600 pages of white paper; and about as informative as the stuff you buy for your printer

‘Scotland’s Future’ The Scottish Government’s white paper on independence was published last week; probably the single most important document in our nation’s constitutional history since the Declaration of Arbroath. So it’s a pity no one could be bothered to read it all the way through. We did try, but then ‘I’m a Celebrity’ came on and…well you ken fit like. Luckily, some of our regular contributors are on hand to give us their impressions.

Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North-by-North west

What? There was a White Paper on independence issued? News to me! I was off on a corporate bender for the Rugby World Cup at old Trafford (the electorate need not worry, it wasn’t on expenses, it was all provided by my corporate paymasters!) Afraid five days on the Stella Artois overtook me like a boy racer on the beach boulevard, so it rather passed me by. I know I haven’t read it but am sure the Nats haven’t been so dim as to try to keep the pound. Ha ha !

Archie  Fraser – gentleman of the road

I was very impressed with ‘Scotland’s Future’, it was solid, well put together, and at 600 pages, when torn up and stuffed under the shirt, excellent insulation for a December night under Union Bridge.

Tim Bee – the very conscientious objector

I strongly object to what I saw in the independence white paper. For one, the grammar was appalling. Secondly, it must have cost me, the taxpayer, a huge amount of money to produce. Are we meant to believe it a co-incidence that it was published on the very day the bin collection went monthly? I object!

Jimmy Hollywood – Sandilands’ most eligible bachelor

I seen the white paper. Magic. Fitiver the naysayers and gloom merchants think, a vote for Scottish independence hiz got tae be a positive thing, hiz it? Picture it, a win for the ‘Yes’ campaign, ab’dy spilling oot onto the streets, birds everywhere intoxicated by the concept o’ self determination. And long vodkas. It’ll be like VE Day a ower again, and Jimmy will be there, right in the thick of it, tae patriotically snog the faces aff them. Good times!

J Fergus Lamont – arts critic

My regular reading material of the moment being the Dickensian ‘Take A Break’ magazine, it was with some trepidation that I opened my copy of ‘Scotland’s Future’.  Alex Salmond is not an author with whom I had previously been familiar, but I needn’t have been concerned. The deathless prose, the epic imagination. Truly this work is a fairy-tale the equal of anything by Tolkien or CS Lewis. I wept.

Doddie Esslemont – radical independence campaigner

The white paper is totally lacking in the vision and optimism contained in my own purple paper (with green crayon).  Where is the offer for each household to receive the right to secede from Scotland and form its own state, complete with presidential limo, a seat at the UN and a personal Isla st Clair?  Until we see true visionary leadership like that, we will never tempt people away from the Status Quo, despite the fact that they haven’t done anything decent since “Rocking All Over the World”

 

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 ‘Was there ever life on Mars?’ ‘How long until we build the quantum computer?’ and ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink, sir?’  But recently, people have been asking me all about comets.   “Well”, I advise “it’s almost a year since they went belly-up.  Have you tried Currys?”  And then we laugh.  Until we consider the long-term implications of the collapse of Britain’s retail sector.

This week, astronomers have been eager to learn the fate of comet Ison as it blazes a trail round the far side of the Sun. Many people I have spoken to have been excited at the prospect of the greatest sight in the night sky since the Thainstone Mart fireworks display, but have furrowed their brows and nodded slowly when I attempt to explain the physics, so I shall try to put it in laymen’s terms.

Comets are huge lumps of ice and rock, essentially vast space borne versions of the kind of snowball that can break a window or, to my eternal regret, blind a school friend. They whizz around the sun in an extreme elliptical orbit, like a giant game of celestial swingball.  To help you comprehend the scale, try to imagine a Motability scooter cruising slowly down Causewayend, accelerating to Mach 1 as it negotiates the Mounthooly Roundabout and then gently coasting back up to Split the Winds. But with all sparks and fire coming out the back of it.

The scientific community expected that the comet – a ball of ice, remember – would be vapourised in its close encounter with the boiling, 1 million degree inferno that is the sun. But what would science be without a little unpredictable data?  Reports suggest that the plucky little ice-cube had, in fact, survived to yet wow the 12 people around the globe with access to a super-magnifying telescope.

Excitingly, this suggests we need to rethink our existing hypothesis about the interaction between frozen solid objects and intense heat. Accordingly, as soon as the wintery weather is here I suggest you build yourself a snowman, take it in the house, and leave it right beside a radiator.

Dundee isn’t City of Culture 2017 either. For a lot of Aberdonians , that’s as good as the win.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Regular readers of this column may recall the dismay with which I greeted the news that Aberdeen had been eliminated from the running to be the City of Culture 2017.  I have said it before and I say it again: when a city that boasts a great muckle Granite theatre, a great muckle Granite art gallery, and an indigenous breadstuff that looks like an air-dried cow-pat cannot waltz its way into the finals of a City of Culture competition, I don’t know what the world is coming to.  But our sense of disbelief was only heightened when we learned that Dundee had been short-listed in the final four. To finish behind Dundee had been a blow; but for them to go on and win the hale thing would have been an unmitigated disaster.

