See You Jimmy!  Flying the Flag for Scotland, and threatening to knock someone’s block off.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the pundit who kicks back!

I’ve been glued to the telly every evening this week.  Serves me right for not washing my hands after helping Zander with his school sculpture project, I suppose – the leaning tower of Pizza, made out of bog roll tubes.

Luckily, while I’ve been glued to the telly it has been on, and this World Cup is turning into a truly momentous tournament!  We is being treated to a very table feast of football in the carnivore atmosphere of Brazil.

The biggest shocker has been raining champions Spain getting knocked out after only 2 games.  Oh how the mighty have felled.  They looked a shadow puppet of theirselves.  The last time I seen such a bad performance against Chile was when I swapped Alex McLeish’s usual korma for a vindaloo at the 1980 end of season curry night.  The face was red but the language wasblue!  All the punnets was saying that the Spaniel’s didn’t have a Plan B.  I’ve never seen that singer boy play football and I didn’t know he was from Spain but my motto is if you is good enough you is Spanish enough.

France is beginning to look omnivorous after a 5-2 demolition of the Switz.  If they’d scored any more their opponents would have needed to see if they had an abacus on their Army Knives!  What I couldn’t understand was that even when taking a thumping like that, they didn’t start flying in studs up.  Anyone can lose 5 goals, but for all 11 to stay on the park while it’s happening?  They should be ashamed of theirselves.

But there’s no question that the biggest talking points has come from group D.  I was routing for wonderdogs Costco Rica when they stuck Italy on Friday.  Not because they would knock out England if they won, but also to restore some Scottish pride.  Sure enough they done it and they’ve allowed every Scotsman to cast their mind back to Italia 90 in Genoa when they beat us 1-0.  Doesn’t look like such a bad result now, does it?

And of course there his been a lot talk about that boy with the Jimmy hat wearing the Scotland away kit celebrating with all them Euro Guy fans!   Melody says to me, she says “That’s the closest any Scotland fan’s going to get to the World Cup for 50 years!”  I have to say though, I thought him that was shocking.  That away top’s bowff, he should definitely have worn the home strip.

England getting booted out after 2 games will be a sore one for Roy’s boys, who will be as sick as a carrot.  Still, every cloud has a silver bullet.  They can now tell them themselves that they is just as good as Spain!

Struan Metcalfe MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

It’s been quite a week for gaffes from me and my fellow politicos!  Tony Blair’s pronouncements on Iraq show he has clearly been taking lessons in cause and effect from a naughty toddler. “Just because I am standing here with chocolate all over my face, and just because there is a large face-shaped hole in that chocolate cake proves nothing” never cut any ice with my nanny, Tony!  And poorly judged tweets have been flying around like champagne flutes and chairs at a particularly lively session of the Bullingdon!

Labour’s pledge to give everyone a free owl made the world of Twitter ooh (I’m sorry, I had to!) and led me to tweet the following from the hospitality tent at Ascot (Ladies’ day, natch.  Ding dong!).  I must admit, I’d had a couple of sherries.  And a jeroboam of fizz.

“Labour promises everyone a free owl LOL!  Still, no dafter than their other policies, like staying in Europe and not privatising the NHS!”

The whips’ office was on to me to delete it within 20 seconds of it appearing, which was a new p.b. for them, so congrats for that.  They were v unhappy with your humble correspondent, though, and Super Dave also far from pleasedville as it is possible to get without getting your feet wet.  Turns out Europe a bit of a sore point just now, (I’d missed that – oopsie!) and our plans for the NHS supposed to be a secret!!!

Well, I’d not been this deep in the soup since I accidentally stepped in a tureen at Gordonstoun when trying to lace Podger Palmerstone’s dinner with laxative.  I thought this time it really could be curtains – until Michael Fabricant stepped into the fray with a playful josh along the lines of wanting to punch a female Guardian journalist in the throat.  Good old Fabbers!  Well, what with him having the political nous of Sally Bercow and the hair of – well, Sally Bercow, actually, he drew the heat away from me beautifully!  Case of Bolly for that man!

All which leaves only the question of a suitable apology for my misplaced quip.  And I am honestly say that I am every bit as sorry for this as I am for the last thing I did that I had to issue an apology for.

Pip pip!

“It wis a tragedy: I could niver get my cuddly ex to go the full Salmond”

Tanya Souter, Lifestyle Advice with a local flavour

Research wiz published this week saying that there his been a huge increase in overweight men. Fit is to say, mair mannies than iver is obese, nae that mannies fa wiz previously a bittie over weight hiv noo gone the full Salmond. My ain research – carried oot mainly in Club Tropicana and the queue for the Dolphin chipper – comes to the same conclusion.

The study, fae researchers at Aiberdeen, Stirling & Bournemouth, his also established that mannies who actually try to eat less are mair successful at losing weight than mannies who dinna. Ken ‘is? It niver ceases to amaze me fit those clever boffins manage to come up with. They’ve also found that if men wint to shift the pounds, menu planners and aa that guff arenae the answer, but support groups are good, and the eens attached to fitba clubs dae particularly well. Louping up and doon and singing “Peter Pawlett baby” for 90 minutes uses up a surprising amount of calories, especially if ye mak sure you’re 3 flights o stairs away fae the pie stall.

