that Gaza is under attack again. My heart goes out. He was a great player, but so many troubles off the field.”

Boy, Super Dave was livid. Apparently, the Geordie ex-footballer was not the subject of the story, it’s another broohahah in the Middle East, and my remark was considered ‘insensitive’.

Apologies all round, no-intention to offend etc. Though no-one seemed to notice that particular faux-pas thanks largely to Usain Bolt telling the Times what he thought of the Friendly Games. Usain denies using the word (starts with ‘sh’ and rhymes ‘unfit’), and obviously it’s a disaster on the PR front, but fair play to the Fastest Man on Earth, Glasgow is ghastly, isn’t it?

 

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, ordinary mum

There are times in any ordinary mum’s life where she must put her deep-seated principles to one side for the sake of her children. Last week saw just such an occasion in the Smythe-Barratt household with our ill-fated trip to the Commonwealth games.

I made my moral stance crystal clear to the children. The Commonwealth is a throwback to the British Empire, a global effort to oppress, enslave and corrupt poorer nations. These games represent Britain’s continued clandestine domination of other cultures. Emmeline and Fidel listened attentively to my message but the lure of artistic gymnastics and the pole vault was just too great.

So off we set for Glasgow. Now with the Games being held in the UK, one would expect the organisation and infrastructure to be second to none. Well, let me tell you from bitter experience, nothing could be further from the truth! it was like the third world. First of all, the roads were a total nightmare. I put Hampden park in the Range Rover’s SatNav but as we drew closer we came upon several road closures and a plethora of police. When advised to “turn right in 30 metres” I just went for it (traffic cones are no match for my bull bars) only to be halted by some power-mad puppet of the system. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. When I told him, he looked at me as though I had 2 heads. “Not up here you’re not. You can park over there and get a shuttle bus”. A bus?! This is 2014!

A stand-off developed, and I only backed down because Fidel became impatient and began kicking the back of my seat (his polite way of asking mummy to hurry up). Once we had arrived at the stadium (where there was plenty of room for the car, I might add) we had to negotiate the maze of security. I mean I’m all for safe events, but shouldn’t they have a fast-track queue for us ordinary, non-terrorists? When we finally got to the scanners we came across yet another fascist figure. Apparently Emmeline’s laser pen and Fidel’s air pistol were ‘prohibited’ items and were removed. And they call this a free country!

Other ordinary mums can imagine the scene. 2 grumpy kids and I eventually found our seats (allocated to us, another reminder of the Commonwealth’s history of subjugation) only for Emmeline to announce that she was hungry. I headed to the catering stalls, in search of hummus, alfalfa sprouts and tahini paste or a spot of tofu. Needless to say my search was fruitless. Pies, burgers, fish and chips abounded, of course, but not a fair-trade option in sight!

Things got worse when the relays started. Fidel’s a huge Usain Bolt fan and when he saw him warming up, the little tyke was off. Ipad clutched in one little hand, Digital SLR camera in the other, he bounded down the steps and vaulted the gate heading for the running track. It nearly brought tears to my eyes! Then when a burly security guard rugby-tackled him I was in floods. Maternal instincts are difficult to fight against, and so, it turns out, are four police officers.

The rest is Something of a blur. I can only hope they sort their roads out in time for my next trip to Glasgow in a couple of weeks. Does anyone know the postcode for the Sheriff Court?

Never mind the Tunnocks, here’s the Commonwealth Games

J Fergus Lamont – Arts critic and author of “Free at the Dee’ – Northsound Radio, A Marxist Perspective”

I was in Glasgow on Wednesday to see a radical new interpretation of Anthony Burgess’s dystopian novel ‘A Clockwork Orange’. Not a remake of Kubrick’s classic motion-picture, nor a stage version, but an experimaental, situationist, abstraction of the piece in the form of an underground railway. Simultaneously fascinatinating and disturbing, it captures the horror and chaos of being surrounded by delinquent youth more evocatively than any production I have ever seen, and I include the Singing Kettle’s harrowing ‘Fantastic Funfair’.