It was therefore with some trepidation that I logged onto the Department of Culture, Media and Sport’s website on Wednesday; and learned that Hull had won the title.  After only three hours spent reading the poetry of Philip Larkin (you widna mistake him for a ray of sunshine), listening to the music of the Housemartins and watching the YouTube video of ex-Don Dean Windass winning Hull promotion to the Premiership by skelping the ball past Bristol City’s goalie in the 2008 play-off final, I felt sufficiently confident that I could keep a straight face to phone my opposite number in Dundee.  “Where had it all gone wrong,” I asked him?  He was unsure.  The jury’s visit seemed to go so well.  They had been impressed by the Waterfront development, the city’s commitment to theatre and the arts, and their soon-to-open branch of the V&A Museum and   He had heard an unconfirmed rumour that the judges had been adversely influenced by the city’s association with the doggerel poet, William Topaz McGonagall.  But this was a great mystery.  The city had been assiduous in ensuring that no reference was made in any of the bid material to that one terrible blot on Dundee’s cultural copybook.  How had the jury ever heard of him?

I quickly passed on my commiserations and brought the call to an end. The poor man sounded so disappointed it just didn’t seem right to intrude upon his distress, and I was concerned that I would be unable to keep the laughter out of my voice and I reflected that I have probably never made better use of a first class stamp.

Here is a short poem I have composed to mark the occasion.

Wonderful people of the banks of the Tay!

Alas, I am very sorry to say.

That all your hopes have been taken away

On twenty eleven, twenty-ten-three,

A date which I find very pleasing to me.

 

Struan Metcalfe, Msp For Aberdeenshire North And Surrounding Nether Regions -An Apology

 Crikey,I’ve been a jolly good boy, haven’t I? It’s been absolutely AGES since I was last gently prompted by HQ to apologise for some slight misunderstanding. Then, as sure as Aberdeen city traffic will grind to a standstill at the first glimpse of a snow-flake, I’ve gone and made a honking mess of it all. Again.

I really must apologise unreservedly to the Conservative party, to my electorate and, most importantly, to Super Dave for my recent Tweet concerning Movember. The last thing I wanted to do was offend any of the fine fellows currently raising lots of spondooliks for the worthy men’s cancer charity by gradually growing to resemble Freddie Mercury this month. I deeply regret tweeting the following:

“Grow a tache for November? And risk getting caught with white stuff stuck in my furry top lip? Not me. That’s what did for Paul Flowers?! LOL”

I can see why “some” people might have assumed I was referring to Bolivian marching powder ingested through the nasal passage, but of course, what I actually meant by “white stuff” was icing sugar. From a Yum Yum, a local delicacy for which I have something of a weakness.

The Rev. Flowers, whilst accused of serious of offences, some of them apparently on video, remains innocent until proven guilty. I should, I fully accept, have included the word ‘allegedly’ in my tweet. In my defence, you only get 150 characters, and if I’d included it I would have had to miss out the ‘LOL’ and the smiley face which followed. Also, it’s a damnably fiddly word to type. My auto-correct always turns it into ‘alligators’.

I did once grow a moustache. Funny story actually. It was my final year at Gordonstoun before the end of year dance with the girls of St Margarets. I thought it made me look distinguished, like Errol Flynn. Or Magnum PI. After building up some Dutch Courage by scoofing out of the champagne bottle in the boys toilets,  I took the captain of the netball team for a Canadian Barn Dance and I could see she was impressed with both my pas de basque and my facial foliage.  I had my killer line prepared, courtesy of Beefy Fortesque of the Sixth form (regarded as something of a Don Juan, having once spoken to a girl he wasn’t related to and who didn’t work for his family). As our eyes locked, I felt the excitement grow and I knew this might be my chance “Did you fart?’ I said ‘Because you just blew me away!”. Well, you can probably guess what happened next.

Reader, I married her.

 

W e were back at His Majesty’s Theatre Aberdeen with a brand new show in November 2013,

‘Finzean in the Rain’

 Toonsers, teuchters and inabootcomers all agreed that it was ‘nae bad’.

The Buckie Drifters, Mither & Faither, Archie & Davie, Maurice the Liar, Hilton John, the Bakery Wifies, Mrs Valentine’s P4’s, Meiklewartle Television and Ruaridh Duguid all returned to the stage of Hmt and as well as those old favourites there were some new faces, like Ron Cluny, the Cooncil spin-doctor and ex-footballer ‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner.

Flying Pig Productions gratefully acknowledge the assistance and support of our sponsors

ETPM      Gavin Bain & Co       Sparrows Offshore      CMS      

HRH Geology      KR Steel Services Ltd      Pirie & Smith

 

A debate between two heavyweights and Tubular Bells for all eternity

Doddie Esslemont, Campaigner for independence for 39G Seaton Drive

This week the papers have been full of the news that David Cameron has ducked a TV debate with Alec Salmond.  This was a disappointment, although personally I am less interested in the idea of them debating than in seeing them step into a dohyo, stamp the ground and prove their worth in a sumo wrestling match.  If such a bout were to take place now, there would be only one winner, although given the rate at which the PM is filling out, he might yet be able to give the First Minister a run for his money come September 2014.