They also found that humour is a good wye for mannies to beat the bulge. They’re right aboot that an aa. My ex, Tommy, wiz a larger gent. Fan we wiz thegither I cried him ‘cuddly’, and I used humour to incentivise him to lose weight. We hid a laugh. I wiz awyse telling him I winted him to be mair stud-muffin than muffin-top. I’d grab ahaud of his gut, gie it a wobble and ask “do ye wint ice cream with that jeely”? And fan we wis in bed I used to him if there wis onything he winted me tae dae for him, like describe fit his feet looked like, seeing as he hadn’t seen them for years! We used to cry with laughter. I did the laughing and he did the crying. And it worked, ‘cause sure enough, efter months of keeping in at him, there wiz a sudden and dramatic weight loss. All eighteen stone of him, fan he dumped me and moved in with Big Sonya.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

The World Cup – a festival of football – should be a time for comradeship and joy for all. But not for the perpetual malcontents who continually slander the good work of this administration. This week I have received a number of sleekit, catty emails pointing out the lack of civic events marking the competition. Why no fan parks at the beach, they ask, or big screens in Union Terrace Gardens?

How little they know of Aberdeen. Each city marks these events after its own fashion. Let other, flashier, municipalities celebrate with fireworks and razzmatazz, let the brash and ostentations metropolises hold carnivals and samba parades, and let Aberdeen stick to what it does best – marking major events by producing an eclectic selection of limited edition World Cup themed sausages. What could possibly tell the world more clearly of our cosmopolitan outlook than the availability of a vodka, emmental, chocolate or coffee flavoured sausage? Sour cream advisory with the Mexican pork and jalapeno ones. Ayah beastie.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football columnist who’s wall chart gets filled in after every game.

Hoopla! Your raving reporter Cava Kenny here, bringing you the first of my World Cup digestives this week from the place where all the action is. The flash-henrys on the telly is reporting from Copa Cabana beach so I’m at the next best thing. Colpy Caravan Park. Melody says to me, she says, “Kenny, you’re not watching all the matches on our telly, I’ll miss Corrie and Big Brother!” so I’m installed in her mum’s 2 berth Vanmaster for the duration.

The tournament got off to a standing start with Brazil triumvirate over the Creations. Then on Friday night we had the moth-watering prospect of Spain v Holland, which was the teams what was in the final last time. When the Spaniels went ahead off of a penalty, I says to myself, I says “For the Dutch, this must be like hound-dog day!“ But I could not have been more wronger. The Never Neverlanders tore Spain apart in a tarantulising display of pace and power. 5-1 it finished, which is also the odds I got on Saturday when I lumped on Holland to win the tournament at the bookies in Turriff.

Of course, I was also watching England’s group very closely. What a surprise the Euroguys got when they got turned over by the plucky little Costa Reekers! Like me, they probably never even knew that Coffee shops get to play in the Cuppa Del Monte. I felt sorrow for England though; they gave it a good go against Italy but came up short. What a shame for their physio what broke his ankle in the piley-on after the England goal! It’s not often you see a member of the coaching staff get injured during a game. Not since I retired, anyway!

 

Obama’s views on the referendum weren’t entirely welcome. Well, what do Americans know about Independence?

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

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve had to say sorry to my family, my constituents, the Conservative Party as a whole and even Super Dave himself for a social media faux pas, but this time I’ve really surpassed myself. I find I must unreservedly apologise to US President, Barrack Obama.

Suffice to say I deeply regret Tweeting the following:

“Obama says we probably shouldn’t. Salmond says “yes we can”. Who is the man on Banff High Street to believe? Both of them are capable of droning us into oblivion!”.

Apparently, my inadvertently implying that the Leader of the Free World has a penchant for executing his enemies by remote control might put a spanner in the works of the Sepcial Relationship. You will note that I also suggested Alex Salmond is a bit of a windbag, but the lawyers at Central Office think we’re on safe enough ground there.

In my defence, it was a metaphor (I think it’s a metaphor, never did pay too much attention in Wet-Patch Withers English class) for current voter apathy. I can totally relate to that, btw – I forgot to vote in the European elections myself after a chance encounter with Barney Crockett turned into a tremendous all day bender. Boy-oh-boy, does he have a tale to tell!

But let me be clear, in no way did I mean to devalue the President’s intervention into the Scottish Independence debate. Mr Obama showed erudition, balance and most importantly, insight, when he declared the decision was ultimately “up to the people of Scotchland”.

As it happens, I’ve got my own Special Relationship with Obama – or ‘Brac’ as I call him. We met at the G8 in Paris in 2011. I was part of Super Dave’s entourage and there was a bit of a sesh on the eve of the Summit. Turns out Obes likes a cheeky Vimto or 3 and we struck up an unlikely alliance that night discussing everything from US foreign policy in the Middle East to why their chocolate smells a bit like sick, whilst Angela Merkel – on the wrong side of 3 Vodka tonics – knocked out “99 Red Balloons” on the Baby Grand. He left me at 4am, putting his arm around my shoulders, jokingly poking his index finger into my chest and saying in that warm, powerful and charismatic way of his, “I like you Struan, you’re not as up-tight as I figured you’d be from your emails.” “But I’ve never sent you any emails.” I said. Then he just winked at me. What a guy.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, the 13^th Earl of Kinmuck

So Bernard Jordan, the 90 year old veteran who slunk off to Normandy without telling anyone where he was going, is being held up as a shining example of the indomitable spirit of the bulldog generation. What utter piffle. Going awol, leaving those responsible for his wellbeing worried sick, then dodging off to the continent in order to lark around on a beach and chat up a girl band? He’s just the world’s oldest teenager. The fellow should be clapped in irons, not feted as a hero.

