The Apache Helicopter – Da Vinci conceived it, Boeing built it and Aberdeenshire clarted it in dubs.

Or, to give it it’s original, unpublished title:

Shite Hawk Down.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with MTv (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter JOCK ALEXANDER

Weel, it’s been a surprising wik in the village, enlivened by a maist surprising visitation fae the sky. Lambing season is here, of course, so picture the scene; there I wiz, minding my ain business, up tae my oxter in a Border Leicester, fan fit should jine me in the bottom field but a fully armed Apache helicopter. I got quite a fleg, let me tell you. It’s the maist unexpected thing I’ve found in that field since yon time Skittery Wullie’s couldnae be ersed driving his Saddlebacks tae the mart and tried to get them there by catapult.  He constructed a trebuchet oot of twa fence posts and een of Feel Moira’s brassieres, and files it lacked accuracy by god it hid a fair range.

The Apache crew were nae quite so surprised as me, mind you, seeing as they’d only jist managed tae tak aff fae anither field in Maryculter far they’d been stranded fer twa days. Needless tae say they were nae best pleased at anither unscheduled stop. Apparently their engine hid conked oot because the craft wiz overladen. It is able to lift munitions and ordnance weighing up to 3 metric tonnes, but it couldnae cope with the half-dizen rowies the crew hid picked up fae the café at Storybook Glen.

I made them welcome, though, and we hid a fine blether aboot the origins and history of the name ‘Apache’. I played them my original vinyl copy of the track by ‘The Shadows’ fer a good twa hours tae cheer them up. I also gave them the benefit of my skills as a mechanic, by swapping their raxed engine for the een fae my auld Massey Ferguson 3660. It’s an obsolete model, true, but michty it wiz reliable in its day. So efter anither 3 hours of me gudding aboot in the intimmers of the copter they were ready to take off again, albeit with a reduced top airspeed of 10 mile an oor.

Then Feel Moira then turned up with her burger van, and the crew wolfed doon her special of the day. Which wiz a bit o’ a mistake. Efter they fell doon clutching their midsections and wailing ‘Ah, my guts!’, we made them comfortable, and auld Jim fae the fairm next door turned up with his nettle an neep home remedy, which fair sorted their stomachs. By emptying them oot at high velocity.

The crew were noo somewhat disorientated by aa they’d been through, so neither of them hid the strength tae object fan Feel Moira commandeered the chopper. Declaring that she “loved the smell of sharn in the morning”, she took aff with aa guns blazing and Jimmy Shand blaring oot of the spikkers, in the direction of Gask.

So if onyb’dy in that vicinity happens tae hear the faint sound of rotor blades mixed with a mid tempo Bluebell Polka coming fae oot of the sky, I’d stay indoors if I wiz you. Cheerio!

 

STRUAN METCALF, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions – An Apology

“I would like to apologise to my constituents, my party and all my fellow MPs for my behaviour as revealed by this recent parliamentary expenses investigation” that’s what former Culture Minister Maria Miller SHOULD have said In her statement to the House of Commons last week.

Now, I may not be a Cabinet Minister, I may be a mere Member of the Scottish Parliament, but I do know something about making apologies and, trust me Maria, a heartfelt and sincere ‘mea culpa’ can get you out of the most dreadful scrapes, in a way an offhand ‘Yeah? So what?’ never will. Crikey, I’ve had the whip at my back more times than a nag in the Grand National, but I’ve always managed to avoid the resignation letter (and it’s inevitable precursor, ‘the full confidence and backing of the Prime Minister’ – kiss of death. LOL!)

I have some sympathy with the circumstances behind Maria’s downfall, though.Who hasn’t submitted the odd over-claim on expenses? A copy of ‘Hares and Hounds’ and a lottery ticket when your driver is at the garage getting petrol for the ministerial Bentley. Dinner at The Ritz for that Sheikh who is managing your Middle East oil and gas interests when down on “party business” in London. A crate of Tattinger as Christmas bonus for your leggiest researcher. I mean, it’s easy to see how an accidental over-claim of £45,000 might creep up.

Of course poor Maria’s real undoing was the media witch-hunt which was obviously provoked by her recent involvement in reforms to press regulation. It’s a scandal that the honest parliamentarian can be hung out to dry by the journos for such a tiddly transgression. I mean who among us in this day and age can say that they haven’t bought and sold a property pocketing the guts of fifty grand at the taxpayers’ expense? I know I have. And so have my parents!

The Commonwealth Games organisers are going to level the playing field; along with some other bits of Glasgow.

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

As a scientist, I’m often asked questions such as ‘How does GPS location work?’ ‘What are the advantages of nuclear medicine?’ and ‘Could you do that somewhere else, please?’  But recently, people have been asking me about smog.   “Well”, I advise, “he’s a dragon and the primary antagonist in ‘The Hobbit’.”  And then we laugh.  Or at least I do. Not many of the people I meet are Tolkein fans.

Much of England suffered last week when a cloud of pollution, bulked out by sand from the Sahara desert, filled the air.  When the atmosphere is full of tiny particles it can make breathing difficult, very much like flatus under a duvet.  DEFRA advised those with respiratory conditions not to run to work during rush hour. Like those with repiratory conditions would no doubt otherwise have done. Even the Prime Minister forwent his morning jog, acknowledging that the smog in London had made it ‘unpleasant’. That must have been irritating for him, to be directly affected by the problem of air pollution. If only he was in a position to do something about it.