 

Less well known is that Salmond’s team in turn ducked my offer of a TV debate with Big Eck on why a free Scotland should not in turn recognise 39G Seaton Drive as a sovereign state.  I can’t say I blame them.  My powers of argument are legendary.  Witness my ban from Seaton Post Office, my three breach of the peace convictions, and the fact that even Eric Joyce MP once told me to pipe down a bit when I was trying to persuade Easyjet’s groundstaff that my Puma holdall constituted a diplomatic bag.

 

The Reverend Edmond Everend, Minister of Holburn North North East

 

I am very sorry that yesterday’s sermon has been met with such disquiet.  I should explain the intention that lay behind it. 

 

After the Intergovenmental Panel on Climate Change reported there is a 95% chance that human activity contributes to global warming, I spent some time meditating upon what this means for me, both as a minister and just as a creature living on God’s earth. 

 

On Sunday, I chose as my reading Ecclesiastes 1:2-9.  Its theme is vanity, in the sense of futility.  “Vanity!” says the preacher, “all is vanity!”  Then he goes on to wonder what people gain from the labours at which they toil.  They come and go leaving no trace while the earth goes on forever.  The wind blows to the south and turns to the north, ever returning on its course; the streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full.  What has been will be again, he says; there is nothing new under the sun.

 

Those words were uttered by King Solomon.  The passage seems to present an uncomfortably pessimistic message.  I preached on it before, on Armistance Day 1989, two days after the fall of the Berlin Wall.  Then, I pointed to the flowering of freedom and democracy and preached a message of hope so stirring that in the tumult of the congregation’s applause I fancied I heard Solomon confess he was wrong.  They were heady days.

 

It was to this theme that I returned on Sunday.  I again tried to prove Solomon wrong.  I argued that human life is not futile.  We do make a difference.  We make things worse. 

 

I said that the wind does not blow to the south and turn to the north, ever returning on its course because global warming has messed up the jet stream.  The rivers do not all flow unto the sea – some we have stopped up, and flooded their valleys, for hydro-electric.  The sea is full, and rising, and we frack the earth and rip open-cast mines into her poor, bloodied flanks.  And there are new things under the sun – the latest “must have” gadget that we covet and hold dear, right up until the time when the newer, trendier version appears 6 months later. 

 

I ended by asking if I was alone in wondering if Richard Branson was the new Noah, and Virgin Galactic our new ark. 

 

I have been asked by the Kirk Session to reflect on what I said, and this I have done. 

 

I stand by every word. 

 

 

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit with the crunching tackle

 

When you is a Dons flan, it’s not often you get to goat about your team thrashing their opponents.  But I was lucky enough to get the blagging rights over my old mate Crawford Baptie last week.  I was doing a bit of punnetry for the Dandies’ game away to Falkirk, what old Crawford used to play for.  At 5-0, it was a mudslide victory for my old club.

 

Mind, old Kenny has been on the receivership end of a few dubbings in my time.  Not that they was my fault.  I was the victim of a refereeing van data that went right to the top itchy loins of the SFA.  One of my proudest moments as a Brechin player was once when we was 11-0 down to Montrose at half-time.  The chairman nearly took the door off its binges when he come storming in saying “Yous lot is useless!  This club’s record defeat is 10-0 and that’s going to get smashed unless yous do something about it!”  As the proud professor of the captain’s hairband, I inspired the boys to keep history in check.  We didn’t score any goals, but our 4 red-cards meant the game was abandoned and the score was axe sponged from the records.  You jist can’t teach leadership like that.

 

It was good to catch up with Crawford Baptie, though.  He is only the second footballer what I have ever met what has a name is something what you have for your breakfast.  The other was a lad at Kincorth, Softie Chalmers!

 

It’s time to get tough on crime, and tough on the victims of crime.

PC Bobby Constable, Local Community Policeman

The Aberdeen public will no doubt be concerned by the recent spate of car thefts that have affected the city.  There’s been great excitement doon the station aboot this.  The helicopter’s been oot and a’thin, and the boys in the traffic division hiv been on iTunes downloading the theme fae The Streets of San Fransisco to play on their car stereos faniver they get a chase.

But let’s be honest, you’ve naebdy tae blame but yersels. These thefts is simply the price we pay for the oil boom.  With wealth has come the trappings of success: the BMW, the Mercedes Benz, the Audi.  And where there are the trappings of success, you may be sure that there will also be nerdowells lurking in your driveway waiting til you go t’yer bed, to try your door.  These professional car thieves – or, to use the technical law enforcement nomenclature, nyaffs – come to Aberdeen from other less prosperous cities and engage in a form of wealth redistribution different fae the een Karl Marx hid in mind (well I presume it’s nae fit he hid in mind; “Das Kapital” dizna really say much aboot fit to dae to the drivers of pimped-oot SUVs).

While the influx of these nyaffs may be inconvenient to the law-abiding public, spare a thought for the true victims – our local thieves and chuncers, who now find their ability to earn a dishonest crust seriously compromised by unfair competition.  Futret McKechnie wiz in tears fan he wiz speaking to me aboot this jist the ither day, although that may have been because I wiz using reasonable force to encourage him to assist in my enquiries at the time.