I speak as someone who knows a thing or two about military matters. My father, the 12^th Earl, led a battalion at D-Day. I say “led”; he stayed behind in Dover. He would have loved to have gone, but his drinks cooler was mains operated, so it was quite impossible. Still, he overcame his disappointment by despatching a regular supply of carrier pigeons across the channel with inspirational messages like “Carry on, chaps”, “shoot anything carrying a knockwurst” and “go for the chuckies, that’ll drop them.” Providing his men a series of morale-boosting fillips, as well as a regular supply of unrationed protein. Churchill himself described his methods as “unique” before withdrawing his commission “to save him from harm.” Or perhaps it was “to stop him doing any more harm”. Can’t recall. But suffice it to say that if we’d had a few more like Papa, and a few less like Bernard so-called bally Jordan, the war would have been over a dam sight quicker.

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner – the sports writer who needs to work on his backhand .

With the World Cup just around the corner I’ve been keeping my eye on some of the other sporting eventuals that have been in the news. I was roofing for Andy Murray over at the French Open but he got teached a lesson by Nadal in the semi. Now I’m no horticologist, but the groundsmen over at Roland Argos is not a patch on them at Wimbledon. I’ve never seen grass look so brown. Shocking.

Since he parted company with Ivan Lentil, Andy Murray has been on the outlook for a new coach. He has disposed with tradition and gone for a female coach in Amelia Mesmera. I’m guessing her first task will be to get Andy to work on his grunting. When I hear some of them tennisers heaving and roaring I can’t help but think that Andy could be making more noise. They don’t call it a racket sport for nothing!

 

What’s so exciting about a self-drive car from Google? Mitchell’s were doing them years ago.

PROFESSOR HECTOR SCHLENK, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science.

As a scientist, I often find myself exploring important questions like, does your chewing gum lose its flavour on the bed-post overnight? Is the desire to punch Justin Bieber innate, or learned behaviour? And why don’t nice girls dig a guy in safety glasses? Most recently, however, people have been asking me about vehicles which are Autonomous. To which I reply that they are the goodies, the Decepticons are the baddies, and my favourite is Optimus Prime. Then I laugh, uproariously, in a way that I am told is “A little bit psycho.”

There is no doubt, though, that the driverless car represents as great a leap forward in transportation as the wheel, the steam engine or the Sinclair C5. A car that drives itself! Just think of the possibilities that this opens up for human development, assuming, of course, that we don’t have to continually turn it off and then on again to restore its link to the Internet.

In a robot car, all of the mental effort previously used to keep a vehicle on the road and not colliding with things can be devoted to other pursuits. This would allow the erstwhile driver to be freed up to engage in other in-car activities, such as eating, mooning other road users and playing a full role in family bickering sessions. It will also lead to the end of the phenomenon of the “designated driver”; removing, at a stroke, one of the few socially acceptable reasons for not taking a drink and thus leading, inevitably, to increased levels of alcohol use.

Isn’t scientific progress marvellous?

J. FERGUS LAMONT, Arts critic and author of ‘Angus the Bull – The Wilderness Years’

Connoisseurs of the arts, such as myself, are oft to be found on the hunt for something fresh and innovative. In these days of cultural homogenization one struggles to find a performance or installation that deviates even slightly from the norm.

But on Friday evening I set out to soak up the sights and sounds of the city, and what sights and sounds they were!  As I neared Holburn Junction, a street-theatre troupe alighted from the Number 23 bus and proceeded to stage an impromptu production both thought-provoking and inspiring.

They entered, onto Albyn place, bedecked in two piece costumes of man-made fabric, decorated with stripes and swooshes, evoking the potential of the individual, but counterpointed with trousers tucked into their socks lending them an air of the comical naïf. A sense of mystery was created by simple but effective props; blue plastic bags containing unidentifiable liquids.  Then the performance commenced.  The liquid was imbibed swiftly and liberally, in a clear nod to humankind’s unquenchable thirst for meaning.  And then, symbolic of how easily we can become sickened by our consumer society, the actors promptly vomited the liquid all about them.  Bravo!  How I adore visceral theatre!

When, finally, the vomiting ceased, the troupe headed forthwith to the entryway to one of Aberdeen’s popular nightspots, doubtless with a mind to performing for a larger crowd. However, the doorman denied them ingress, presumably believing that the subtlety of this particular brand of theatre would be wasted on the philistines within. Sadly, he may have been correct.

One of the players, in homage to the famous Chicago ‘Bang Bang’ theatre group, bravely attempted to include the audience in the piece, asking questions such as ‘Fits yer problem, min?’ and “Are ye winting a hiding?” Regrettably, his efforts were in vain.  Aberdeen audiences are depressingly unwilling to engage. I alone stepped forward. “Fit are ye looking at?” he enquired of me, ‘The finest piece of spontaneous street-theatre I have ever witnessed’, I said. And then he took his bow; a bow so swift and forceful that his forehead broke my spectacles.

I wept.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with MTV (Meiklewartle Television) presenter JOCK ALEXANDER.

