Our new 2013 stage show premiered at an oot ‘o toon preview on Saturday the 12th of October at the Townhall, Inverurie.

We performed ‘Finzean In The Rain’ for the first time, a month before the start of our two week run at HMT, Aberdeen, with all profits from the performance going to the Friends of Insch Hospital & Community.

The Friends were established in 1989 to promote, provide or assist by voluntary and financial means anything which improves the standard and quality of care or environment of patients of Insch Hospital, Community and Health Centre; supplementing the service provided by Grampian NHS Trust.

It’s a great local cause, and the Friends are an extremely able and dedicated group. We’re very pleased to have been able to assist.

As ever, Jane Reid and her team did a great of promoting the evening and, mair importantly, laid on a rare spread for the gannets who make up our cast and crew. The show went down well, with only one sketch biting the dust before the Aberdeen run. And you know you’ve done a good job when the post-show Mackie’s ice-creams are handed round the dressing rooms by Maitland himsel.

Historically, Britain was ‘Great’ in two areas; bossing people around and blowing things up

LORD COSMO LUDOVIK FAWKES-HUNTE, 13TH EARL OF KINMUCK,

29 August 2013.  The day when Britain officially ceased to be Great.  We’ve been drifting towards this day for years of course, with the marginalisation of our aristocracy (do you know that our Bolshevik new Bank manager makes me queue with the lower orders?), our ridiculous obsession with equality and the proliferation of Sushi houses (what on earth is wrong with a good old traditional British curry?).  But Parliament’s refusal to militarily intervene in Syria has finally done it.
If there are two things we Brits have traditionally excelled at, it’s bossing people around and blowing things up.  But now our foppish, hand-wringing House of Commons has got its knickers in a twist about the need for a clear strategy and observing international law.  Well, really.  My illustrious forebear, the 10th Earl, didn’t get all hung up on legal niceties when he fell out with Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914.  He just blew the fellow up and blamed it on a passing foreigner, and that turned out alright in the end.
The position could not be clearer.  The Syrians are suffering under the jackboot of an oppressive dictatorship.  They need outside help to allow democracy to flourish.  If our parliament can’t understand that, I say it’s time to abolish it and return to absolute monarchy.

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

It’s been a perambulatory wik in the village, with the news that once again fan it comes tae “footfalls’, far Meikle Wartle leads, the big city follows.  I wiz real interested tae read aboot the new proposals fer Aiberdeen city centre. Fit an idea it is too: tae mak a new train station exit at the corner o’ Union Terrace, so happy travellers can come staggering and peching up the stairs, cursing the broken lifts and faulty escalators and enjoy at close quarters the transformative delights of a traffic jam at Union Bridge. But of course, here in the village, we already hiv a similar scheme, thanks tae the aul Meikle Wartle Railway, fit fit has recently been revived as a special Heritage service, ferrying day trippers keen tae mak the scenic trip atween MeikleWartle and Gask. Noo maist fowk in Gask dinna wint tae come here, and vice wersa, but for those that dae, fit a journey it is! Thanks tae a wee miscalculation wi ma slide-rule and foo mony miles ging intae a yard, the rails run oot twa mile fae the village. But thanks tae the ingenuity o’ Feel Moira, Meikle Wartle’s answer tae Isambard Kingdom Brunel, we hiv devised a system o’ dank subterranean tunnels all the wye tae the village, and then oot jist twinty feet tae the west of the village square,  richt in the middle of’ Tam Broon’s pile o mineer.  Visitors emerge in need o’ refreshment. And hosin’ doon.  Happily, baith close at hand in the village pub and fire station, fit is noo daein’ a roaring, if somewhat whiffy, trade.  So go for it, Aiberdeen! Jist mak sure yer visitors emerge in as much need of a good drink as oors dae. And if the first thing they see if yon mannie at Union Bridge with the bagpipes and the jimmies, I’m sure they will. Cheerio!

CAVA KENNY CORDINER, North East of Scotland Junior Footballer of the Year 1981

I remember February 1979 like it was yesterday.  It wasn’t yesterday, though.  In reality it was over 10 years ago.  Britain was emerging from the “Winter of Disco Tent”; former Sex Pistols bassist Sid Viscous was cruelly taken from us and I had not long signed for the Dandy Dons.  But that month should be remembered for a truly hysteric moment in football – Trevor Francis became the first British million pound player.