How fascinating, then, that the organisers of the forthcomong Commonwealth Games have decided that, during the opening ceremony, instead of the traditional fireworks display, a global audience of over a billion people will see some skyscrapers getting blown up. This may sound odd, or even spectacularly tasteless, to you and I.  Because, of course, it is. But we should remember the Games are a celebration of Glasgow, where the destruction of property has always been considered a source of entertainment.  

Naturally, the enormous cloud of dust and debris caused by the demolition of five 28-storey tower blocks will cover the city like a shroud. This will make all physical activity exhausting to even the most highly trained athlete.  Thankfully, the Scottish participants have been brought up exercising with lungs full of smoke, so they’re expected to thrive on it.

 

View from the Midden with MTv (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter Jock Alexander

It’s been an olfactory wik in the village. Fit a lot of noise we’ve heard fae the moaning minnies doon in Englandshire aboot air pollution. Apparently it’s been a bittie foggy, and folk hiv been staying indoors tae avoid it. Weel, michty, here in Meikle Wartle we canna see fit aa the fuss is aboot – it’s hard tae get excited aboot a thochtie smog fan the air is heavy wi Strathbogie Sharn!

Some days, fan the wind sweeps across the sewage works and the temperature soars tae an unseasonal high of 8 degrees centigrade, a hazy broon mist hings aboot. But we welcome it, the distinctive sharny tang of the countryside is unbeatable at keeping away unwanted pests like grey squirrels and toonsers.

True, fan the air’s particularly chewy, aa the grass in the village gings a funny colour, but there’s nae herm in it. Ab’dy in Meikle Wartle unaffected by agricultural accidents lives tae a ripe auld age – ye can hear them in the pub, happily comparing the severity of their emphysema and chewing the fat. We leave it oot fer them specially. They enjoy it fine, since they’ve lost their sense of smell and, indeed, aa their teeth.  Feel Moira also swears by an early morning stroll fan the air is at it’s thickest – she says it pits hairs on yer chest. And michty, she should ken. Cheerio!

 

Entertainment news with showbiz insider Shelly Shingles (Miss Fetteresso, 1993)

OMG!  SBF is retiring from SCD on the BBC!  In case you don’t speak twit, Sir Bruce Forsyth is retiring from Strictly Come Dancing. I’m sad for Brucie, obvs, but he’s been struggling to keep up with the demands of working 2 hours a week for a few years now. Speculation is rife amongst all my showbiz pals as to who could possibly fill his patent shoes. Anton du Beke, Vernon Kaye and Claudia Winkelpicker have all been mentioned, but Sir Bruce is a hard act to follow. He’s been in showbusiness for  over 70 years, that’s nearly half a century, and no-one nearly reads an autocue correctly quite like Brucie.

Of course, me and Sir Bruce go way back.  I first met him at the Deeside Golf Club Pro-Cel-Am in 1989. He was playing a two-ball with Ronnie Corbett and I was a spokesmodel for Cadbury’s,handing out chocolate bars on the 18^th green.  I’ll never forget what he said to me –

“Alright my love? Give us a twirl!”

Wise words from a great man. 

 

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner, the sports writer who won’t take part in a Stewards’ Enquiry.

You could have knocked me down with a fanfare when I heard my old gaffer, Fergie, has got hiself a job at Harvard Business School, teaching management techniques. It’s amazing that there is no native born Yanks what can chew chuddy and go red-faced while they points at their watch.

Anyway, having learned them very things from the feet of the master myself, I offered my services to Aberdeen College. To show them what I could do, I goes into the canteen, kicks over a tray of tea-cups and shouts at some wifies. I’ve not heard back, but I have had a visit from the Police who gave me a caution. As I says to the Bobbies, that’s not the first of those I’ve seen in my career. Not by a long shop.

Situation vacant  – Aberdeen City Council Chief Executive. Experience preferred, but nothing could prepare you for this.

 

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

The council’s adversaries have been cock-a-hoop this week, their porkish faces contorted in glee, as they work themselves into an unseemly froth about the departure of our Chief Executive, and heap invective upon the Council Leader.

We, of course, would never stoop to their kind of cheap abuse.

Our antagonists – bottom-feeders, all – note that Valerie Watts wrote a letter to Council workers, warning that the Administration’s pro-independence stance might result in public complaints.  They imagine a connection between the writing of that letter and her resignation, a couple of weeks later.  Well, we all know the kind of people we are dealing with here; the perpetually aggrieved, the delusional conspiracists. They shout ‘fire! ‘ whenever they see smoke.  Politically, they are a menace. Although it would have been handy if some of them had been out for a nocturnal jog past Jimmy Chung’s last month.

As Ms Watts made absolutely clear, she had been thinking of moving on for some time.  Indeed I do not think I am breaching any confidences when I say that throughout the whole period I have known her –the duration of the current administration – there was not a time when she has not been thinking of moving on.

Valerie leaves with our best wishes, and of course, minds now turn to the task of replacing her as Chief Executive.  What sort of person has the attributes necessary to take over the running of this fair city? Well it is clear that what we need, first and foremost, is a person – a fact which, sadly, rules out the most popular name in the suggestion box at the moment, Angus the Bull.  We need an insider; a person who knows how the Council works, and who could work hand in glove with the administration.  A skilled communicator, comfortable with the process of taking to the local media in order to disseminate the Council’s message.  Perhaps it is the kind of job that I might be well suited to myself.  You may think that, but I couldn’t possibly comment.