Later, having disembarked, I was taking an evening stroll when I stumbled upon a theatrical Tour de force at an open-air amphitheatre known as Celtic Park. You won’t have heard of it, it received little, if any, publicity, but the Commonwealth Games Opening Ceremony was a profound meditation on what it means to be Scottish. The large-scale spectacle was leant an air of intimacy by taking place in a vast, virtually empty space, which was of course a metaphor for the Highland clearances; and what invention to feature a mature lady enthusiastically getting the words wrong to a popular song – exemplifying Scotland’s favourite national pastime, drunken karaoke. But the coupe de grace was the inclusion of ‘the Dance of the Tunnocks tea-cakes’, a searing satire on the dichotomy between our projected collective joie de vivre and our national struggle with heart disease and type-2 diabetes.

I wept.

Shelley Shingles – Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

OMG! My readers might not understand how a woman with as many showbiz pals as me can get star struck, but did you see Rod Stewart last week?! Totes dreamboat, even at his age! He was strutting his stuff at Celtic Park as part of the Commonwealth Games Opening Ceremony. Some folk say his voice isn’t what it was, but can you honsetly remember a time when he didn’t sound like he was recovering from tonsilitis?

Me and Rod go way back. I first met him in 1975. We were very close at that time because he was singing with The Faces at the Capitol and I was in the front row. Now I’m not the kind to kiss and tell but Rod was clearly smitten with me, so much so that he pleaded with me to join him back at his digs! “Stay with me” he yelled, as the band played behind him.. “Stay with me”. If he said it once he must have said it a dozen times! Our paths didn’t intertwine again until 2011 when Rod played Pittodrie. Needless to say, we were just as close as we’d been 35 years before, give or take 20 feet and a line of security guys.. When that gravel-voiced crooner came near me I thought I’d chance my arm. “Do you think I’m sexy?” I asked. “Sorry love,” he said, ‘I don’t do requests”.

Wise words, from a true gent.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports columist with tickets for the Ping-Pong.

I’ve been really enjoying the Olympics, though it doesn’t seem like four years since the last ones. The Scots have been on fire in the pool, which is the safest place for that, what with there being all that water there to put it out. Though, I was right confused When I heard that our own Hannah Miley had swept to gold. I was sure the curling season was finished. Apparently Hannah’s dad, got caught in the queue and nearly missed her proudest moment. I could totally emphasise with that, the same thing happened to me when I went to watch my loon Zander play in Champion Street: by the time I got back from the bogs, we was 2 minutes into the game, and he’d already got his jotters for halfing the other team’s best player.

I loved how Ross Murdoch couldn’t believe he’d won gold in the breaststroke. The last time I seen a look of total disbelief like that was when I watched ‘the Crying Game’ with Dunter Duncan. Then Dan Wallace come through and won the 400m individual Melody. He’s some boy, Dan. Teeth like a shark and he cuts through the water like one as well. Mind you, he didn’t half give the water a splash at the end. Gold Medal or not, carrying on like yon would have got him the bum’s rush from the Bon Accord Baths.

Meanwhile, in proper sport, I’ve been well impressed by the Dons’ fermentable progress in the Europa League qualifiers. After dispatching the Latvians they was paired with Groningen from Holland. I must admit old Kenny thought that he heard the writing on the wall when the first leg finished 0-0. But below and behold, in the return fissure, McInnes’s men go 2 up early doors. The Neverlanders did get one back but the Dandies was always on crude control. Their reward is a home and away affair against Spanish superstars Real Sociopath. I don’t know much about them, but I certainly hope there won’t be no Flamingo dancing on the streets of Real next Thursday!

 

Coats and jumpers out, shorts and t-shirts in. How’s that for a summer cabinet reshuffle?

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

Crikey, what a week that was for the Conservative Party, the whole cabinet gets a makeover but yet again I am overlooked for a front bench position. I raised that with my local Party Chairman and he said ‘Don’t be silly, Struan, there aren’t any MSP’s in the cabinet’. Exactly! I’m just the chap to be the first. That’s the problem with the Tories, sometimes they can be a bit conservative.

So…Gove, eh? Out on his ear from Education. That’ll teach him to try and teach teachers how to teach. Heard he got locked in the lavatory on his first day on the job as Chief Whip. Labour’s Angela Eagle, said he “managed to get stuck in the toilet in the wrong lobby and very nearly broke his own whip”. Well, I’ve no idea what he was up to, but he was in there a jolly long time. As it happens, I once got stuck in a toilet cubicle when I was in the third form at Gordonstoun. Well, I say ‘stuck’, what I mean is ‘imprisoned’. I was locked in a cubicle by the school bully, Damian “The Wedgie-Master” Debrett. I’ve had a fear of enclosed spaces ever since, as well as a strong aversion to Neutrodol.