It’s been a futuristic wikend in the village. Sat oot in the pub’s packed Beer Gairden – or ‘Roof’, as it is itherwise kent. Auld Ned, widely considered the village technology whizz, on account of his ownership of baith a DAB radio and a Soda Stream, wiz saying that boffins in the far-aff metropolis of Dundee have invented a tractor beam. I couldnae see fit the fuss wiz aboot, my tractor his twa beams fit I switch on faniver it gets dark. Then he explained that fit they’d invented wiz the sort of tractor beam that they hiv in Star Trek. ‘It will’, he said, ‘enable them tae attract fowk tae Dundee’.

Like mony fowk in this pairt of the world, I firmly believe that we can dae onything Dundee can dae, so I resolved tae create a tractor beam of my ain.

Weel, efter a hot efterneen doon in the intimmers of my Massey Ferguson all I’d managed tae create was a strong feeling that I should hiv uncoupled the trailer full of mineer afore I stairted my experiments. I didnae manage tae attract onything but flys, but with a sharny fug clinging tae my dungers, I did successfully repel ab’dy else out of the Beer Garden, so I could get back up there and enjoy the remainder of my wikend in peace. Cheerio!

 

Poor old Putin; you annexe one neighbour and people start comparing you to Hitler.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, 13^th Earl of Kinmuck

Some are saying that Prince Charles has disgraced himself by comparing Putin to Hitler and thus demonstrated that he is not fit to be King.  Prime balderdash encrusted with truffled piffle and served with a side-order of buttered humbug.  What the chattering classes forget is that the aristocracy marches to the beat of a different drum.  Sitting through endless state banquets and continually saying “What do you do?” gives a fellow a different cast of mind, and he starts to court controversy as a means of giving some kind of meaning to the day.  And anyway – what is royalty for, if not to needlessly tweak the nose of the mighty Russian bear?

Of course, we Kinmucks have long enjoyed good relations with Monarchs named Charles.  The Third Earl was a bosom buddy of Charles I, in fact, it was he who encouraged him to stand up to Cromwell, on the basis that he was a low-born, plooky, oaf and anyway, what was the worst thing that could happen?  That approach didn’t go so well for old Chazza, as it turned out, but relations between the King and the Kinmucks were restored by the Fourth Earl, who used to go out roistering with Charles II.  With this in mind, I have recently been reaching out to the Prince of Wales, reminding him of the old familial link and offering my counsel on affairs of state.

I’ve given him some advice on how to deal with Putin when they meet up in Normandy next month.  I’ve told him –‘Don’t flim-flam or shilly shally about. Go straight up to him, extend the hand of friendship, then draw it away at the last moment, and flick him an internationally recognised rude gesture. I’m sure that all loyal subjects will agree that this is the way to go. Particularly those who, like me, have a significant shareholding in the munitions industry.

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner – the football pundit who can go no further with the resources at his disposal.

It’s been another tipsy-turkey week in football with one manager handing in their notice boards, another one getting in a fight and a Welshman scoring in the Champions league final. It just goes to show that you can’t not make it up.

I couldn’t believe my ears when I seen the news the other day that the Dons’ first tie in next season’s Europa league will be on the 3^rd of July! That’s a mental date to start a football season! Call me old fashioned, but all footballers should be a stone overweight, sunning themselves on a beach on the Costco Brava until the first of August. Some of my managers used to leave me on the bench until September. They must of thought I still had jet leg.

Gareth Bale nodded one in for Real Madrid against Athletico Madrid to win the Champion’s League on Saturday. So it was commiserations to the Athleticans, and they was dancing in the streets of Real. With their two top teams contesting the final, it looks like anyone who fancy’s a flutter on the winner of this years’ World Cup could do worse than put a few quid on the Spaniels.

Also this week Ex Man United gaffer David Moyes got himself into a bit of a hot water bottle. He was questioned by the cops after a bit of a squirmish outside a wine bar. Apparently some Herbert was hurlting abuse about his sacking and Moyesy lost it.  I find my royalties is divided with this story. As a former footballer I would never have allowed some wee nyaff to give me gyp with impurity, but as a former wine bar owner, I can guarantee that no violent behavior was never condoled at ‘Enforcers’.

The big news of course is Neil Lennon hanging up his shell suit at Celtic. He was always a contraverbial figure during his time in charge, was Neil.  He had a long running vienetta with the referees and had an alteration on the touch line with that Hearts fan. In the media, speculum is rife about who will be his successor with Henrik Larsson the bookie’s favourite. I think it’s risky for playing legends to return to a club as a manager. They always run the risk of varnishing their image. That is why, if the Pittodrie hot tub ever becomes available, you won’t never catch me throwing my ring in the hat!

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands most eligible bachelor

Frankie ‘ten chins’ Ivers wis telling me this week that the oil company he works for is opening up their new premises in Dundee. And some of their competitors is moving fae the Granite City tae places like Forres, Bathgate and even Newcastle. He wis saying it’s because they’ve been through aa the recruitment agencies and suchlike and discovered that Aiberdeen his a serious lack of talent.

 I ken we are nae the biggest city in the world but that canna be right, surely? I cant help thinking these folk are looking in the wrang place. Faniver I’m in Amicus Apple on a Friday it’s absolutely hoaching wi talent!

 

Len returns to the wrestling ring, but Barney suffers the Technical Knockout.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

This has been a bruising week to be an Aberdeen political heavyweight, and I’m not just speaking about Len Ironside’s appearance at The Beach Ballroom. The dunts Len took grappling with his opponent may be painful just now, but the ones Barney Crockett suffered at the hands of his colleagues will take the longer to heal. Poor Barney. He is not the first politician to find that the comrade who seemed to be clapping him warmly on the back was actually clutching a dagger.