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

26 March 2014.  The day of the Clegg-Farage debate, and the day I finally gave up hope for the future of this country.  Of course, I knew Clegg was a write-off.  The fellow has the mien of a troubled hamster and policies so wet you could farm salmon in them.   It was plain that he wouldn’t have the spine to take the measures the country so desperately needs.  But I did hope that Farage might have the gumption to restore the monarchy to absolute power and return us to the glories of the past.  But in this I was sadly mistaken.  You don’t win back the empire by cosying up to Putin, and the man’s hatred of the EU is totally misplaced.  There is nothing wrong in having an institution that joins together 27 countries.  The problem lies in our not being in charge of it.  But this business about him maybe having a mistress is the clincher.  I won’t vote for a man who might have been involved in marital infidelity.  Long-standing Fawkes-Hunte tradition dictates that we will only support a politician with a proven record of shameless roistering.

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

 It has been a week of strained emotions in the Smythe-Barratt household and with continued transport chaos on the horizon there’s no end in sight.  The problem with these so-called “essential” roadworks is that they never seem to make any difference to the lives of us ordinary folk.

 Take that beastly industrial development out at Westhill, for instance.  For months now poor Emmeline has had to endure a sea of cones and barriers on our daily drive to the stables to feed and ride Sandinista, her thoroughbred stallion. Usually I wouldn’t mind, but I’ve learned that these roadworks are not designed to improve access to Kirkton of Skene for 4×4 users with a horsebox.  As it happens, they are solely to accommodate new business premises that will provide thousands of skilled and unskilled jobs that will boost our local economy.  Is it just me or does that seem extraordinarily selfish?

It’s not just big business that twists the arm of our local planners. Muggiemoss Road, a vital arterial route for ordinary folk like me, is currently closed for four months. Apparently, it’s for essential work to provide amenities such as sewage and drainage for a new housing development.  You’ll note that there is no mention of improving access to leisure facilities for ordinary people who live in converted steadings to the West of the City? These roadworks have made my weekly session over at Danestone with Sergio, my Portuguese personal trainer and masseuse, an absolute nightmare. He’s had to double up the Reiki just to balance my Chakras. Luckily, he’s been able to source some very powerful crystals for me to keep in the glove compartment of the Discovery. Inner peace for only £1000 a set. We shall overcome.

The Chancellor thinks you can be bought cheap, and a terrible week for Aberdeenshire sheep

Tanya Soutar, Local Lifestyle Guru

I dinna ken aboot youse, but I’m nae really a fan of politics.  Faniver I accidentally flick past QVC and catch a bit of the Parliament channel, there’s aye a load of reed faced mannies shouting and jeering at each ither. It fair minds me on Darts night at the Masada Bar. 

Fan it comes tae budget day though, I’m glued til’t.  It’s nae an easy watch, like. Especially fan yon shiny faced boy wi the little reed suitcase gets intae his stride.  Fit’s the deal with that onywye? It ayewis minds me on Paddington Bear. It’s a gye scaffie looking thing, though, is it? If there’s £200 Million available for fixing potholes, then surely there’s 15 quid for a decent new briefcase for the loon.  Onywye, aa this guff aboot income tax, pension annuities and ISAs jist maks my heid spin. So I wis jist aboot ready tae switch ower tae Countdoon fan the juicy bits got started. The best thing about a budget is working oot foo it will affect your ane day-to-day finances, and then working oot fa’s taken a bigger hit than you. This time, the big losers are fowk earning ower twa hunner thousand a year, they’re going tae be £5 a year worse aff. Shame. So here’s my run doon on fit this budget means fer us normal fowk.

First of a’, they’ve slashed the taxes fer Bingo, fit means ye’d actually be financially bappit NAE tae play it 3 nights a wik.  So that’s a good thing. 

Secondly, they’ve pit up the taxes on yon roulette machines in i’ bookies, meaning fowk that canna afford tae lose hunners on them can now do so even quicker.  That’s a bad thing. Since me an Big Sonja got banned fae aa the casinos in toon, the closest we get tae being a Bond girl these days is hingin’ aroon the Coral’s on Auchinyell Road in oor cat suits.

Lastly, they’ve taen 1p aff the price of a pint of lager.  Some fowk are moaning aboot that, saying they’d be as well nae bothering.  Weel, they hinna carried oot a detailed bit of accoonting like me.  I worked oot that fer ivry 300 pints I hae in the Foundry, I’ve saved up enough fer a free een.  That’s a pint a wik!

Like I says, I dinna really like politics. But I div like beer and Bingo, so at’s fit wye, come the Referendum, I’m voting Conservative!

View From the Midden with Mtv (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter Jock Alexander

Michty, it’s been a victorious wik in the village. Nae doot folk in the big city failed tae notice, fit wi aa the excitement following the Dons cup win, but last wik also saw a great sporting triumph oot here, wi the final of the Meikle Wartle Rules Fitba Chumpions Cup. I ken the game is nae as widely kent as the frankly inferior toonser version fit gets aa the coverage, but ab’dy here much prefers it.

It’s a tremendous sport, is Meikle Wartle rules fitba, played by ab’dy in the village, in yon affa boggy field oot by the sewage works.  It’s a heady mix of shinty, rugby and tattie rouging, which can be a thochtie on the rough side. Sliding tackles are prohibited, but players may use fists, elbows, sharp rocks and lumps of wid. The Chumpions Cup is a knockoot tournament in the truest sense of the word, and in the unlikely event that baith players are still upright and conscious at the final whistle, the winner is the een fa kicks the maist root vegetables intae the back of auld Tam’s greenhoose.