Transfer fees have risen astroeconomically ever since and this summer’s transfer window-box has been totally mental. 

Chelsea has been particularly busy, signing Samuel Eto’o and Will.I.Am among others.  I never knew that boy from the Black Eyed Beans was a good footballer but Mourinho knows a player when he sees one.

Of course Tottenham was after Will.I.Am’s signatory as well before he jumped strip to West London.  But they has signed a pile of players too, including a Spaniel called Soldado.  There used to be ice creams called Soldados.  The tropical one was my favourite.

Manchester City has splashed the cash too, signing midfield dinosaur Fernandinho and Jesus Navas.  Of all the summer transfers I thought Navas was the biggest transfer – but as I write this it looks like there is one player who will be bigger than Jesus.

Rumour has it that Gareth Bale is off to Real Madrid for £86 Million.  There is no one can deny that is silly money.  When Billy McNeill signed me for the Reds he paid Culter FC £8600.  Arthritis was never my best subject, so I have no idea how many Kenny Cordiners you could get for £86 Million, but it is a lot.  I wonder if Bale will blow his signing on fee like what I did back then?  I took Melody out for a few drinks and a curry.  Mind you, he’ll be in Spain so he’ll probably have a pizza

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Finzean in the Rain at HMT Aberdeen from the 7^th to th16th November

Looking for that special something for your loved/loathed ones at Christmas? Need something with the wow factor that’s thoughtful, original and nae too pricey in these straightened times? Us too. Gi’es a shout if you find onythin’ bangy.

Meantime, you could do worse than put one of our CDs in the Suntie sack of that special someone

Live recordings of our last 3 stage shows are available from our shoppie for just £10.00 each,  inc. postage & packaging.

Our first CD, ‘Prime Cuts’ sold out (eventually), so don’t delay! When they’re gone, they’re gone. And I can get the use of my loft back.

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DESPERATE FISHWIVES  Including the sketches Minker TV Gold, The Licensing Board and the Planning Officer, along with Mither and Faither’s coach trip to Paris and introducing Pishy Pishy Watson.

HOW TO LOOK GOOD GLAIKIT  Including the You Tube internet phenomenon ‘The Caledonia Bank’ and the wince-inducing Eddies Woes

THE SILENCE OF THE BAMS   Including the top rated show from Mtv (that’s Miekle Wartle Televison), two from the angry Minister, the debut of the Bakery Wifies, the showstopping Air Stewards, and our tuppence worth in the row over Union Terrace Gardens

The Trumptown board game first appeared in the theatre programme for our 2011 stage show ‘The Silence of the Bams‘.

STRUAN METCALF, MSP – An Apology

Once again, as MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions, I find myself apologising, unreservedly, for recent comments made on Twitter. The views on the independence referendum expressed in my Cognac-fuelled tweet were solely my own and certainly not those of the Scottish Conservative Party. I very much regret tweeting the following last night:
‘Devo Max?’ Sounds like something you’d use to clean the lavatory! Which will come in handy, ’cause Alex Salmond speaks nothing but a load of’. At which point my 140 characters ran out.
Obviously I was joking. I mean, I’ve never cleaned a lavatory in my life. I have a nice Albanian lady who does for me in that regard. I got her name from my good mate Richard “The Hamster” Hammond when we were in London scoofing Baby Eskimos with Michael Winner at my club, Boodle’s.
I am extremely sorry for any inference in my tweet that the SNP’s third option is akin to Toilet Duck. I have utmost respect for the SNP and Alex Salmond. He is a fine politician and First Minister. In many ways he’s like Tennents Lager – no-one will admit to liking it, but by god it sells by the bucket-load.
I also wish to apologise, unreservedly, for the video which I inadvertently uploaded to YouTube on Saturday. Let’s be absolutely clear about this, the depiction of the First Minister and his Deputy as the Krankies should in no way be taken as representative of the views of the Scottish Conservative Party. I know for a fact that Annabel Goldie’s done a photo shop of them as Shrek and Donkey.