The Daily Mail were rightly lambasted this week for their coverage of the new cabinet appointments, showing more interest in the appearance of our new female Ministers than in their political achievements. Super Dave was furious. He thinks The Mail have debased the whole equality agenda with their sexist witterings. He’s right of course, that kind of lazy, cheap, male chavinism clearly belong to Yesterday. Which, funnily enough, is when I sent this tweet –

“Tory Cabinet reshuffle. Out with the middle-aged men, in with the Totty! Woof! My kind of party!”

Jonathan M Lewis, Headteacher at Garioch Academy

Let me begin by stressing that I am still firmly ‘in post’. Pay no heed to the vicious rumour that my recent 2-day meeting behind closed doors in a dark room with the Education Scotland Inspectors was in some way a disciplinary matter, relating to gross misconduct. The powers that be were simply interested in the thought process behind one of my recent strategic decisions. As always, my reputation as a risk-taking educational visionary precedes me.

I’m referring to the letter sent out to the parents of S1 pupils who had not attained the required standards in literacy and numeracy. It is a challenge for we educators to convey unhappy truths to parents effectively, but with sensitivity. The sickly-sweet letter from Borrowford Primary School in England which went ‘viral’ last week demonstrates that it is all too easy to err on the side of the saccharine.

I maintain that tough love is best. I could have sent a letter saying “never mind about your results, you can dance and sing and hurl sloggies in the toilets to Olympic standards” but stating the facts clearly and simply is kinder in the long term. I will concede that my opening sentence “Your child’s profound inadequacies bring shame upon us all” may have been upsetting to some, but complacency is the enemy of progress. I also stand by my closing remark: “In conclusion, you are the parent’s of a failing child, I trust you will do whatever is necessary to improve there performance.” Though I accept that the appearance of a comma splice, a misuse of the apostrophe and an incorrect homonym in a letter about pupils’ literacy was sub-optimal.

As it happens, a handful of parents found my approach too honest and, as a direct result of my letter, have withdrawn their children from the school with immediate effect. Consequently our percentages have crept right back up again. As I pointed out to the Education Scotland Inspectors, you can’t argue with results!

Professor Hector Schlenk, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions, like “what is the geological age of the Earth?”, “I’m going on holiday to California, how likely is a major earthquake along the San Andreas fault?”, and “Would you like salad and sauce with that?”

Recently, people have been asking me what I think about UKube, to which I reply that it’s still absolutely my go-to website for videos of cute kittens doing the funniest things. Then I laugh so hard that I feel a slight pain in my left temple and get a little giddy. But they are, of course, referring to UKube-1, the Scottish nano-satellite that was successfully launched last week, raising hopes that we may yet see Scotland embark upon manned space flight and send Chick Young to the moon, whether he wants to go or not.

UKube-1 is a marvellous feat of engineering which manages to fit six payloads into a rectangular structure little bigger than a shoe-box. Its manufacturers hope to mass-produce the clever little things and sell them a cost of around £200,000 each. By my calculations, it would take a mere 37.4 UKubes to carry all of the Scottish Commonwealth Games uniforms into space. Even in these times of austerity and funding crises I am sure we can all agree that would be money well spent.

Pre- referendum, division is rife. Only a miracle could unite the Scottish people now.

Did you see the Commonwealth Games outfits?

View From the Midden – rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter JOCK ALEXANDER

Weel michty, it’s been a sartorial wik in the village. Noo we’ve aa seen the outraged internet comments fit flooded twitterbook and myface efter the Commonwealth Games strip wiz unveiled. Some were moved tae say that the eye-searing combination of electric blue and sharny broon were nae in keeping wi the talent and dignity of fa’ever it is that diz the Commonwealth Games. Some fowk thought it wiz a joke, others said they made oor glorious athletes look like the duncers fae the White Heather Club as hosted by Salvador Dali. I thought that wis harsh. Fit they minded me on was the stewardesses on the North Sea ferry I took tae Lerwick in 1976.