Man of the Match wiz of course Feel Moira, fa scored a bruising 23-Nil victory o’er wee Hamish, the grocer’s loon. It’s fair to say that he wis demolished in the final. As indeed wiz auld Tam’s greenhoose. And maist of the ground fleer of his hoose. Jubilant fans were so impressed wi the victory that they took tae chanting the chorus tae ‘Vienna’ by Ultravox, changing the word ‘Vienna’ tae ‘Feel Moira’ on the basis that her name has the same number of syllables as, though otherwise sounding almost completely unlike, the original line. The next thing we kent, Skittery Willie hid sterted a campaign tae get it back intae the hit parade! It’s sure tae happen, jist as soon as we get through tae Diddy David Hamilton at Radio London. For some reason he’s nae returning wir calls.

Celebrations hiv continued for days. Feel Moira got a special winner’s parade in an open-top cairtie full of pigs, which was towed by my Massie Ferguson doon the A96. You should hiv heard aa the happy motorists, beeping their horns in support. Then we hid the fire works display, fit ended sadly fan a stray sparkler set alight a pair of Border Leicesters fae Dod Middleton’s prize flock. Ironically, files the Dons fans could only sing aboot it, here in Meikle Wartle, the sheep actually were on fire. So, in the end, Fitba wiz the winner, but lovers of roast lamb did nae bad, either. Cheerio!

40,000 Dons fans filled Celtic Park yesterday. What a great day for getting a parking space in Aberdeen.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football writer who parks the bus

16 March 2014 is a day that will live a long life in the memory blanks of Aberdeen fans.  The Red Army distended on Glasgow to cheer their team to victory in the League Cup Final and old Kenny for one will never forget it.  Some folk have said it wasn’t the greatest game to watch, football-wise, but the atmosphere was eclectic. The lovely Melody texted me at half time to say ‘I’m watching on the telly. There’s an awful lot of balloons on that pitch’. Which I thought was a bit harsh.

In the end, just like in the Bible, David got beat by Goliath 4 – 2 on penalties and the Dandy Dons come home with their first ever piece of tableware since 1995.

Of course, back during my extinguished playing career there was plenty times when I slavered the sweet smell of success myself, like when Inverurie Locos won the Aberdeenshire Shield back in 1987. Me and the rest of the boys was elastic to have won and we wanted to celibate in style. We was all up for pasting the town red, and someone had the bright idea that we should drink champagne out of the trophy.  There was only two things standing in our way. First of all, Inverurie Locos did not have no champagne and thirdly, for some reason the trophy for the Aberdeenshire Shield was a shield, which was not really designed for drinking out of. Though it would have been ideal for eating pizza off of. Luckily, the lovely Melody came to our rescue when she popped into Asda’s and come back with a case of Cava on special offer.  We still was needing to solve our trophy problem, though, until old Kenny come up with the perfect solution.

The ref had it in for me that day as was proved by him unfairly sending me off in the first minute.  That was a tapestry of justice, but as a result, my boots was almost as good as new.  So I poured some bubbles into one and necked it.  I offered it around, but to my surprise, none of the rest of the team was wanting any after all, so I just keeps going.

So I can safely say that I know how the Dons players will be feeling today, the day after their great victory.  If it’s anything like I did, they’ll feel shocking. Like they’ve swallowed a badger.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Well, the Council’s decision to include a letter supporting the Union along with this year’s Council Tax bills has caused quite the hubbub among the chattering classes, hasn’t it?  My inbox has been inundated with comment, and my phone has been red hot (although I think that probably has something to do with its lithium-ion battery).  As usual, our antagonists’ attempts to discredit us have been almost comically inept.

To all those who have helpfully pointed out that readers of the letter might not be particularly well disposed to our message, given that it will be plopping onto their mats along with a bill for a couple of grand: we are satisfied that this was the best and most cost-effective way of disseminating this information, we say this.  Extensive market research suggested that the public did not wish to receive a personal Valentine’s Day card from Barney Crockett, and Len Ironside refused to wear the sandwich board.

To those who ask why the Council is so supportive of a status quo that has delivered massive cuts to the funding of public services in real terms, and has led to cost-cutting in every area of Council spending, we say this.  This administration transcends the politics of the pork barrel.  We cannot be bought.  We will act not on the basis of our own short-term financial interests, but will give greater emphasis to the broad public interest.  And when you weigh the issues properly, what you will see is this: nice as it maybe to get a few extra quid to spend here and there, sticking it to Alex Salmond is much more fun.

To those who have written, comparing the mole who leaked the letter to the “heroic” US whistle-blower, Ed Snowden, I would say this.  As the popularity levels of football referees confirm, no-body likes a whistle blower. But of course, when we find the mole, we will treat him properly.  According to Wikipedia, moles live underground and enjoy eating earthworms.  Work is already underway on the excavation of a suitable corner of Union Terrace Gardens.

Finally, to those who ask why this administration seems intent upon lurching from one political embarrassment to the next, consider this.  This week, a Malaysian airliner has disappeared in circumstances beyond the imaginings of Ian Fleming; we stand on the brink of a new cold War between Russia and the West, and Princess Diana has been implicated in the News of the World phone-tapping trial – and yet what are the people of Aberdeen talking about? The City Council.  This is not some “massive gaffe”; this is not a “colossal howler”.  Far from it, this is our greatest achievement to date.

At the Uptown Baths it’s ‘No running, No bombing, No petting’; not to mention ‘No water’.