Barney’s time in office has been marked by some notable achievements. Stalling the development of Union Terrace Gardens; the pulling down of a modernist nightmare of glass and steel and approving the erection of something entirely different, which will have the added benefit of closing off traffic on one of the city’s main North-to South thoroughfares and – most important of all – some epic spats with Alec Salmond. He will, of course be disappointed to leave prematurely. There was still much to be achieved. I am sure he would have dearly loved to resolve the Haudagin situation and to get through a whole day without baring his teeth at someone from the SNP. But he should not be downhearted. He has accomplished more in politics than has ever previously been achieved by someone who sounds like either a character in the Flintstones or a friendly purple dinosaur. No mean feat at all.

The removal of Barney Crocket as Leader of Aberdeen City Council represents the greatest setback for a politician in the North-East of Scotland since Michael Gove failed his Cycling Proficiency test at Kittybrewster Primary. We asked some of our regular contributors for their reaction to the news:

Archie Fraser, Gentleman of the Road – As someone who spends an unusually large portion of my day walking the streets of Aberdeen; seeking out un-emptied wheelie bins for an alfresco luncheon, or a commodious skip in which to catch 40 winks, I have first hand experience of the discord which has lately underscored civic life. The new leader of the Council has an opportunity to bring harmony back to the Town. That’s why their first act should be a ban on anyone playing guitars, accordions or, crucially, bagpipes in the City Centre without also holding a Grade 6 certificate from the Royal College of Music

Jock Alexander Mtv (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter – With a power vacuum in Aiberdeen City, some folk believe the time is right for a radical shake-up. So fanFeel Moira left the village on Tuesday, after announcing she wiz ‘Gaan tae mount a Coup’, I winzae aa that surprised. However, fan Tam Wilson’s prize Charolais turned up in the village square on Setterday, startled, skittish, but itherwise unharmed, we realized that Moira’s ambitions mebe werena political efter aa.

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands Most Eligible Bachelor – I’ll be honest, I niver kent Barney Crocket wis leader of Aiberdeen Cooncil. I ayewis thocht he wiz King of the Wild Frontier. Ye ken? The Broch.

Struan Metcalfe, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North & Surrounding Nether Regions – What would I do if I were leader of Aberdeen City Council? That’s easy. I’d kill myself! ROFL!

PC Bobby Constable, community policeman (retired).

There wis shocking scenes this week with a full-scale riot taking place at the new HMP Grampian in Peterheid. I awyse said that the move to a so-called “Super-Prison’ would cause problems, but of course, the powers that be didna listen. They wid sooner listen to some spotty wee nyaff of a Penologist with a PhD, a great heap of data and a passionate interest in re-integrating offenders into the community than pay ony heed to a grizzled veteran of a thousand cracks ower the heid wi an extendable baton like me. Say fit you like about HMP Craiginches, but there were very few incidents of serious disorder there. Because, when a jail has a thriving black market in heavy-duty sedatives and nithing in it worth breaking, you find that prisoners just canna be bothered to trash the place. Another thing that contributes a lot to the likelihood of prison riots is overcrowding. Squeeze them in fower tae a cell and they dinna hae room to swing a chair. Leave folks unbefuddled and gie them en-suite lavvies and the idea that they might be human being with rights and a that sort of caper and yer jist asking for trouble. It took them a fair bit o time to get ahud o the riot, and a. I jist wish my old sergeant, Dunter Duncan, ,hid still been around. Dunter wiz a 20-stone colossus fa cut his teeth – and smashed abody else’s – in the Gorbals. He didna haud back. I mind eence, it kicked aff in the holding cells at Queen Street and him and me hid to ging to sort it oot. Dunter grabbed the person closest to him, pit him in strungle-hold, and shouted that he wid keep squeezing the life oot of him until the riot stopped. They aa calmed doon straight way and went back to their cells, quiet as lambs. Which wiz a great relief, cos I wiz jist awa tae pass oot.

 

17th place at Eurovision for the U.K.? Fair enough, we weren’t the Wurst.

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

It hiz been an international wikend in the village. On Setterday nicht, a’bdy got thegither in Skittery Wullie’s Byre to watch the Eurovision Song Contest. We crackit open Shaky Tam’s vegetable wine, (or the Beetroot nouveau, as he likes to cry it), and settled doon ameen the nowt. A sleeping Aberdeen Angus maks a surprisingly comfy, if flatulent, footstool. I ken fit you’re thinking – fit aboot the smell? Well let me tell ye, the cows didna seem to mind it of aa.

Fit an amazing spectacle it wiz; flashing lights, smoke, and high-pitched screching. And eence we untangled Feel Moira fae the electric fence, we got to watching Eurovision, and losh, it wiz nearly as enertaining. I hid a lot of sympathy for the twa Russian quinies, fa not only hid to suffer some ill-nat’erd booing, but hid somehow managed to get their hair tangled thegither. If only Sheepie Henderson hid been there in Copenhagen, with his shears, he’d hiv freed them in nae time. Interestingly, the Polish entry divided the company alang the lines of sex. Folk fa like it thought they were magic. Although we were aa agreed that yon quine wizna ga’an to get much butter churned working the plunger like yon. There wiz a lot of support in the room for the British candidate, Molly Smitten-Downes, fa we thought wiz under marked. Mebbe she’d hiv got on better if she didna hae a surname that sounds like a disease of the udder.