So fit can we do to prevent these thefts?  Well, the simple, old-fashioned precautions are the best.  Ensure the car is locked with the windows fully closed.  Ensure that your home is properly secure (many car thefts arise as a result of keys having been stolen during a residential break-in).  Or jist hide on the back seat under a travelling rug and loup up, roaring and brandishing a 4-iron if ye see onyone shifty. 

Alternatively, with a bit o’ lateral thinking, you can reduce the chances of falling victim to crime.  Sell the beemer and instead treat yourself to something that is less easy to steal – a hair transplant, perhaps.  And wi’ whatever is left over, buy a beige Fiat Panda.  After receiving a disappointing offer from “We buy any car”, the current Mrs Constable parked our een doon at the beach esplanade three weeks ago wi the keys in the ignition.  Nae takers so far.  Good news for crime stats and Admiral car insurance; bad news for our round the world cruise fund.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football writer who gets into them, heid first.

I was well impressed with Scotland last week.  They have totally turned a cornetto with my old pal Gordon Strachan at the helm and claimed another big skelp by beating Croatia at Hampden.  We’ve done them up like a kipper home and away even though they ended up second in the group.  Makes you wonder what might have been if we had done better against Whales.  But even though Scotland was playing, I couldn’t help myself get caught up in the hoola-baloon in England.

I can’t get my head roundabout the English media.  They spend weeks saying that England have got no hope of qualifying for the World Cup.  Then, when they beat Poland and Montezuma, suddenly the press start banging on about them winning the whole thing!  Sure, they qualified without needing a pay-off, but they hut the headlines for all the wrong reasons.

First of all, the FA chairman, Greg Dyke, is saying that England won’t win the World Cup this time round, and they will wait until 2018 or 2022 to win it.  They can’t pick and choose surely?  I only ever played under one gaffer who used to talk like that.  He used to tell us we mightn’t win this game but we would win the next one, and what did that get him?  2 years in jail for match-fixing. 

Secondly, Roy Hodgson got himself into a bit of hot bother with his half time team talk!  Apparently he told some joke about a spaceman and a sea monkey what caused some of his players to take a fence.  I do feel sorry for Roy on this one.  One of my old gaffers used to crack jokes but this one time it left him with egg on his plate.  Just before kick off I asked him where he was going to play me and he says to me, he says “Today Kenny you’ll be left back. Left back in the dressing room”.  Then everyone laughed.  I knowed why they was laughing – I was hopeless at left back – but I’ll always do what the gaffer says.  10 minutes into the game the ref does a head count and we had 12 on the pitch.  In all the hilarity the gaffer had put on our usual left back as well. He must of felt a right divot!

This week, a bit of the roof fell off the Toon’s Hoose. Was anyone else surprised to hear it wasn’t the wheels?

Ron Cluny, Council Spokesman

The usual collection of trouble-makers and besmirchers have been enjoying themselves this week following the news that a piece of metal fell from the Town House roof, narrowly missing a pedestrian.  Had the slates been damaged by all the hot air constantly flying up into its rafters, one wag asked.  Had Barney Crockett resorted to stealing the lead off our own roof in order to balance the budget?  Oh, do stop it.  Stop it, for the sake of my aching sides.

The simple truth of the matter is that such unfortunate incidents, while obviously concerning, could happen to any respectable proprietor, regardless of how well they have maintained their property.  Those who would seek to mock this authority by making light of this misfortune insult the intelligence of the electorate and succeed only in demeaning themselves.  We take a responsible and serious view of such matters, and as Council spokesman, I am happy to confirm that we have written to the unfortunate lady who suffered the near miss.  In that letter we have blamed the whole unfortunate incident on Alex Salmond.  I do not see how we could have been expected to do more.

Tim Bee, the conscientious objector

If there’s one thing I object to above all others, it is change for change’s sake.  Yet again the good people of the North-East are being subjected to discrimination by the bullying powers that be – this time through our telephone area code.  All around the nation people can dial local numbers without the misery and inconvenience of being required to tap out the area code, but as of next October, we in Aberdeen are to be stripped of that inaliable right.  Incredibly, we are to be forced to waste precious time adding “01224” every time we so much as want to order a pizza or phone the doctors about that strange and worrying rash. Well I object.  Just like I objected when they added the extra ‘1’ in 1983. 

My objection is not based solely on the point of principle that is at stake here, nor the considerable personal inconvenience I will suffer. Think of the thousands of phone calls made by those working in the oil industry in the ghettoised ‘01224’ area.  Each and every one of these phone calls will now take, by my calculations, 3.2 Seconds longer than they currently do which, one assumes, can only result in a massive drop in productivity. 

I may have objected to these oil companies drilling in the North Sea.  I may have objected to each and every one of their office developments.  But I fundamentally object to them delivering anything less than ruthless efficiency. 