Tanya Soutar – local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken aboot youse, but I loves an internet petition, and this wik I’ve been getting fair worked up aboot the Bon Accord baths. As ab’dy kens, the Uptown Baths wis shut back in 2007 fan the cooncil had a £50 million quid budget deficit and couldna afford the heating bill tae keep the pool at it’s usual balmy -8°, and then niver opened up again. They pit it on the market, but naeb’dy could think of a use for a massive hole in the grun, so it’s lain empty iver since. Weel noo a local pub owner his started a trust fit wid tak ower the running of the baths and he’s even inviting folk tae come forward wi their ideas and suggestions.  Weel, here’s Tanya’s views on fit they could do that wid hae the Bon Accord baths literally swimming wi folk.

First of aa, ab’dy kens that the best fun ye hiv in a swimming pool is fan you’re on your hol’days in funcy places like Benidorm or Tossa de Mar.  So the revamped pool needs tae hae sun loungers, parasols an a poolside cocktail bar staffed by a hunky Spaniard.

Secondly, I learned tae swim in the pool doon at the auld Linksfield Academy and I always mind on yon posters fit said “Nae running, Nae dive-bombing and Nae Heavy-Petting.  Far’s the fun in that?  Hopefully these new baths will hae specially designated slidies, dive-bombing areas far ye can endanger the lives of ither patrons in safety, and maist importantly a “snogging end” somewye.  Imagine how romantic ‘at wid be.  Mind you, it wid hiv tae be shallow, because it fairly pits you aff yer stot to get splashed in the face fan you’re sookin the face aff yer trap. As I discovered that time Allana Patterson seen me with her Darren in the Priory and chucked her long vodka at us.

The last thing I wid dae is hiv extremely tough selection criteria fer the lifeguards.  They wid hiv tae be gorgeous with a bonny tan and of course a 6 pack (by fit I mean muscles, nae kit-kats).  Trust me, if ye hid a pucklie dreamboats like that strolling aboot, that pool wid be jam-packed full of quines. My pal, Big Sonya, eence took a shine tae a right stud-muffin of a lifeguard on a Hen wikend in Tenerife.  Tae get his attention, she decided tae loup in the pool and pretended she’d got a cramp, hoping he wid come in and try tae save her.  That is a recognized seduction technique, fit wis first deployed by Sandy tae get her claws intae Danny Zukko in ‘Grease’. Unfortunately, Sonja hid hid a few cocktails with her breakfast, and jumped intae the wee kiddies pool by mistake. Thanks tae the Archimedes principle it wisna a lifeguard she needed, it wis a crow bar.

Ron Cluny – Official Council Spokesman

The jackals, stoats and other carrion-eaters that masquerade as our political opponents and media commentators in these impoverished times think that they have the Council on the ropes this week, with their trumped-up fuss and staged brouhaha over the so-called “ban” on Alex Salmond from Council premises. As usual, the disdain in which they hold the democratically-elected representatives of Aberdeen – and by implication the good people of this great City itself – is as shameful as it is transparent.

It is quite clear that the Councillor in question did not say that he would “ban Alex Salmond”. Indeed, it is impossible that he would have said any such thing. The Councillor has such an aversion to the First Minister that he is pathologically unable to utter his name, and when required to do so can only make an involuntary ‘coughing-up-a-hairball’ noise, like Gollum in the ‘Lord of the Rings’. Instead, he refers to him by a moniker of his own devising which consists of a conjunction of seven pithy epithets, mostly Anglo-Saxon in origin.

I do, however, think that I know how this unfortunate misunderstanding may have occurred. During the course of a Council debate on the future of Aberdeen’s fishing industry, a question arose as to the best way in which to preserve haddock; a representative, more wondered if we should “can it, like salmon.” I can only imagine that a cloth-eared member of the fourth estate, befuddled by a liquid lunch, may have mis-heard this valuable contribution to debate as a suggestion that we should “ban Alex Salmond”. Resolving a matter of this nature is a simple process involving give and take. In the light of the perfectly plausible explanation that I have provided, those who have unfairly accused us need to give an unqualified apology, and we will take it. This is crucial for the common good of all. The dispute has been a diversion from the important job of governing the city. At points this week it has felt that Aberdeen stands on the edge of a precipice. Clearly, it is time now to put our difference behind us, and move forwards.

Local MSP gets into the cabinet. Unfortunately, it’s the drinks cabinet.

Struan Metcalfe, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North and surrounding nether regions – an apology

 Dear friends, I fear that the time has come for me to apologise to you, to my constituents and to the party faithful for my latest indiscretion on the social media minefield that is ‘Twitter’. Call it the exuberance of youth, say I acted like a puppy dog trying to impress his master, or blame the fact I was out of my mind on rum and cokes. As that fruity filly Tulisa from the N-Dubz would say, “What-ever”.  But nonetheless, apologise I must. I was celebrating you see, what with Super Dave and the rest of his Cabinet being in Aberdeen this week. Dave and I go way back – to university days and the Bullingdon Club. I wasn’t actually a member of course, but they did give me the honour of polishing their Chelsea boots before every important Club event. “Jock Boots” they used to call me. Hilarious.