But fit fowk dinna realise is that the hale thing is a ruse, cooked up by the Team Scotland sports psychologists tae gee up the athletes. They’re creating a siege mentality within their ranks, tae mak the Scottish team mair unified and resilient tae negative ootcomes. So it’ll just be watter aff a deuk’s back fan they dinna win ony medals.

It’s a shame that ab’dy seems tae be itching tae hae a go at the peer quine fa wiz in the press named as the designer, ‘cos it wiznae her fault at aa. Think aboot it, wid an internationally renowned textiles designer with a first class degree fae Glasgow School of Art really hiv come up with yon? Nah nah, we here in the village hiv kept the secret, allowing the real designer tae keep her anonymity. Because that is the preferred state of Meikle Wartle’s artist-in-residence, Feel Moira (bearing in mind the arrest warrant that is still ootstanding efter that business with the mechanical digger and the Asda at Huntly. Her ‘residence’ is, of course, usually at the end of the bar in the village pub, far she comes up with her grun-breaking designs, inspired by a continual supply of nettle and tattie ale, her lumbago pills, and her constant battle with congenital colour-blindness.

But it is with these meagre gifts that she produces such memorable designs as we have seen unveiled this wik. The Commonwealth Games ootfits were created to reflect the colour schemes of Scotland’s rural heartland. In particular, seeing a coo with a bad case of Bloat on a sunny day. In fairness, this wis Moira’s second shottie at this particular commission. The original version of her design hid, for rustic authenticity, a coating of fresh mineer. It wis certainly a distctinctive look, and it fairly made yer een watter. Though nae sae much as the final version. Cheerio!

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER, the sports columnist who had Ecuador in the sweeper.

It’s been a jaw-locking week in the world of sport and there was nothing what locked my jaw more than watching host nation Brazil capillerate against Germany in the World Cup semi. The Germans displayed their usual toothless efficiency and stuck 5 past the Braziliantines before the half an hour mark was even up on the clock. When I seen the final score, I had to do a double-date. 7-1 isn’t a football score, it’s the odds on a decent gee-gee. Mental!

Brazil is famous for having technically gifted players, like Pele, Ronaldo, and his wee brother, Ronaldinho, but they has always had a bit of a deputation for being shaky at the back. I was watching the game with my pal Basher Greig  – no mean kicker of a centre-forward his-self, in his playing days – and he says to me, he says “I’ve not seen a defence so full of holes since you was on trial for torching your wine bar!”

You know me though readers, Kenny is not a hat-trick pony. I’ve also been keeping an eye on all the other sports this week, too. As you know, I’ve never been the greatest fan of the smack of feather on pillow, but there was a shock at Trent Bridge at the weekend when England took on India in the croquet. Apparently England broke the world record for the 10th wicket with a stand of 198. I have no idea what any of that means, but I do know that I seen a bloke dressed as She-Ra, Princess of Power in the crowd, so watching it on Sky Sports when there wasn’t no football on wasn’t a total loss.

It’s been a great week over at Royal Aberdeen for the golf, but it was a second half of the week of two halfs for Rory McIlroy. On Thursday he wooed the crowds with a course record 64 only to be brung down to earth next day with a 78. That’s par for the course with Rory – no pundit intended. One moment them golf bats is like putty in his hands, the next it’s like he’s playing with toy clubs. Still, it must be hard golfing in front of all them crowds and TV cameras watching. I know I wouldn’t like it, you’d have to count all your shots!

 

The tragic tale of the Torry Coo

J Fergus Lamont, Arts critic and author of ‘Lord of the Chat: A post-Brechtian analysis of the Art Sutter Show’

This week, an impromptu tragedy was played out in the natural amphitheatre of Aberdeen Harbour.  Quite by chance, I was in the area, having had been sent by this august journal to review a quaint and bijou bistro in Aberdeen’s glittering Merchant Quarter.  (It is called “Sizzlers”; you may not have heard of it – 4 stars, refreshingly unpretentious and the ‘Hawaiian’ burger is an unexpectedly fruity delight.) There was I, exchanging pleasantries with the Maître D’ when I heard the shout which brought me hotfoot and pell-mell to witness a happening to rival anything that occurred in Haight-Ashbury during the Summer of Love.