But of course the surprise of the night wiz the runaway success of Conchita Wurst, the Austrian quine fa won the hale thing. Fit a performance she gave. I’ve nae seen onything so heart-felt and convincing since Tam tried to persuade the Sheriff nae to ban him for drink driving. Conchita’s victory wiz a triumph for bearded wifies awye. It left Feel Moira with tears streaming doon her face, not all of which could be attributed to the Byre’s methane-rich atmosphere. In a spontaneous display of unity and fellow feeling, we hoisted Feel Moira in the air. Which proved to be a mistake, cos she wiz still carrying a positive charge efter yon business with the electric fence. Athegither, an explosive night’s entertainment. Cheerio!

CAVA KENNY CORDINER, the footballer columnists’ football columnist.

I have had a week full of blitz and glamour this week, what has seen me barging shoulders with some real big wigs, not to mention Stewartie Milne. Not only was I at the AECC on Thursday for the Dons’ player of the year dinner, but I also got invited out of my comfy zone to Mannofield on Friday for the One Day International.

The AFC do was a most suspicious occasion. I’ve been at more dinners than I’ve had hot dinners, but this year’s event had a special atmosphere seeing as the Dandies has had such a magic season. Needles to say, there was all sorts of awards being handed out. Jonny Hayes got Goal of the Season, Mark Reynolds was the fans’ Player of the Year but I think the specialist prize of the night went to Peter Pawlett, who was named Players’ Players’ Player of the Year.

There is all sorts of players in football, but you can only be one of them. You can be a fans’ player; a manager’s player, or best of all – a players’ player. Of course, back in my extinguished playing career, I was sometimes always all of them. Down at Brechin I was a fans’ player, because they loved seeing someone who wore his sleeve on his heart. At Locos I was a players’ player because after every home game I used to take the whole team back to my cocktail bar, Enforcers, for a lock-in. But in my glory days at the Dons I was a manager’s player, because Fergie relied on me to lift the team. ‘Cordiner’, he would scream, cheerfully, his chuddy going mental: ‘I can always tell when you’re on the pitch – the other ten lads all have to raise their game’.

As regulation readers will know, football is very much my matinee, so it was an aftershock to the system when I went to Mannofield on Friday to watch Scotland stick England at croquet. I’ve never understood the game, to be honest. All these silly-leg-ons, yorkies and made-in-dovers is way over my head, and some of the guys in the corpulent hospitality suite was taking the mickey out of me; but after six solid hours in the beer tent waiting for the rain to stop, it all started to make sense.

Eventually the skies cleared and they was able to get the ball rolling, but because there was not much time left, England won using the Duck-faced Selfie method. I says to my companions I says, “If only Scotland had thought of that and done it first, they’d have wiped the floor with them!” They didn’t have no answer to that.

Why on earth was Jeremy Clarkson reciting ‘Eeny-meeny’? That is schoolboy stuff.

Entertainment News with Shelley Shingles, Miss Fetteresso 1985

OMG! Bad times for all the single ladies out there. Totes dreamboat George Clooney has gone and gotten engaged! I’m delighted for him, obvs, but I don’t understand why he chose a 37 year old Oxford educated human-rights lawyer when Khloe Kardashian is still single. He could have had his pick from the bevy of beauties in the biz, myself included! I had a lot in common with Georgie’s previous squeeze, Stacey Keibler. She was an underwear model and former wrestler, just like me. Her in Maxim and the WWE, me in Kay’s Catalogue and a paddling pool full of Angel Delight that one time at Flicks of Brechin.
Still, there was some good news for us bachelorettes this week with the revelation that Prince Harry is back on the market. Apparently him and Cressida have split up after a row about an air fare. I know what that’s like. My relationship wih Robin Galloway never recovered from his failure to pay my bus home from Balnagask when we went for a smooch at the Torry battery. While I’m soz for Harry, it does mean we’re not going to face the prospect of a Princess named after the green bits in an egg sandwich, and it’s game on again for anyone who fancies a bit of royal ginger. I’m already honing my strip billiard skills. Who’d have thought that the fact that there’s a pool hall next to Private Eyes would make Aberdeen’s Chapel Street the ideal location for a debutantes’ finishing school?
Another man in his 50s that hit the headlines is Jeremy Clarkson. He’s in hot water over footage of him reciting “Eeny meeny miney moe”. Jeremy looked very contrite in his video apology, explaining how he hadn’t done anything wrong. He made it clear how he had used a word that sounds exactly like the ‘N’ word but wasn’t intended to sound like the ‘N’ word. So that’s alright. And wasn’t it great to see James May and Richard Hammond coming out and supporting their pal in his hour of need? It goes to show the camaraderie and friendship you can build while you’re establishing a multi-million pound entertainment franchise. It is a tricky issue though. All the rhymes we used said as kids to choose who was “it” have swear words, racist terms or domestic violence in. I don’t know about you, but I think the whole thing raises some really big questions. Most importantly, what was Jeremy playing at? Kiss-chase, British Bulldogs or high-dellys?