 So this week was my chance to impress my hero by showing him the many assorted delights of the North East. And by Michael Gove (that’s Tory Party rhyming slang, LOL) had I not pulled out all the stops? Breakfast at the Inversnecky cafe, a quick spin on the Grampian Eye at Codonas, luncheon at the Victoria Restaurant, and a postprandial visit to a Gentlemens’ Club on Chapel Street. Unfortunately Super Dave was too busy with cabinet meetings, and visiting all the oil & gas big wigs and so had to politely decline my kind invitation, through a party wonk. Imagine my disappointment to find that I had, instead, been allocated the task of accompanying Michael Gove on a visit to his old stamping ground, Kittybrewster  Primary School. The staff there declared themselves delighted that their former pupil was Secretary of Education. For England and Wales. So once that was done and dusted I just went straight to Private Eyes at lunchtime, in the vain hope that Super Dave might find a mo to join me. Anyhoo, a spiffing time was had and I did my bit for European integration discussing the very tricky situation in the Ukraine with a long legged Latvian called Anya – absolutely delightful young lady – and ended up a little bit squiffy. Hence the following tweet, for which I apologise, unreservedly:

 “Super Dave in Abz. I’ll be hanging with my homey. Reminds me of uni japes, giving a tramp a tenner then laughing when he realises it’s lira. Good times”.

 Gosh that was silly. Rest assured, that story is not true. Neither Super Dave nor I would ever treat the poor in such a way. As Ian Duncan Smith is always saying, the unemployed need a hand up, not a handout!

 Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football writer who puts the head in.

As a long-life Aberdeen and Scotland fan my whole life, the first half of last week truly was a first half of a week of two halves.

Like 16,000 other Dons fans, I was at Pittodrie on Tuesday night to witness the end of Celtic’s unbeaten league run.  The atmosphere was eclectic and we knew something special might be away to be happening when the Hoops’ Virgil van Dijk was sent off for a processional foul.  Don’t get me wrong, I am a Dons fan through and through– if you cut me, I would bleed red – but I think the boy was unlucky to get his marking orders for that challenge.  If that’s worth a red card, I myself would have got heaps of them in my career.  Which I done.

 The Dandies pressed home their ecumenical advantage though, and a real thunderclap from Jonny Hayes broke Celtic keeper Fraser Forster’s run of well over 1,200 minutes without receding a goal.  It reminded me of my playing days when I narrowly missed out on a similar record.  It was when I was ploughing my trade down at Brechin City. The gaffer comes up to me before a local grunge match against Montrose, and he says to me, he says “Kenny, if you can last the next 90 minutes you’ll have gone 10 games in a row without getting sent off”.  I’d never done that before in my career so I started the game on tender books.  It was all going so well until I inadvertently elbowed their striker.  In the groin.  Whilst he was already lying down. Recovering from my previous challenge.  As my regulator readers know, the refs always had it in for Kenny, so I never made that magical 10 in a row.

 If I was on cloud 99 after the Reds’ victory over Celtic, I was brought back down to Earth with a thump when I seen Scotland’s new away kit on Wednesday.  Now, don’t get me wrong, Kenny is as open minded as the next man.  But that strip is a total shocker! The lovely Melody, who is something of a fashion iPod, says the pink and yellow stripes remind her of a packet of fizzy refreshers.  As for me, I think that tasty boiled sweets and 1970s cartoon cat and dog duos is fine, but rhubarb and custard has no place on a football strip! I would be embarrassed to see our boys wear that kit in a major tournament. Happily, after Scotland’s draw for the European Championship qualifiers, that is not never going to happen.

Everyone likes crispy duck, but this is ridiculous

Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips – Kevin Cash

The burning down of Jimmy Chung’s aa ye can eat buffet is a sad day for lovers of value in Aiberdeen. As a man who tries to economise wherever possible, I hiv been known to spend a bittie time there, particularly on the aff-peak days of Monday to Thursday. There you would find me, taking in the conversation of my significant other, taking in the sea view, but maist importantly, taking in enough won-tons and crispy aromatic duck that I didna hae to eat for the rest of the week.

Me and the missus hid wir first date there. Straight away I kint I hid found my soul-mate. Ither quines refused to stuff deep-fried chicken balls up their cheeks for later consumption, but Kylie wiz right into it. She kint that looking like a hamster til ye could get outside and cough them into a hunky wiz a small price to pay in order to access exceptional value. We used to ging there steady, until the manager clocked that I wiz filling my pooches with spare ribs and apple fritters and Kylie hid bought a waterproof handbag to fill wi hot and sour soup. Still, he wiz very decent aboot it fan he wiz gie’en us the bum’s rush. He very kindly agreed not to grass us up to the Sizzling Wok, who we took only 6 months to eat into insolvency, before pitting Cosmo’s business model under serious strain. Yer first love is awyse the deepest, though, so here’s to Chung’s. May it rise like a Pheonix fae the ashes and re-open as soon as possible. Hopefully wi a new manager, fa dizna ken me and Kylie.

View from the midden – Agricultural news with Mieklewartle Tv’s Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s bin a slippery wik in the village. Inspired by the Winter Olympics, mony locals have been sliding along icey lanes and falling ower in exciting wyes. Maistly efter a good skite in the pub. Sochi his the Luge and the Ski-jump, we hiv a similar traditional event, the Heiter. This year, and in the face of fierce competition, Feel Moira retained her title as village Heiter champion with a spectacular triple salco aff the pavement intae the sink-hole in Wullie Kemp’s bottom field. It used tae be his top field, but thanks tae the recent few wiks of rain, Wullie’s ferm has slipped anither 500 yards doon the hill.

I hid a similar sinking feeling as I read the news the ither day aboot the canny fermer who’s mony far-flung skelps of land manage tae rake in three million quid a year in EU farm subsidies. Fit wye did I nae think of that? Of course, here in Meiklewartle we’re nae a part of the EU. I believe we may still be in the League of Nations, but I dinna think that coonts.

