Your St Andrew’s Night entertainment – The Meikle Wartle Ceilidh Band (Ft. Will.I.Am)

View from the midden – JOCK ALEXANDER

Fit like ab’dy! It’s been a bittie quiet in the village of late, as it’s been o’er caul for deain’ much mair than sitting’ in bed in your long johns, but michty, Friday nicht fairly made up for it, as it wiz the St Andrew’s Nicht Ceilidh. Fit a nicht in the Village Hall!  Yours truly was in cherge of the band, and as Meikle Wartle’s maist celebrated, and indeed only, squeezebox maestro, I wiz strapped intae Megan, my trusty Borsini Super Star twa-thoosan. We also hid Tam Minto showing a surprising aptitude for electric bass, bearing in mind that after that stooshie with the threshing machine he’s only got the one airm, and Feel Moira bashing’ awa at the drums. And the fleer. And onyb’dy that got too near her. It wiz minus 10 ootside and the hall door wiz iced shut, so we hid a captive audience, fit wiz ideal!

Fit really made the nicht memorable, wiz the arrival of Will.I.Am fae the Bleck–eened Peas. He wis there with Yvie Burnett, fa’s a singing coach doon in London. But we dinna hud that against her. She’s fae Methlick, originally. We div hud that against her, like. Onywye, Will hid heard Yvie spikkin the doric and hid become quite the fan, so he wis mad keen tae visit Meikle Wartle and immerse himself in wir culture.  Me and Jimmy Kemp wiz blethering awa tae him for long enough aboot root vegetables afore we realised that his request wis for Phat Beats, as opposed tae fat beets, which we’d assumed he winted tae ging wi his stovies.

Onywye that wis wir cue tae get the band tae lay doon a block-rockin’ St Bernard’s Waltz and a Dashing White Seargent that made a’body in the hoose  wave their hands in the air like they jist didna care. Impressed with the wye we hid got the perty sterted, Mr Am (or Wee Lum, as I think he’s crying himself since Friday) jined us for a spirited rendition of his hit ‘I Got a Feeling’, which we did as a Gay Gordons.

As we wis leaving I telt him tae watch out for the dubby step but he says tae me ‘No way, Jock, Dubstep is sooo 2008’. Unfortunately, that’s when he trod on it. He winna be weering that loafers again. Fo’ shizzle.

Cheerio!

J. FERGUS LAMONT, arts critic and author of  “A Ginger Peachy Goodnight’ – A Post-Brechtian Analysis of Grampian TV”, attended ‘Snow White’.

“Fit like, Aiberdeen?”  The fourth wall was not so much broken as rent asunder in “Snow White”, a trailblazing piece of experimental theatre at Aberdeen’s foremost avant garde performance space, His Majesty’s Theatre.  Pantomime has its roots in the provincial Italian Commedia Dell’arte and is also heavily influenced by the ancient British folk players “The Mummers” (whose second album, ‘Babel’ is on currently on general release). You may not have heard about this production (there has been little or no publicity) but its dramatic power has no equal, and I include in that assessment the Singing Kettle’s searing ‘Calamity Castle’.

Never before have I witnessed an Aberdeen audience (cultured, yet at times, capable of the most witheringly critical indifference) so fully engaged in a piece of drama. Through the guile of the authors and craft of the performers, we became inexorably entangled with the dramatis personae. In an exhilarating flourish simultaneously reminiscent of Ibsen and fizzing with originality, the audience acts as the subconscious of the characters. Whenever one claims to be sure of their ground we, en masse, cry out to express their existential self-doubt; “Oh no it isn’t!” Then there are the impassioned exchanges when our protagonists seek to avoid a confrontation, only for their nemesis to approach from the rear.  “He’s behind you!” we yell, to apparently uncomprehending ears. And he was. A brilliant evocation of the frustration and impotence felt by the masses under this Coalition Government.

Few will be familiar with the original source material, an obscure Germanic folk tale, “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves”, but suffice to say that among the themes it deals with are problems with body-image, prejudice against non-traditional families and the dangers of genetically-modified foods.