The story of the Turra Coo, which recently celebrated its centenary, is one of victory for the common man over a domineering government.  The story of the Torry Coo would have no such happy ending.

One cow, a bovine Che Guevara, refusing to be subjugated by authority, escaped whilst being herded onto a ferry, and leapt into the harbour.  How many of us, this holiday season, will not contemplate doing the same?  As events unfolded, it became plain to me that his cow had had a moment of transcendental understanding. She had realised that, while she might be revered by the Hindu culture; here, she is nothing more than a conveniently mobile source of milk and meat.  In a flash, like the Beatles in ‘67, she had decided to reject our Western ways, and resolved to swim to enlightenment in an ashram in the East.

As this epiphany struck, I Seized ahold of the harbour railing, and cried, “A yogi!  She seeks a yogi!”

“We hinna got a yoghurt”, came the rather tetchy reply.

And then they shot her.

Apparently, she had become distressed.  AS SHOULD WE ALL, when we contemplate the paucity of man’s stewardship of the natural world.

I finished my ‘Sizzlers’ burger and milkshake, and wept.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands Most Eligible Bachelor

So, there I wiz, walking doon Clifton Road, delivering the post as per usual for a Friday morning, listening tae Martin Ingram on Original 106, fan he says that the 4^th of July wiz Independence Day! I thocht the Referendum wiznae ‘til September. So, eager nae tae miss the chunce tae fill my democratic boots, I runs the rest of my round and gets mysel doon tae the polling station, my auld primary, Kittybrewster School. I wiz shocked by fit I seen.

I ken Salmond reduced the voting age but this wiz ridiculous. There wis kids there less than ten year auld.

Fan I got tae the door I wiz challenged by a bonny wee teacher asking fit I wis needing, and fit een of the wee darlings wiz my kid. As if!!! We hid a right giggle – and nae just because she minded me that I hid eence pulled her in Babylon then niver phoned her efter, but also because I hid made an Epic Fail. Turns oot the 4^th o’ July wiz actually Independence Day for the USA.  I felt even dafter for nae kenning the USA wiz seeking tae become independent themselves. But weel daen tae the Yanks. High time!

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner, the sports columnist who has no comment to make in relation to match-fixing allegations.

I was at Pittodrie last Thursday to catch my old club the Dons sticking some Latvian outfit in the Europa League.  The Dandies played them other boys off the park on the way to a 5-0 win; they was hopeless and talk about dirty tictacs!  As you know, in my playing days I was never a shrinking violin when it come to the rough stuff, but some of the challenges even made my teeth curl. Because of unusual betting pattrens, there has been a suggestion that the game might have been fixed. It’s not alleged that anyone in Aberdeen was involved though. And quite right, nobody who follows Aberdeen Football Club would ever put a bet on the Dons to win 5-0.

I could not believe my ears on Saturday when I seen that the Tour de France started in Yorkshire.  Are they allowed to do that?  Next they’ll be playing the British Open golf in Ireland! Last time I checked Yorkshire wasn’t nowhere near France, but I was never any great shakes at Geometry.  The finish in the bicycling was end of the seat stuff.  It looked like Mark Cavendish was going to lace up the win until he fell off and dislocated his shoulder.  My loon Zander loves his bike, but he used to fall off heaps until I found a sure fire way to prevent it. I put his stabilisers back on.

I was gutted to see Andy Murray get knocked out of Wimbledon.  He tried his best to defend the title but came up short against a young whappersnipper from Bulgaria.  It’s hard as a sportsman when some wee nyaff shows you up.  It used to happen to me a lot towards the end of my football career but I don’t think Andy could use the same strategy to deal with his disappointment as what I done. You can’t really get away with halfing someone on a tennis court.

 

 

Who says the council aren’t crowd pleasers? On Broad Street they’re bringing the House down.