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner – the sports columnist who gets excited by curling once every four years

As regulator readers will be cutely aware of, if ever there was a man what loved his sport, I do. If it’s not football on the googlebox, it’s the gee-gees. If it’s not neither of them two, I’ll even watch cricket! So, I’ve been having a wail of a time this last fortnight watching the Winter Olympics. I tell you what, they might be moaning about the tarantula rain they’ve had down in England, but spare a thought for the Russians, they’ve got snow everywhere! And fair play to them. They don’t let a bit of snow cancel everything like we do over here. They carried on with the Olympics like it didn’t make no difference at all.

Some of the different events they have over there is bonkers. We won a gold medal in this thing called “skeleton”, which looks putrifying. It minded me of when me and my pal Stevie Twigg from Torry used to steal that bakery delivery crates and slide down Mansefield Road on our bellies. What a laugh we had, until the day Stevie collided with a Milk Float, and got rushed to Foresterhill with percussion.

It made me totally bust with pride to watch the all-Scottish curling teams come home with some medals. The men done good to reach the final but me and my mates really enjoyed watching the women. I must say, Eve Muirhead is very easy on the ice. I don’t know what that means, but Dunter Duncan says it a lot when he was round here watching it with me on the 50′ plasma.

But the sport what made me feel the most entropy for one of our own athletes was the speed skating. Young Scot Elise Christie was disqualified three times for minor infarctions, something that old Kenny is all too familiar with. If you ask me how many times I have had my hopes dashed by officials taking a dim view of me unfairly wiping out my opponents, all I can say is “I cannot count”.

Aberdeen would be an ideal venue for a Winter Olympics. After all, it’s been on the slide for years.

 Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Over the last week I have, as a well-deserved break between arduous bouts of public service, been following the Winter Olympics.  I have been transfixed by the skill and courage of the participants.  Their achievements are beyond the contemplation of we mere mortals.  Still, there are parallels between their feats and day-to-day life here in the City Council.  One cannot watch the cross-country skiers plough on relentlessly, hour after unrewarding hour, without calling to mind debates in the Infrastructure Committee on the Haudagain.  Seeing a snowboarder fly over the lip of a half-pipe and describe extraordinary twists and contortions before plummeting to the ground in a jumble of limbs reminds me of nothing more than Councilors’ attempts to justify their expenses claims.  The overall impression, as a succession of lycra-clad gods and goddesses shoot past, each flying higher or descending faster than the last, is much the same as I feel when a rival local authority manages to provide a decent level of public service in the face of swingeing central government cuts: how the…; how on earth do they do it?

I have also noted how easy it is for new disciplines to be introduced to the Games.  Slopestyle originated when some layabout Yankee skateboarders went on a skiing holiday by mistake, and it took only ten years from the day a Swiss waiter working in an Alpine cafe first slipped and went flying on his tray down a frosty slope for the luge to be recognised as an Olympic sport.  We have been pursuing a policy of omitting to grit pavements for the last ten years, and have been secretly lobbying the Olympic committee for the same period. So when the new Olympic sport of skiting-along-the-pavement-while-clinging-onto-your-messages debuts at Pyeongchang 2018, we expect Aberdeen-based athletes to dominate. 

Tim Bee, the conscientious objector

It is well documented through my voluminous correspondence that I comprehensively objected to Donald Trump’s development of the Menie  Estate (which spell-check keeps trying to call ‘Meanie’.  Co-incidence? I think not!). Despite hundreds of letters, my objections fell on deaf ears and the ‘powers’ that be gave him approval. ‘Ce la vie’, as they say in Spain.

Oddly, I now find myself sympathising with Mr Trump – something I find highly objectionable – as he objects to the proposed wind farm off the Aberdeenshire Coast. This will utterly ruin the beautiful views we get of the Orkney ferry and the flotilla of oil service support vessels unwilling to pay their harbour fees.

I have neither the time nor energy to list my numerous objections to wind power in this current missive. Suffice to say I agree with The Donald that this ‘proposed’ blot on the landscape should not go ahead. But he has been cruelly thwarted. Have you ever been thwarted? I have, it can be very painful.

This week, the Courts adjudged that not only had Mr Trump’s human rights NOT been infringed  – they hadn’t even been ‘engaged’. Now, I don’t know what this legal double-talk means, but it seems to suggest that His Lordship doesn’t consider that Donald is a human being at all. This is bullying, plain and simple, and he seems to be subjected to it by pretty much everyone (the judge, politicians, his hairdresser). Can’t we give this ‘poor’ man a break? Look at him. Hasn’t he suffered enough?

 

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken aboot youse, but I LOVE hearing folks’ baby news!  Fan it comes tae dramatic labour stories, I thought I’d jist aboot heard them aa, but last wik a mum-tae-be hid her baby in the car park of a famous restaurant on the Ellon Road! Apparently they realised things was awa tae happen aboot twa miles further North – but fan they noticed the next turn off wis Trump’s golf course they said “I ken it’s an emergency, but we’re nae THAT desperate!”

The landlord gave Mum and Dad a bottle of bubbly and a voucher so’s they can come back for a free feed.  Fit got me thinking – fit ither places could ye pop a sprog that wid earn a decent freebie?  So here’s my top tips on how tae hae yer bairn in the maist profitable location:

Fan ye’re jist aboot tae drap, spicy food helps tae get things kicked aff. Well, if yer a fan of curry like me, dinna phone an ambulance fan yer watters brak, phone a taxi to the Shabaz!  And jist tae mak sure, fit aboot hammin in til a grab bag o spicy Monster Munch on the wye?  By the time ye get yer bhindi bhaji things’ll hae come tae a head, so tae spik, and you’ll be the proud owner of a voucher for a free Turka dhal.  And a baby too, like!