As for me, I do not have the time to dial an extra 5 digits every time I make a phone call.  This unnecessary pfaffing about will eat into my busy, busy schedule of complaining about things.  In fact, I’ve worked out that the delay will cost me as much as 14 complaints per week!  Cynics will no doubt wonder what all the fuss is about and suggest we make use of our “speed dial” function.  It may surprise you to learn that I object to the use of speed dial too.  Shortcuts like that are the reason for the country’s obesity crisis!

Davinia Smythe-Barrat, Ordinary Mum

It has been a tough week in the Smythe-Barrat household.  Our Aberdeen one, that is – our Chateau in the Loire Valley looks divine at this time of year!  Things got rough when the wind got up on Wednesday.  One of the neighbours’ gastly trampolines was poorly anchored at best and took off during a particularly violent gust.  As any ordinary Mum would, I take great pride in the finely manicured topiary that adorns our Griselinia littoralis border Hedge, especially the life-size effigies of Germaine Greer and Nelson Mandela! We had Mellors the groundskeeper, attend a month long course at Kew Gardens to hone his skills with the secateurs.  Then the whole lot was ruined by a garish concoction of metal, springs and polypropylene.  Naturally I rang 999, but those fascists at Police Scotland chastened ME for wasting their time?!  Not an emergency? Then I’d like to know what is.

That was bad enough, but it was nothing compared to the devastating news that our favourite little famly-run tea room, the Marcliffe at Pitfodels, is set to close next year!  This put me in a black mood, one that even my weekly yoga nidra session couldn’t shift.  I’m not sure what the reasons are behind the decision but I was very disappointed by local media coverage.  They were focussing on the impact the closure would have on the staff!  What about me and all the other ordinary mums who pop in for a weekly coffee, catch-up and spa treatment?  The loss of local amenities like this puts strain on all normal, hardworking families, who are forced to travel increasingly far and wide to find equivalent facilities. As of next year my chums and I will have no option but to make regular trips to Stobo Castle!    

 

If the name they chose is ‘Chapel of Elsick’, just think what the ones they binned must be like!

Tanya Soutar, lifestyle advice with a local flavour

 

I dinna ken aboot youse, but I’ve eyewis funcied bein’ a pioneer.  An’ some lucky fowk’ll get the chunce tae dae jist that fan the North East’s new town opens fer business ower the next few years.  They hid the foundin’ ceremony at Chapelton o’ Elsick last wik an’ since then I’ve thought aboot nithin’ else than uppin’ sticks tae move there tae help pit the toon on the map.  Aye, eence they’ve got the first couple o’ nightclubs open!

 

Mind, spleet new planned communities run the risk o’ being branded cold and soulless.  I jist hope the planners mind to look efter the maist importantest things.

 

First of a’, they’ll hiv tae change that name!  They’ve pretty much cried it “Church o’ the Vomit” in Spanish.  It’s nae mony places that mak Bognor Regis sound bonnie!  I’d hiv thoucht they should name it efter some o’ those funcy continental places.  “Costa del Cammachmore” or “Newtonhill Nova” wid gie it a real touch o’ class.

 

Secondly, they’ve tae mak sure they get in plenty good shops.  As us Aiberdonians ken, nae toon is complete wi’oot 3 pound shops, 4 cash for gold merchants an’ a Primark.  I’ve heard a rumour that they’re plannin’ on haein’ a posh lunchtime eatery caterin’ fer the high-end market.  I jist hope ging really upscale.  I’m thinking Gregg’s.  I ken, I ken, but ye hiv to dream!

 

They’re plannin’ on openin’ a school in 2018.  So parents better prepare their bairns fer their important roles in the new school.  An’ onybdy fa thinks their kid’s got a shot at bein’ school bully can think again eence my Jayden an’ Tyler move oot there!

 

View for the Midden: Jock Alexander, presenter of MTV (Meikle Wartle Television), on the trials and tribulations of rural life

It’s been anither proximate wik in the village. I wiz amused tae hear a lot o’ fowk gassin’ and blowin’ aboot recent events in the U S of A, faur it appears that the hale country has shut doon due to an argument aboot money. Weel, that’s a regular occurrence here in Meikle Wartle. Usually the argument is a fiercely contested debate between twa sides that hiv adopted intractable positions, nae unlike that at’ween the Republicans and the Democrats.  Although in oor case it tends to revolve nae so much aboot the role o “big government” as a richt good stooshie atween Tam Broon and Skittery Wullie o’er fa’s turn it is tae buy the next round.  The first thing to close doon is the bar, efter the first few punches hiv gone in.  Efter that, the fechtin’ will usually escalate, and Tam will banjo his Massie Ferguson intae a telegraph pole while trying to mak a swift getaway.  Or at least as swift as ye can make in a piece o’ agricultural machinery that still has the baler attached.  So that’s us withoot power and, yes, the hale village his to shut doon!

Come to think of it, this is also the case during the annual ‘cold snap’ fan the temperature plummets and the snow starts drifting in aff the hills. There is nothing for it but tae stock up on the essentials.  Feel Moira maks sure she his a generous supply o’ coal – aye, she jist loves the taste o’ that stuff!  I personally favour my hame-made nettle and neep brandy.  Then ye jist hiv to batten doon the hatches and sit it oot till the crisis passes, secure in the knowledge that there’ll be anither een along verra shortly.  I wid certainly recommend that America diz the same. Cheerio!