J Fergus Lamont – Arts Critic and author of “Sarah Mack – Lust for Glory”

This week, at Aberdeen’s Broad Street, a mesmerising piece of performance art unfolds at a stately pace. Daily, the daring agit-prop artists’ collective known as “Safedem”, expose new perspectives on the city as, in the style of Foucault, they ‘deconstruct’ St Nicholas House. A broken sliver of concrete and glass stands, doomed but proud, atop the rubble, with Provost Skene’s House in muted counterpoint. It is sculpture; it is song; it is a paean to the dance we dance following the Pied Piper of progress and renewal. It is a perfect symbol of our disposable age, and the knowledge that this building is to be replaced by another, largely identical construction fashioned from concrete, glass and steel provides a deliciously comic lesson in futility.  I was moved, both by the scene and the digger driver, who colourfully threatened to run me over if I didn’t get out of his way.

Also in Aberdeen this week a pod of dolphins erupted in joyful colour onto our streets. You may have seen them outside the Arts Centre, or on the Castlegate, although not, ironically, outside the Dolphin chipper, who may have missed a trick, there.

My personal favourite is at the harbour. Mute, quizzical, studded with pebbles that speak of the sea, and bejewelled with a mosaic of mirrors that reflect back one’s own image, distorted, changed, in reminder of the transformative power of art. So deeply impressed was I that I could barely tear myself away. Even after I drove off I was compelled to return, and when I left for a second time, again I felt the need to drive back and consider afresh this inspirational cetacean. A third time I left, and a third time I returned. At which point, I was arrested for kerb-crawling.

I wept.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands’ most eligible bachelor.

I hiv had some great nights at The Marcliffe ower the years. My second cousin’s wedding, with a hipflask in my sporran. A fitba fundraiser with Georgie Best as the headliner. Yon night I got friendly with an American lady ower fae Houston for a conference, fa took me back tae Pitfodels and showed me her accommodation. ‘How do you like your eggs in the morning, Sugar?” she says to me. ‘Scrambled’ I says, ‘and sitting next tae twa rashers of bacon, a sausage, grilled tomato, mushrooms and a wee slice of black pudding.’

So I wiz sad tae hear that The Marcliffe is being sold and even mair sadder tae hear it’s going tae be knocked doon and converted intae luxury hooses. The developer – naen ither than F-bomb dropping AFC Chairman Stewartie Milne – is building a swanky housing development because “there is a shortfall in terms of high-end executive housing in the Aberdeen area”.

Eh?

Noo, I am nae a hugely successful hotelier. I am nae a hugely successful property developer. I am merely hugely successful with the ladies. But… am I mental, or is this nae jist aboot the only kind of development Aiberdeen disnae need?

Local property prices are a’ready through the roof. By ‘local’ I mean, in the nice bits of toon. Property prices here in Sandilands remain – much like mony of the residents – depressed. Fit wye div we need anither dose of multi-million pound hooses on the North Deeside road fan we hiv an infrastructure that maks Spaghetti Junction look like a masterpiece of urban planning and a city centre that’s been on the slide since Bruce Forsyth was a loon?

Dinna tell me we hiv a “shortfall” in massive mansions only millionaires can afford. Come on boys. Get a grip. There’s fifteen thousand folk waiting on a council hoose in Aiberdeen, and getting onto the property ladder here is harder than the bouncer’s stare at chucking-oot time at The Broadsword.

And that, (besides the fact she maks a cracking Lasagne and disnae charge me ony rent) is fit wye this thirty-eight year old love guru, still bides at hame with his ma.

Cava Kenny Cordiner – the football columnist who’s box to box for the full ninety.

Aloha!  Kenny here with my latest update from the World Cup in Brazil. The football has been gooder than ever, but there is not no doubt what topic has been domineering the back pages.  I’m talking of course about Euro-Guy’s cereal biter, Luis Suarez.  If you ask me it’s a storm in a tea-bag.  So the lad’s sunk his gnashers into an opponent’s shoulder like an angry futret, but like I always sometimes say, it is a man’s game and when you enter the field of play the goalie gloves is off. Personably, I feels sorrow for Suarez.  I realise that might raise a few highbrows, but I see a lot of myself in the lad.  Like him, I have also been called a “Torcher Genius”.  Him for his great skills but dodgy behavior, and me on account of that business with the fire at my wine bar and the big insurance pay out.

Meanwhile, England had a stinker and flew back home with their legs between their tails.  The glory days of 1966 seem longer ago after every World Cup.  Never mind, no matter how far back it is, I’m sure that whenever England is playing, we’ll get to hear about it all over again.

Until next time, adidas!