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

It is with deep regret that I unreservedly offer this week’s apology. Mine comes in a week where one might have expected more apologies from other senior politicians, but, sadly it is only Struan Metcalfe who puts his best foot forward having just taken it out of his mouth. I very sorry for my tweet of Thursday which went thusly:

“So Chairmen Alex says he admires Russian Prez. Putin? Misquoted! Meant to say he Admires Russian Pres. puttin’ the boot into his neighbours! Role model for big Eck? Arf”.

I should make it perfectly clear that there is nothing funny about the Ukrainian crisis. And there are no similarities between that and the Scottish independence debate. In no way is Salmond a belligerent despot, greedy for power. I’m sure it’s just the biscuits. There is also nothing faintly amusing about Putin or indeed any other brutal megalomaniac, such as Genghis Khan, Idi Amin or Adolf Hitler. They were not good blokes who took a bit of rough and tumble too far (like Edward “The Nut Cracker” Cadwallader, my contemporary at Gourdonstoun and the inventor of Shower Wrestling. The smell of Vosene still makes me naseous).

Speaking of vomit inducing stuff, my old pal Nige Farage has had some bother with a few of his party faithful this week. They’ve been foolish enough to tweet what they really think! Pretty dreadful stuff IMHO. Nigel’s reaction was to describe UKIP as having “some idiots”. Cripes, talk about stating the obvious. But, i being an idiot never disqualified anyone from politics.That’s what my guidance teacher used to say to me, anyway.

Kevin Cash, money saving expert and king of the grips.

Power cuts is a right pain, eh? Resetting aa yer clocks and watching telly by candle light? Still, the potential for spurious compensation claims provides a silver lining so lucrative it’s almost enough to mak me wish I didn’t get my electricity by tapping into my doonstairs neighbour’s supply. It’s amazing the wye that naebody’s power iver fails fan their fridge freezer is empty, ken fit I mean? Still, you’ve to be careful. A few years ago, my pal, Mick the Pill, had a power outtage and claimed fan aa the cannabis plunts he wiz growing under artificial light died. 6 months in the Torry Hilton did save him big style in bed and board, but he only gied it one star on Trip Advisor, so it wiz poor value overall.

A ‘Lifestyle Quiz’ to get a mortgage? It’s as if the banks think lending people more than they can afford might crash the economy!

 

Kevin Cash, money saving expert and king of the grips

The banks is noo asking a load of nosey questions aboot yer spending habits afore ye get a mortgage. So, if ye’re needing tae persuade a high street bunk that you’re a safe bet for a massive loan, here is a few tips on foo to cut back on some of life’s little luxuries, so you can tell them fit they wint tae hear.

 Nights oot -Why waste good money on blasting music and flashing lights in nightclubs?  Jist set yer ipod to max, unscrew your lightbulbs a half-turn, grab a 12 pack of Kestrel and shout incomprehensible nithings to your other half in the comfort of yer ain hame.

Gym Membership -Ye ken ice scultpures?  Great muckle swans and sicna keigh that folk get made jist so they can watch them melt?  They are slightly less of a waste of money than gym memberships.   A good cardiovascular workout can be achieved for free in ony public park.  Simply smack a muscular dog on neb and run awa.  The snapping jaws of an enraged pit bull will get those legs pumping faster than ony funcy personal trainer

Haircuts – First, dinna worry.  This een will niver stand up. Noo that Sinead O’Connor is back in Ireland, wifies is much less likely to be baldy-heided than mannies.  It therefore stands to reason that taking the price of yer haircut intae consideration is sexual discrimination: LED, fabulous corpus, putatis potatoes, it’s bound to be struck doon by the courts. My pal, Mick the Pill, is mounting a legal challenge. There’s naebody better qualified; he’s niver missed an episode of Silks and he used to work on Frunkie Lefevre’s briefs, along wi his shirts and suits, fan he hid that Dry-cleaners on Craigie Loanings. Meanwhile, my auntie Selma will whip oot the femly pudding bowl and cut yer hair for a bottle of Costcutters’ ain strong cider.  But mind and get the haircut afore you hand it ower.  They da call her Shaky Selma for nithin.  I eence forgot that rule and ended up with a lug like Evander Holyfield’s efter fighting Mike Tyson.

Lord Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

24 April 2014.  The day when one of the last bastions of Great Britishness, the Royal Air Force, surrendered any claim to air superiority and reduced themselves to the status of airborne cinema usherettes.  Russia has the temerity to buzz us with a pair of Tupelov bombers and we do no more than fly alongside them, ask them if we can direct them to anywhere in particular and wonder if their seats are nice and comfy.  It is a national outrage.  I don’t pay taxes on the very small amount of my income that I declare so the British military can do favours for foreign servicemen.  For fifty pence in the pound on one tenth of my actual earnings I demand a decent service.  Nor am I interested in any of this nonsense about the fact that Ivan didn’t actually enter British airspace.  A mere technicality.  It looked, fleetingly, as if they might do; and if young British men in the inner cities can be shot by the police on the basis it looked, fleetingly, that they might be holding a gun, then the RAF are honour bound to adopt the same approach. It might be suggested that I am some kind of maniac who wants to precipitate global conflict. And that is absolutely right. From the time that the First Earl stuck the head on a Sassenach who was sneaking up behind Robert the Bruce and was rewarded with half of Sutherland, the Kinmucks have always prospered in war.  And there’s nothing worth watching on the telly at all, now that the Saturday Night Takeaways’s finished.  Tally ho!