 

Shelley Shingles – showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1993

 

It’s not every day Aberdeen is THE place to be for royal watching but OMG, last week the place wiz hoaching with them!  Prince Charles was here on Monday, which was totes amaze, and then Her Maj herself was in town the very next day to open the new emergency care centre at ARI.  I bumped into her up there after I absent-mindedly picked my nose files getting a manicure and got een of my shellac nails stuck up my nostril.  Awkward!  Liz was wearing a bright tangerine outfit – I’m guessing she was off to open a new training facility for Dundee United efterwards.  I got led in files she wiz coming oot.  I wiz bubbling and greeting wi snot running doon my nose and mascara awye.  I’ve nae rocked that look since Scotty Booth dumped me in Franklins in 1995!  I still minded to curtsey though!

 

Of course, I’ve rubbed shoulders with the Royal family heaps in my time.  Me and Charlie, or Chazza as his closest pals get to cry him, go way back.  I first met him up Royal Deeside.  I was going out with a real hunk at the time that was into hill-walking.  We wiz going up Lochnagar but I had to pack it in.  Well, nobody told me that stilettos and a mini-skirt wasn’t ideal clothing for munro-bagging, LOL!  Anyway, I was slumped over a rock in the recovery position demanding that my boyfriend phone the mountain rescue.  He wasn’t having any of it because we were still in the car park!  Chazza strolled past in the kilt, quite the thing.  I’ll never forget what he said to me: “I’d put ice on that ankle if I were you”.  Wise words from a true gent.

Lateral thinking on all day drinking and friends, revenge and feet that are twinkling

Alexander Sang, Chairman of the executive committee of the licensing board

I write these words to reassure the people of Aberdeen worried about the effects of extended licensing hours, and in order to clear up any potential misunderstandings.  Yes, an application to extend the opening hours of nightclubs until 6 am has been received, but the Licensing Board has not yet made a decision on this matter. 

I realise that many people will be against the proposal, but as when any change is proposed, there are arguments for and against.  In particular, this board recognises that people who like to drink an absolute bucket are likely to be in favour.  Their views deserve to be treated with respect, even if they are being articulated in a stream of incoherent ramblings.  Initial soundings have already established that wee mannies who run corner shops selling irn bru, butteries and panadol also favour the move, believing that sales will be boosted.  Perhaps harnessing the need to recover from the crippling hangover is the shot in the arm that the economy requires, and years from now people will speak of Aberdeen’s role in leading the recovery that was based upon recovery.  Whatever happens, I can assure the people of Aberdeen that we will debate the issue with our usual lucidity, impartiality and fair-mindedness.  And then there will be an appeal to the Sheriff Principal, and you can get a proper answer.

View from the Midden, with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) personality Jock Alexander

It has been an intemperate wik in the village.  I must say I hiv been amazed tae hear that the big city is debatin’ the issue o’ a 6am lousin’ time for pubs and clubs.  Ye widna get onyb’dy here agreein wi such a thing.  Cos oot here, ab’dy’s totally sozzled 24/7. Here in Miekle Wartle we hiv a “relaxed” attitude tae Licensing Hours: which is to say, we hinna got ony. We jist keep goin’, in the words of The Kinks, ‘a’ day, and a’ of the nicht’ – especially during the winter months, fan we find the internal heat of a good skinful is highly beneficial.  We hiv no problems wi gangs of drunken youths staggerin hame at the same time as workin’ fowk are commutin- nah nah, cos ab’dy’s too drunk tae min’ far they work.  And as naeb’dy’s sober enough tae remember fa paid for a round either, it’s often an afa cheap nicht as weel. And files there’s still one bottle o homemade neep and nettle brew stewin’ awa in my sheddie, we shall continue this great rural tradition.

Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who goes in feet first

This week the possibility that we might be facing a winter World Cup in the Middle East in 2022 has taken a step closer towards itself.  The Ataris is rolling in dough, what with all that oil and having invented the video console, but noo the boffins has worked oot that you can’t air condition a hale country after all and the whole process has been thrown into leopardy.  Still, switching the World Cup to winter would be a big decision to be took.  I just hope it doesn’t come back to flaunt them.  If this World Cup gets ruined by snow, FIFA’s going to end up looking pretty stupid.

The papers his also been full o the enclosures made in former ref Mark Halsey’s book aboot his friendliness wi Fergie.  It’s shocking stuff.  When I played for the Dons, I didna think Fergie wid be friends with anyone, let alone a whistler.  My own relationship wi Fergie was very much a love-hate one.  I loved to stop in by the Pittodrie bar after training, and he hated it.

Anyway, Halsey has turned around and said it in his autobiography, and fit has made it worse is that he wrote that autobiography himself.  Since the news come out, my phone has been red hot.  The lovely Melody says it’s an electrical fault and we need to buy a new een.  But it was still working well enough for a journalist to ask me, did I ever get too close to a referee?  Which made me think o the time I was playing in the Junior Leagues for Auchinleck Talbot. 