Yours aye,

Struan Metcalf, MSP for Aberdeenshire and Surrounding Nether Regions

Mystic psychic LIONEL MAZE, the Derren Brown of Cummings Park Circle, gazes into his crystal ball to predict some unexpected consequences of a ‘Yes’ vote in 2014

1. Coalition Government immigration cap results in forced repatriation of Lulu. And, somewhat to his surprise, Education Secretary Michael Gove.
2. Tartan Army required to extend the same bonhomie and impeccable standards of behaviour to England as to the rest of the world. Disbanded after existential crisis.
3. Scottish towns to be twinned with English counterparts.  When paired with Cumbernauld, Slough demands a rethink.
4. Electoral Commission criticised when a software glitch results in confusion between the first Scottish Presidential Election and the Scottish Slimmers ‘Rear of the Year’ award.   Criticism evaporates when Lorraine Kelly is installed as Head of State.
5. Meryl Streep wins another Oscar for her blistering portrayal of Nicola Sturgeon in biopic “The Irn Bru Lady”.

OUR AIN FOLK – Meet the people who make the North East what it is today. This week, radical independence campaigner, DODDIE ESSLEMONT

If Alec Salmond has his way, 2014 will bring a referendum on dissolving the Union.  Canny operator that he is, Big Eck has chosen the date to coincide with the greatest milestone in Scotland’s struggle against the auld enemy: the 47th anniversary of our victory over the 1966 world-cup winning side at Wembley.  I look forward to marking an emphatic cross in the ‘Yes’ box; unless, of course, the question asked is, “Do you want to retain the Union?” in which case I shall vote ‘No’ and shout, “You can’t trick me, Cameron!” before lifting my kilt and thrusting my nuddy bahoochie in the direction of Downing Street.
But for me, Scottish independence will not be the end, but the first step in a new struggle.  In truth I feel no more kinship to a Glaswegian or a Fifer than to a Scouser or a denizen of the Rhondda Valley. The first day of Scottish independence will mark Day One of my campaign for a devolved Northern Scotland.  Not that this my final objective: I have no desire to be trapped indefinitely in a Parliament comprised of Brochers and Invernesians, saying “right enaff” and yapping on about fish and whisky and marrying your own sister.  No, no. As soon as that Parliament is in session, I will push for Aberdeen to break away and form its own city-state.
Would I then be satisfied? No! I wouldn’t trust our local Councillors to run an independent Aberdeen!  I wouldn’t trust them to run a bath! “But Doddie”, you ask, “If you don’t want an independent Northern Scotland, and you don’t want an independent Aberdeen, what do you want?”  To which I answer: well, I like most of the folk in my street.  Aye, my side of the street, like.  Not the King Street end, obviously, cos there’s some funny ginks up there.  And not Cashie Casson, Beardie Jim or anyone in Big Sheila’s block; none of them are speaking to me after I turned up bleezin at Hogmanay and mistook Alfie Mutch for George Osborne, with predictable consequences. No, I dream of true self-determination. My ultimate aim is to be able to welcome you to the People’s Democratic Republic of 39G Seaton Drive (population: one). Assuming, of course, you’d cleared passport control in the communal lobby. Because the one thing I canna stand is an inabootcomer. Freedom!

STRUAN METCALF, MSP – An Apology

Once again, as MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions, I find myself apologising unreservedly for recent comments made on Twitter which, it would appear, have caused grave offence to my constituents as well as considerable embarrassment to the Conservative Party, my parents (soz Daddy) and, vitally, Super Dave. I absolutely regret tweeting the following on Thursday night:
“Oh no, constituency meeting in Methlick tomorrow. Would rather stick a fork in my eye. Need to pull a sickie!”
Clearly my comments have been taken out of context. My tweet – sent at 3am, whilst at the business end of a particularly robust Châteauneuf Du Pape – was very much meant in jest. However, I appreciate the people of Methlick may not get the joke. Or get this newspaper, as I understand they only read “The Squeak”. But Super Dave says I have to apologise so apologise I must. Unreservedly.
Obviously, I would not want to stick a fork in my eye. That would be madness. I learned that lesson at Gordonstoun when Winker Cockburn pierced his cornea during a frenetic game of ‘Buck Buck’.
I have utmost respect for the people of Methlick, their eyes and their forks. I hope that we can all put this unfortunate episode behind us so that I can focus on the very important business of representing all you Goat-herds, Crofters and Orra Loons at Holyrood.
Yours Aye,
Struan Metcalf, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

“CAVA” KENNY CORDINER – The football pundit who kicks back!