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner – the Football writer who  has the full backing of the board.

I always knew that my old gaffer, Fergie, was a hard habit to follow.  David Moyes has found that out after getting his jotters from Man United this week.  The United fans cried Moyes “The Chosen One” but after this season seen them trophyless and anguishing in mid-table, they was wishing that they’d choosed someone else.  When he lost to his old club Everton last weekend the board decided fair enough was fair enough.  They told Moyes that the next thing he tore open wouldn’t be an opponent’s defence, it would be his P45.

If you ask me, Fergie needs to take his share of the blame for Moyes’ disappointing time at the helmet.  Fergie recommended him for the job personally but he left behind a squad that was a pale intonation of what it was when it was good. 

I’ve wrote before about managers getting the sack and as my regular readers will know I too have tasted the butter taste of dismissal.  When I got the axe from Locos back in the day I came personally recommended for the job by the outgoing gaffer.  When he resigned he said to the Chairman. “You’re trying to run this team into the ground!  Well I can’t be part of it.  If you really want to bury the club why not get Kenny to replace me!”  What a gent.

 

Could there be intelligent life on Kepler -186F? Well, it would make a fine change from what we’ve got on Earth.

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 ‘How do MRI scanners work?’ ‘Can carbon dating prove the age of the Turin Shroud?’ and ‘Would you like fries with that?’  But recently, people have been asking me all about extra-terrestrials.   “Well”, I advise, “Sky are doing quite a good deal at the moment.”  And then nobody laughs.  Because, empirically speaking, it’s not a very good joke.

Of course, extra-terrestrial life could exist, but as with house prices, location is everything. Astronomers have detected almost 1800 planets orbiting stars other than our own, but until recently it has been difficult to determine whether or not they were capable of supporting life.

You see, each star has something known as a “Goldilocks zone” where conditions are not too hot, not too cold, but just right for the porridge of cellular organisms to thrive.  Most of the exoplanets discovered so far have been either Daddy Bear or Mummy Bear and that prized Baby Bear discovery has eluded us.

Until, that is, the discovery of Kepler-186F.  Similar in size to the Earth and slap bang in the middle of the Goldilocks zone, it has been described as ‘Earth’s Cousin’ by people who feel need to convey important scientific discoveries in as banal a way as possible. While this is a far cry from proving the existence of extraterrestrial life, it does at least demonstrate that there are worlds out there capable of giving rise to the little green men most of us got into science to meet.

Of course, if there is a race of intelligent beings on Kepler-186F, they are observing us at a distance of 493 light years.  That means if they were watching us right now they’d be seeing the events of 1521, such as the election of a new, reforming Pope; the suppression of a revolt in Syria; and Moscow’s aggressive take-over of nearby territories.  If only they could see how things have changed!

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner and Chairman, Secretary and Chief Cook and Bottle Washer of the People’s Democratic Republic of 39G Seaton Drive Party

It is hard for me to say this, as the senior and, indeed, only figure within a rival party that supports independence, but what a successful conference the SNP had the other week.  They raised the profile of the independence campaign to new heights; hosting it in Aberdeen provided ample opportunity to make the city council look churlish; and a woman who must have very long arms even managed to reach right round Alex Salmond and give him a congratulatory bosie.

How right Alex was when he said that the independence referendum is not all about the SNP.  Yes, independence is the SNP’s reason for being and the referendum is the only legal means of achieving this aim; and yes, the referendum has arisen solely as a result of their manifesto promise in the 2011 Election.  But this referendum is for all the major political voices that support Scottish Independence: the SNP, naturally; but also my own People’s Democratic Republic of 39G Seaton Drive Party, and the Keep Flat 5/1, 16 Gryffe Street, Cathcart for people from Flat 5/1, 16 Gryffe Street, Cathcart Party – or Stevie Tawse, as he is also known.  To be honest, though, we in the movement don’t much like to talk about Stevie.  Fine enough guy and all that but in believing he can claim sovereign independence for a bed-sit in Glasgow he takes a very isolationist stance.  If I’m honest, I think he tends to make the rest of us look a little bit foolish.

Entertainment news with Shelley Shingles – Miss Feteresso 1983

I got a tip off this week from one of my secret showbiz sources (It was my cousin Stephanie. She’s a cleaner at the Airport, but she sometimes runs the Karaoke at the Malt Mill). She telt that “The Boss” himself was in the North East last week!  Initially I was well jel, because I’ve always loved Bruce Springsteen, but it turned out that she was meaning philanthropist and environmentalist Donald Trump, who was here for a swift 18 holes at his wee plot of land out by Balmedie.

Of course, me and the Donald go way back.  He never mentions what a massive influence I was on his career but I know that our first encounter was totally life changing for him.  I was modeling in New York at the time. It was during ‘Tartan Week’ 1987 and I was there as the face of McCowan’s Highland Toffee. I was dressed in a giant sweetie wrapper, and I was under strict instructions not to speak, but I wasn’t getting as much attention as the lassie from the Tunnock’s stand who was done up as a Caramel Log. So when Donny comes past my stall I just marched up and says “Coo Candy?  I’ll never forget what he said to me:

“No honey, it’s Donald. And I’m not a cook.”

Wise words, from a great man.

All of a sudden, my manager comes over, raging, and he says, “You’re fired” and I seen a wee glint in Trump’s eye.  Then, just seventeen years later “The Apprentice” is on the telly.  Just saying.