Big Jocky Hunter had played wi me at Brechin City towards the skylight o’ his career.  Once the glory days o’ playing at Glebe Park wiz over, he started reffing in the Junior Leagues.  He bade round the corner from me and we was always sharing lifts and going for a pint after games.  One day, the Talbot had a grudge match against Dundee Violet, and Jocky was ref.  Their playmaker was taking liberties.  Tricks, flicks, trying to pass the ball through the midfield – all sorts.  I decided to teach him a lesson and went in from behind off my long run-up.  It was a strong challenge, but fair.  Well the ball wiz in the same half as him, and that was usually close enough in the Juniors.  But Jocky was straight over and out with the red.  I couldna believe it.  He had clearly been influenzad by the fact that the lad’s false teeth came flying oot his head wi the impact, and I was not slow to tell him.  Pal or no pal, we had a right barney there and then, and my head accidentally came into contact with his nose, twice. 

The disciplinary panel thought I’d got significantly too close to him, and banned me for 12 games.

See The Flying Pigs live in Finzean in the Rain, November 7-16, at HM Theatre, Aberdeen

 

The Grand Old Duke of York, he had Ten Thousand men. Unfortunately, none of them could recognize him, even in his mum’s garden.

 

PC Bobby Constable, (retired). Former Community Policeman

 

 

I see Prince Andrew was upset at being challenged by the police in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. He didna appreciate being made to put his hands up while he identified himself.  Getting suspects to identify themselves is never easy.  When I was on the beat, I used to present them with a wee mirror and get them to say, “Yes, it’s definitely me”.  Onywye, His Highness is lucky the incident didna happen up at Balmoral. It wid hiv been a mair hands-on experience altogether if he’d been stopped by a Police Scotland officer trained by Sergeant “Dunter” Duncan.

 

 

Dunter wiz a great big muckle slab o a man fae Inverurie, far his folks hid a cattle farm.  A childhood spent wrangling Aberdeen Angus bulls meant that Dunter made Doug Rougvie look a  bittie weedy. He hid the brow of a caveman, but none of the social graces.  But he wiz a very effective policeman. All Dunter had to do was come into the interview room and remove his jacket, and the suspect wid be confessing to stuff that hadn’t even happened yet.  Even back in the less enlightened days of the 70s and 80s, Dunter wiz totally non-discriminatory.  Regardless of race, creed, colour or social standing, if Dunter took it into his heid ye’d looked at him funny, you were going to the jile.

 

 

There are times in life when you see a human being achieve something akin to a state of grace.   Chris Hoy wiz pit on this earth to ride bikes. Stephen Hawking wiz put on this earth to dae sums. And Seeing Dunter wade into a dust-up outside Cupids wiz to see a man that had been put on this earth to wield a truncheon. Of course, in modern conditions, attitudes have changed, and the police must change wi them, and those changes spelled the end of Dunter’s Police service. Sadly, fan the uniform changed, Dunter hid tae pack it in. They couldna find a stab-vest big enough, and in the new lycra top he jist looked like a beef olive.

 

 

 

 Tim Bee, the very conscientious objector

 

 

Much has been made of late about the lamentable condition of Aberdeen’s city centre, and the latest half-baked proposal for regeneration is the ’development’ of the Triple Kirks site into an office block.

 

“Develop” – verb – to grow, progress, unfold or evolve”.

 

Not – “verb –  to turn historic church spire into a glass sweat shop for overpaid chancers.”

 

I have written to this journal on previous occasions objecting to the disgraceful neglect of the Triple Kirk’s site resulting in its current shocking state of disrepair. However, whilst I object to that, what is even more objectionable is that the object of my objection is now the object of these plans. That was not the object of my objection. I object to that even more strongly than I thought it possible to object about an object. Objectively speaking. But what I object to even more are the people who say  “Thanks for clarifying that, Tim Bee. Do you have any positive helpful suggestions of your own?”.

 

Because I don’t.

 

 

 

View from the Midden. Rural affairs with Jock Alexander

 

 

It hiz been an awe-inspiring wik in the village- I was amazed tae read the other day that NASA’s Voyager 1 probe has become the first man-made object to leave the solar system. I had reason tae ponder this as I lay on my back in Tam Broon’s field looking up at the stars. This wis at aboot twa in the morning on Setterday. I’d hid a wee  heiter coming hame fae the pub and slipped on a loose doddy o’ sharn. As I lay there, I began tae think aboot at wee spacecraft oot there, in the inky blackness. So far fae civilisation that it’s oot o reach of a’ communication. Roaming aboot, wi nae real idea far it will end up. Freezing caul’, the sun just a distant memory. Michty, I thocht, that sounds like me on a Summer’s day in Meikle Wartle!

 

 

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner, The football pundit who’s on a caution

 

 

There is three things I love about football.  First of all, I loves the passion.  When you pull on your club’s jersey on a Saturday there is nothing can put you down.  Apart from taking a free-kick in the goolies. But the other thing I love is when football gives you a right good jelly laugh.

 

 

Last week I seen a video of this Braziliantine physio what ran on the pitch to stop his team conceding a goal.  What a hoot!  He was standing by the post and when he seen the keeper get stranded in nomad’s land he stuck his leg out to clear the ball off the line.  And then he done it again! The other team was spitting Fedderers though and they chased him into the crowd.  He run off, still carrying his little medicine bag.  I don’t know if they catched him, but if they did he would of needed more than his magic sponge!