I is dead sad to see my old club the Dons lose captain Ricky Foster to the bright lights of Bristol City. A contact of mines at Pittodrie says to me Ricky left the Dandies with a heavy heart. When The Robins first approached Foster he couldn’t choose between the two cities: Bristol has the Old Vic Theatre and the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Aberdeen’s got the Queen Vic pub and the Clifton Road off-licence. My man says what swung it for Ricky was when he visited Bristol the manager took him to see the panto, starring David Hasselhoff. So my message to the Board is this: if we want to attract and keep the top players in the future, we’re going to need to sign a big name with bags of experience for next season. I’m thinking Christopher Biggins.
Ricky’s departure leaves Craig Brown with a tough decision to make. I might drop past Pittodrie to offer him some advice about what it is what makes a good captain. I, myself, only donned the armband on the one occasion. But ask any of the players or spectators who was there (Formartine United v Hall Russell, Grandholm Park 1988) if they never seen the finest display of captaincy they ever seen and they will all say the same thing – yes.
My performance as skipper was so strong the referee decided it was only fair to our opponents if I left the field after 15 minutes. Though I was angry at first, fair play to the official, he was proved correct. Our team lost 6-0, but we was only 2-0 down when I went off. It’s leadership like that what Craig Brown will need to look for.

OUR AIN FOLK – Meet the people who make the North East what it is today. This week, retired Gordon Highlander GEORGE FORBES.

It is now seventeen years since I left Her Majesty’s armed forces with two decades’ distinguished service under my belt and an honourable discharge in my hand. Unlike many ex-servicemen, it was the only discharge I ever experienced. Since re-entering civilian life, with the benefit of rigorous military training, coupled with my own hawk-like vigilance, I have been acting as a specialist security advisor – for a prestigious local Shopping Centre.
I will not name the establishment, for security reasons. Suffice to say I provide “boots on the ground’ surveillance, preventing enemy forces from taking up strategic positions behind the pallets of unclaimed Argos Catalogues. I am the first, last, and only line of defence against the miscreants and libertines who threaten the very stability of our society.
From my unique vantage point (a camouflaged hide, within the Sky TV gondola) I see all, and what is clear to me is that we are, at all times, on the very brink of anarchy. Never was this more apparent than on the first day of the Primark January sale. I saw active service in Rhodesia, (a terrible and implacable foe, the Rhododendron) but nothing prepared me for the sight of womenfolk brawling over the last pair of marked down leopard print harem-pants in a size 16. Note, also, the fall from grace of television’s Anthony Worrall-Thompson. Just last week I might have considered him officer material, but now, transformed by an act of petty larceny, he can only be thought of as a goblin faced cheese pilferer. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that trolley full of Merlot, Madeley. I’m watching you.
Until next time, stay secure.

Next column

Meet the people who make the north and north-east what it is today… In our weekly column in the Press & Journal, we’ll be bringing you a host of characters chuntering on about what matters most to them. Updated every Monday.

This week’s column is here.

The archive of previous ones is here.

Hogmannay (noun) Annual festival when the Scots, rightly famed for their incredible capacity for alcohol, really step it up a gear.

This week we asked some of our regular contributors: ‘How are you bringing in the New Year?

Miekle Wartle TV’s JOCK ALEXANDER

Weel, michty, it’s been a busy wik o’ preparation in the village for the big nicht! That’s richt, it’s the world famous Meikle Wartle‘s Hogmanay. With spectacular events, incredible bands and amazing crowds from every corner of the village and 5 mile roon, we show Rothienorman how to perty!

We’ll hae the ceilidh in the hall, where we’re hoping for a repeat of the impromptu lock-in of 2010, fan the doors wiz frozen shut and the Orcadian Strip the Willow lasted siven hours.

Then it’s the Concert in the Gairden, this year it’s Feel Moira’s gairden , and fit a stellar line-up we’ve got. Jimmy Shand’s cousin, een of the Bay City Rollers, and Emeli Sande tae sing the Mucking o’ Geordie’s Byre. Also this year we proudly present the hale thing on the BIg Screen; a 24 incher on loan fae the Hydro Electric shop at Huntly.