Some folk swear eating pineapple’ll speed up Mither Nature.  So if ye funcy a wee freebie fae yer local supermarket, smuggle a tin opener in then wolf doon some pineapple rings in syrup.  My pal Big Sonja tried that een, and you should see the lovely photies of her and brand new baby Kai in the tinned foods aisle at Lidls. There’s ‘slippery fleer’ signs awye!

Lastly, a slightly mair racy method of getting the ba rolling is tae indulge in a little nookie.  A few year ago my chum Pamela was almost a wik owerdue so her and her boyfriend gied it a shottie. As a result, their bairn was born in exactly the same place far he wis conceived. I’ll spare ye the gory details, but pit it this wye; they followed the Beckhams’ lead as far as baby-names wis concerned, and he’s the only kid in Aiberdeen cried ‘Amadeus’.

 

Halloween can be really scary. Especially if the doorbell rings and you realise you don’t have any sweeties

The Rev Edmond Redmond, Minister of Holburn North North East

My normal Thursday routine was enlivened this week by the arrival, in the hours of darkness, of a diminutive ghost ,a power-ranger and a young lady dressed in something that I am given to understand is known as a “tiger-suit onesie”!  Yes, the 31st of October was upon us again, and I bade the little group of guisers to come hither, into the Manse to receive a sweet treat to celebrate Halloween. 

While I was having a rummage in the press to see what I could find by way confectionary, I took the opportunity to quiz my companions on whether they knew that Halloween is a contraction of All Hallows Eve, the day which both precedes the feast of All Hallows and initiates the triduum of Hallowmas.  They did not, the power-ranger instead offering the opinion that Halloween is just “an ace way to get people to give us sweets before we throw their rubbish bags about their gardens.”  Neither did they know what either “All Hallows” or a “triduum” was.  I carefully explained all these things, as well outlining the importance of the festival in the liturgical calendar and, having finally located a curly-wurly and a packet of slightly elderly pan drops, I turned around to present them to my guests, only to find the drawing-room empty.  Spookily, my young visitors had vanished into the night, barely taking the time to knock over my wheelie-bin.

On reflection, it occurred to me that they may have found the revelation that they were inadvertently participating in a religious festival more alarming than any of the goings on in ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’.  And it also occurred to me that their visit, short as it was, was the first time that anyone under the age of 30 has set foot in the manse for over a decade.  That, I suppose, is the most frightening thing of all.

View from the Midden – Rural affairs with MTV (Meiklewartle Television) presenter Jock Alexander

It hiz been a crepuscular wik in the village. The nichts are fair drawing in, the cauld wind rattles the doors, and auld Hallows eve has been and gone. Withoot incident here, I am gled tae say. A temperature of minus 10 does dae an afa good job of keepin the young quinies in sexy witch ootfits aff the streets. Though, of course, in the auld days, the village played host tae the real thing, and there hiv been rumours, as there ayewis will be in rural areas, aboot the strangest looking, maist idiosyncratic wifie in the village. And files the competition is stiff, the clear winner of that particular race is Feel Moira. True, she diz mak up a foul-smelling brew fit burns aff yer eyelashes, but that’s jist ‘Aul Foosty’ her hame-brewed dandelion and neep brandy. True, she has been seen in the graveyard, efter midnight, spikkin tae a cat, but she was jist asking it to show her the wye tae ging hame, efter a substantial bucket in the pub. And to those fa whisper ahind the haunds that she hiz a hideous warty growth on her face – that’s her neb.

So niver fear, there’s nae sic a thing as witches onymair. The Aiberdeen Tolbooth Museum is currently hosting an exhibition aboot it. In the auld days, damn near 600 peer aul wifies wis burnt at the stake for witchcraft in the North-East But the Aiberdeen city faithers hiv nae deliberately set fire tae onyone or onything since the 1590s. Apart fae the trams, of course.  And if they come back again, that really wid be scary. Cheerio!

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken aboot youse but I LOVE Halloween!  Somebody telt me that it wisnae safe tae send kids under 12 years old oot in the dark knocking at strangers’ doors, so reluctantly I went with them.  And I’m so glad I did!  My 3 didnae hae a clue fit wye tae maximise their takings!  So here’s some tips tae help mak next Halloween a bumper harvest!

The unwritten rule is ye should only ging tae folks’ doors if they’ve got a pumpkin lantern outside their hoose.  Fit rot!  True, those folk are expecting visitors and they’ll hae plenty o’ sweeties for the bairns, but the best haul ayewiz comes fae the folk that are nae expecting’ ye.  

If they’re nae concentrating, they’ll answer the door.  Then ye pounce.  Wee Beyonce-Shanice’s did weel roon at number 73.  The only sweeties they hid wiz a box o’ funcy Belgian chocolates decorated wi’ gold leaf!  Fit fine!  Number 82 wiz priceless, they hid literally nithin, so little Kenzie pit on his best shakky bottom lip and the wifie caved and got her purse.  She only hid a tenner!  Score!

But the best picking’s of all come fan folk are nae there. That wis the story along at Number 61.  My Jayden’s still under the age of criminal responsibility, so I got tae shin ower their gate roon tae the backie.  The owners had kindly left a Halloween treat for ony passing guisers; a kids’ scooter, twa bikes an’ a patio heater! Cheers!

See the Flying Pigs Live at HMT in ‘Finzean in the Rain’ from Thursday 7^th (aye, this Thursday) to Saturday 16^th November