 

 

Nearing the skylight of my career I played at some pitches where the crowd was right up close and Persil. I remember once playing for Locos against Mechanics up in Forres when I found myself flying up the right wing.  Talk about a nosebleed!  And I mean that laterally.  Some wifie in the crowd clocked me with her handbag! 

 

 

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Finzean in the Rain’ at HMT Aberdeen 7^th-16^th November

 

 

The Grand Old Duke of York, he had Ten Thousand men. Unfortunately, none of them could recognize him, even in his mum’s garden. 

PC Bobby Constable, (retired). Former Community Policeman

I see Prince Andrew was upset at being challenged by the police in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. He didna appreciate being made to put his hands up while he identified himself.  Getting suspects to identify themselves is never easy.  When I was on the beat, I used to present them with a wee mirror and get them to say, “Yes, it’s definitely me”.  Onywye, His Highness is lucky the incident didna happen up at Balmoral. It wid hiv been a mair hands-on experience altogether if he’d been stopped by a Police Scotland officer trained by Sergeant “Dunter” Duncan.

Dunter wiz a great big muckle slab o a man fae Inverurie, far his folks hid a cattle farm.  A childhood spent wrangling Aberdeen Angus bulls meant that Dunter made Doug Rougvie look a  bittie weedy. He hid the brow of a caveman, but none of the social graces.  But he wiz a very effective policeman. All Dunter had to do was come into the interview room and remove his jacket, and the suspect wid be confessing to stuff that hadn’t even happened yet.  Even back in the less enlightened days of the 70s and 80s, Dunter wiz totally non-discriminatory.  Regardless of race, creed, colour or social standing, if Dunter took it into his heid ye’d looked at him funny, you were going to the jile.

There are times in life when you see a human being achieve something akin to a state of grace.   Chris Hoy wiz pit on this earth to ride bikes. Stephen Hawking wiz put on this earth to dae sums. And Seeing Dunter wade into a dust-up outside Cupids wiz to see a man that had been put on this earth to wield a truncheon. Of course, in modern conditions, attitudes have changed, and the police must change wi them, and those changes spelled the end of Dunter’s Police service. Sadly, fan the uniform changed, Dunter hid tae pack it in. They couldna find a stab-vest big enough, and in the new lycra top he jist looked like a beef olive.

Tim Bee the conscientious objector

Much has been made of late about the lamentable condition of Aberdeen’s city centre, and the latest half-baked proposal for regeneration is the ’development’ of the Triple Kirks site into an office block.

“Develop” – verb – to grow, progress, unfold or evolve”.

Not – “verb –  to turn historic church spire into a glass sweat shop for overpaid chancers.”

I have written to this journal on previous occasions objecting to the disgraceful neglect of the Triple Kirk’s site resulting in its current shocking state of disrepair. However, whilst I object to that, what is even more objectionable is that the object of my objection is now the object of these plans. That was not the object of my objection. I object to that even more strongly than I thought it possible to object about an object. Objectively speaking.

But what I object to even more are the people who say  “Thanks for clarifying that, Tim Bee. Do you have any positive helpful suggestions of your own?”.

Because I don’t.

View from the Midden. Rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It hiz been an awe-inspiring wik in the village- I was amazed tae read the other day that NASA’s Voyager 1 probe has become the first man-made object to leave the solar system. I had reason tae ponder this as I lay on my back in Tam Broon’s field looking up at the stars. This wis at aboot twa in the morning on Setterday. I’d hid a wee  heiter coming hame fae the pub and slipped on a loose doddy o’ sharn. As I lay there, I began tae think aboot at wee spacecraft oot there, in the inky blackness. So far fae civilisation that it’s oot o reach of a’ communication. Roaming aboot, wi nae real idea far it will end up. Freezing caul’, the sun just a distant memory. Michty, I thocht, that sounds like me on a Summer’s day in Meikle Wartle!

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner, The football pundit who’s on a caution

There is three things I love about football.  First of all, I loves the passion.  When you pull on your club’s jersey on a Saturday there is nothing can put you down.  Apart from taking a free-kick in the goolies. But the other thing I love is when football gives you a right good jelly laugh.

Last week I seen a video of this Braziliantine physio what ran on the pitch to stop his team conceding a goal.  What a hoot!  He was standing by the post and when he seen the keeper get stranded in nomad’s land he stuck his leg out to clear the ball off the line.  And then he done it again! The other team was spitting Fedderers though and they chased him into the crowd.  He run off, still carrying his little medicine bag.  I don’t know if they catched him, but if they did he would of needed more than his magic sponge!

Nearing the skylight of my career I played at some pitches where the crowd was right up close and Persil. I remember once playing for Locos against Mechanics up in Forres when I found myself flying up the right wing.  Talk about a nosebleed!  And I mean that laterally.  Some wifie in the crowd clocked me with her handbag!

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Finzean in the Rain’ at HMT Aberdeen 7^th-16^th November