But the Street Perty is the highlight.  The good news is we’ll hiv D.J. Mackie in the hoose, (he’s nae a disc jockey, that’s jist his initials. He’s a moany-faced auld tee-totaller, but so as lang as he stays indoors, he winna poop the perty) and various locations around the village will be transformed into sophisticated alfresco bars, fan abody piles oot of the pub with their drink.

The hale thing culminates in the fireworks. Once again we’ll be doing it ‘Oban style’ and letting the hale display aff at once. This does grand job of waking abody up in time for the all important Bells. And the equally vital Whyte & Mackay.

And for the brave souls still vertical come Janurary 1st, it’s time for the New Year dookin, fan you can shake aff ypur hangover by taking a dip in the Wartle Burn Sewage Works. Feel Moira swears by it, daily. Cheerio, and a Guid New Year tae abody!!!

 

DODDIE ESSLEMONT, Radical Independence Campaigner

I shall be having a traditional Hogmanay at home, eating black bun, drinking whisky, and hurling abuse at the telly throughout “Only an Excuse”.

Some people mistake my desire for political independence not just for Scotland or Aberdeen, but for my own flat, as a desire for seclusion, but nothing could be further from the truth.  I am an intensely sociable person, and hope to tempt any passing first-footers into my home (The People’s Democratic Republic of 39G Seaton Drive) with ceilidh music, a welcoming dram, and an expedited visa application process which should take no longer than 3 hours to complete.

 

KEVIN CASH, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

Hogmanay presents a real dilemma for the cash-conscious fun-lover.  On the one hand, fa dizna like to get together with their pals at this time o year?  But on the other, coming hard on the heels of Christmas, money is tight.  My ain method is to invite a selection o’ freens roon, telling them that I’ll lay on the food if they bring their ain drink.  Then, fan yer last guest his arrived and been relieved of his coat and cairry-oot, stick a bag of cheesy wotsits into the hand of each reveller, and set aff yer smoke alarm. After an orderly evacuation (I recommend flapping your airms and shouting ‘Get oot! Get oot!’) refuse to let them back in ‘til the Fire Brigade’s given the all clear.  They’ll last one, maybe twa, hours in yer gairden afore they drift awa tae some ither mug’s shindig.  With luck, their booze will last through ‘til mid-April, and the sale of their jaickets and mobiles will pye for your summer holidays.

 

“CAVA” KENNY CORDINER – the football pundit who kicks back!

Hogmanay is a funny time of year in the Cordiner household.  On the one hand, it is a time where me and the lovely Melody celibate the New Year, but on the other foot I gets awful melon colic.  You see, it was in the early hours of New Year’s Day 1994 that my pride and joy was taken from me.  Enforcer’s Wine Bar was Inverurie’s cheekest sports themed nitespot and I was definitely the hostess with the mostest. Me and Melody had invented some classy cocktails like the Straight Red, the Reducer and the Two-Footer.  A bit like my football career, a few Reducers, a couple of Two-Footers followed by a Straight Red usually meant an early bath!

Sadly Enforcer’s was mysteriously burned to the ground shortly after the bells 19 years ago.  I was guttered.  Thankfully I’d just taken out a massive insurance policy that started at midnight so Melody and I weren’t out of pocket.  My brief says to me, he says, “Kenny, for goodness sake don’t say another word in the paper about the fire!”  So I’d better leave it there.

So, this year I’ll spend New Year much like I have done for the last 18 years.  With a bottle of whisky in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.  Wait a minute – make that the last 19 years.

It’s the true meaning of Christmas; tree theft, bin-raking and a blow-up reindeer

 

KEVIN CASH, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips.

Christmas is an expensive time o’ year.  The wye to get through it is to pit a bittie aside week by week and then spend it judiciously in the run up to the big day.  We all ken that.  But if, like me, you’ve run into an old pal in The Grill, done your money by getting blootered and coming hame with a life-sized inflatable Rudolph, you, and your marriage, needs a Plan B.  You can still pull it aff if you focus on the Three Ts: the Tree, the Telly, and the Turkey.

Tree

I ken maist of you will have got your trees by noo, but I winted to share a money-saving tip that wiz dreamed up by me and my pal Mick the Pill over a couple of cans of reduced to clear McEwan’s Export (we find that twa wiks past its sell-by gives it a pleasing depth of flavour, and adds about 5% to the alcohol content).  Get up yourself up to Hazleheid golf course, and saw a branch aff een o the big fir trees by the first hole.  If, fan you’re procuring your branch, onybody asks you fit you’re up to, tell them that you are a public-spirited citizen taking immediate action to prevent the spread of Ash tree disease.

Telly

I dinna have a telly in the hoose.  It’s nae a metter of principle, just that my last attempt to procure a flatscreen (which involved slipping a tenner to the warehouseman of a well known electronics outlet) led to the boys in blue putting in our door.  My defence – that I had misunderstood the meaning of “freeview” – cut no ice with the Sheriff.  However, at this time of the year, the femly expects, and you have to find a way to deliver.  My solution is to bore a hole through the wa into my neighbour’s living room and teet through at fit they’re watching.  Now you may think that this is unsatisfactory, as you hiv nae control ower fit ye watch, but if, like me, you bide in a mid-terrace, you can bore your wye into twa living rooms.  Your choices are even better if ye bide in a flat.  It’s only if you bide in a detached hoose that your totally stymied.  But if you do, you are a posho, and can probably afford your ain telly.  But you will niver ken the simple pleasure of taking it in turns to try to pluff a dried lentil into the open, snoring moo of your neighbour’s grunny

Turkey

I hiv nae visible means of support, but last year, me and my femly ate like Kings at Christmas.  Turkey, goose, roasters, chestnuts, trifle, christmas pud, the works.  How did we dae it?  Simple.  Posh folks are that wasteful they throw oot stuff that you could niver have afforded in the first place.  Raking through their bins on Christmas night brings a harvest like nae ither.  But fit good is that fan Christmas Dinner is already passed? Weel, with the normal routine being interrupted over the holidays, and it niver actually getting light onymair, it is surprisingly easy to mak folk entirely lose track o’ time.  Simply cut off communications wi the outside world aboot a wik before the big day, (block up the telly-watchin’ spyholes and stop pinching the paper fae next-door’s letter-box) and spend the hale of Christmas Day pretending that it’s still Christmas Eve.  Then, fan everybody’s asleep, mak your wye to the poshest area within walking distance of your gaff and hae a good rogue in the bins.  Bring back your spoils in the early hours, stick it in the fridge and then wake your femly with a cry o’ “Santa’s been!!!”  And in a wye, he has.

 

View from the midden – rural affairs with JOCK ALEXANDER

Michty, fit a wik it’s been!  This past few days has seen the saftest snow to fall on Meikle Wartle in mony a year, so saft that to the uninitiated or inabootcomer, it would have appeared to be torrential rain.  However, oot here, far that extra minus 10 maks a’ the difference, it just has time to crystalise afore it hits the grun. So, I hiv been daein my bit for seasonal cheer, by standing ootside the village local, carol singing. I sterted inside, but they chucked me oot. Now, though, with the money raised by all thon coppers kindly donated at high velocity in the direction of my napper, I can afford tae ging back intae the pub and buy another round. So here’s my last rendition of a traditional Christmas sang fae Meikle Wartle, fit is sung to the tune of ‘Winter Wonderland’.

All my windows are misting

On the road, snow is drifting

I’m feeling the chill

Visibility’s nil

Meikle Wartle winters are na fun.

 

Gone away is the summer

Freezing cauld, fit a scunner!

My tractor won’t go

The cab’s full of snow

Meikle Wartle winters are na fun.

 

How I really wish I hid a gritter

Or a handy shovel or a spade

I’d send an SOS oot using Twitter

But I dinna get a signal, I’m afraid

 

Snow has risen a metre

Nae response fae my heater

My nose has turned blue

Some ither bits too,

Meikle Wartle winters are na fun

 

Cheerio!

All I want for Christmas is cheaper petrol, a Doric dictionary, and a Onesie

This week we’ve asked some of our regular contributors to tell us what they hope Santa might have in his sack.

JONATHAN M LEWIS – local Head-teacher

This Christmas I only want what’s best for the youngsters at Garioch Academy.  When I see their little faces I am filled with hope that all their wishes come true this year.  May they receive all the mobile phones, iPads, and laptops that the young people so desire.  Then, when the kids return for the new term, a concerted campaign of confiscation by my colleagues will ensure a real boost to school resources!

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER – the football pundit who kicks back!

Every Christmas I always wish that I had got the thing what I had wished for last year.  But I never got it last year and I bet I won’t get it this year neither.  Why can’t Santa bring me a drop in fuel duty?  The cost of petrol is astrological.  It is especially steep for someone like me, who lives in a rural location. And I happen to know that every other Jag driver in Inverurie feels the same.  What with the lovely Melody’s weekly colouring at the salon, our messages from Tesco and my high-profile media commitments (just last week I done a 5-a-side at Victoria Park, Buckie), I’m being bleeded dry!  My old Bentley was even less economonical. Imagine how skint I’d be if it hadn’t been round the back of Enforcers Wine Bar when it mysteriously burned down?

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRATT – ordinary mum

Christmas has always been about fairness in the Smythe-Barratt household.  When Emmeline wanted a pony, Fidel got one too. There is one inequity that I’d love to put right this year, though.  Ever since 2002 we’ve been sponsoring a family in the Sudan.  We get regular updates from them – they seem to getting on great guns with our support.  But is it wrong of me to ask why we seem to get nothing in return? Surely they could send us something at Christmas – I mean, given all the goats we’ve paid for, is a spot of gift wrapped Feta really too much to ask?

JOCK ALEXANDER – MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter

Here in Meikle Wartle, we dinna hae ony truck with the hassles and worry of Christmas. Maistly because, as I’ve previously mentioned, we’ve nae got roond tae converting tae Christianity yet. That is nae to say we dinna hae wir ain festive rituals. Instead of a large communal pine tree, drappin needles a’wye, we hae a large communal pile of dung. It sterts oot wee on Dec 1st, but michty by the end of the month, it’s fair piled up. Maist fowk, seeing it for the first time, stop in their tracks. And cowk.

But this year I am joining my fellow villagers in the hope that we’ll get a proper electricity pylon, so we can cease dependence on Tam Reid’s twa charolais’ running aroond in a muckle hamster wheel. It’s a verra ecologically sound system, but faniver the coos stop it blecks oot the village for 8 hour at a time. That does mak it difficult tae watch TV. Or drive. Or wash. Cheerio!

Jimmy Hollywood, Sandilands most eligible bachelor

As you’ll ken, Jimmy is a man-aboot-toon. In my book, that is the only wye tae meet tasty bits of stuff (nae through yer work or joining sports clubs, as some agony aunts wid hiv ye believe. That ideas is mince). As a confirmed bachelor of 42, my hit rate with the ladies is proof that looking smooth and hinging aboot Soul ivery Friday and Saturday night is Route 1 to everlasting happiness.

That said, my Christmas list wid normally look like any other red blooded males – voucher for full body wax at the Marcliffe Spa, highlights at Ishoka, TOWIE box set – but this year, I hiv heard that “Biding in is the new going oot”.  So I’m asking Santa tae get me a “Onesie”. In fact, I’ve asked the big man if he can bring me a set of His & Hers Onesies. ‘Cause I canna think of onything better than cosying up tae Ma Hollywood on the couch of a Sunday night tae watch “Call the Midwife”.

Struan Metcalfe Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North-by-North West

What do I want for Christmas? Aside from your vote (Ha ha!), what would be extremely useful would be an aid to comprehending the local dialect. Communication with the electorate is vital to maintaining an understanding of the needs of one’s constituency. So I need a Doric to English dictionary because, quite frankly, most of the time I have not a clue what the great unwashed are saying to me.

Only yesterday, one of the local farmers referred to me kindly as a “flaming gype”, as he tried to extricate his tractor from the ditch he’d run into when I passed in the Landrover Evoque (I can only assume “gype” is a term of endearment for one’s superiors). Later, as I drove down Turriff High Street another red-faced son of the soil shouted what I think was “Aiyah basket! Ye’ve driven ower ma fit, ye great neep”.

So I wished the fellow a Merry Christmas, too.