Whilst the title invokes the storytelling traditions of Central Europe (clearly the authors are students of Die Gebrüder Grimm) the greater stylistic influence is Molière. I said to the delightful young usherette who sold me a satirically miniscule pot of ice-cream. “I have never seen such a beautiful piece of farce!”  She seemed upset, I can only assume she was embarrassed at having failed to notice the clear parallels with ‘Tartuffe’

Imagine my delight when, towards the climax of the production, the audience was divided into two halves (the Id, and the Ego, as Freud would have observed), and led in a ‘singing competition’ pointedly skewering the current vogue for talent-show entertainments. I feel truly privileged to have been there on the unique occasion when, movingly, both halves of the audience were judged to be equal; neatly subverting the premise and reminding us that we are better united than divided; a clarion call for a ‘No’ vote in the forthcoming referendum on Scottish Independence, and the preservation of the National Health Service.

I wept.

Your St Andrew’s Night entertainment – The Meikle Wartle Ceilidh Band (Ft. Will.I.Am)

View From the Midden – JOCK ALEXANDER

Fit like ab’dy! It’s been a bittie quiet in the village of late, as it’s been o’er caul for deain’ much mair than sitting’ in bed in your long johns, but michty, Friday nicht fairly made up for it, as it wiz the St Andrew’s Nicht Ceilidh. Fit a nicht in the Village Hall!  Yours truly was in cherge of the band, and as Meikle Wartle’s maist celebrated, and indeed only, squeezebox maestro, I wiz strapped intae Megan, my trusty Borsini Super Star twa-thoosan. We also hid Tam Minto showing a surprising aptitude for electric bass, bearing in mind that after that stooshie with the threshing machine he’s only got the one airm, and Feel Moira bashing’ awa at the drums. And the fleer. And onyb’dy that got too near her. It wiz minus 10 ootside and the hall door wiz iced shut, so we hid a captive audience, fit wiz ideal!

Fit really made the nicht memorable, wiz the arrival of Will.I.Am fae the Bleck–eened Peas. He wis there with Yvie Burnett, fa’s a singing coach doon in London. But we dinna hud that against her. She’s fae Methlick, originally. We div hud that against her, like. Onywye, Will hid heard Yvie spikkin the doric and hid become quite the fan, so he wis mad keen tae visit Meikle Wartle and immerse himself in wir culture.  Me and Jimmy Kemp wiz blethering awa tae him for long enough aboot root vegetables afore we realised that his request wis for Phat Beats, as opposed tae fat beets, which we’d assumed he winted tae ging wi his stovies

Onywye that wis wir cue tae get the band tae lay doon a block-rockin’ St Bernard’s Waltz and a Dashing White Seargent that made a’body in the hoose  wave their hands in the air like they jist didna care. Impressed with the wye we hid got the perty sterted, Mr Am (or Wee Lum, as I think he’s crying himself since Friday) jined us for a spirited rendition of his hit ‘I Got a Feeling’, which we did as a Gay Gordons.

As we wis leaving I telt him tae watch out for the dubby step but he says tae me ‘No way, Jock, Dubstep is sooo 2008’. Unfortunately, that’s when he trod on it. He winna be weering that loafers again. Fo’ shizzle.

Cheerio!

 

J. FERGUS LAMONT, arts critic and author of  “A Ginger Peachy Goodnight’ – A Post-Brechtian Analysis of Grampian TV”, attended ‘Snow White’.

“Fit like, Aiberdeen?”  The fourth wall was not so much broken as rent asunder in “Snow White”, a trailblazing piece of experimental theatre at Aberdeen’s foremost avant garde performance space, His Majesty’s Theatre.  Pantomime has its roots in the provincial Italian Commedia Dell’arte and is also heavily influenced by the ancient British folk players “The Mummers” (whose second album, ‘Babel’ is on currently on general release). You may not have heard about this production (there has been little or no publicity) but its dramatic power has no equal, and I include in that assessment the Singing Kettle’s searing ‘Calamity Castle’.

Never before have I witnessed an Aberdeen audience (cultured, yet at times, capable of the most witheringly critical indifference) so fully engaged in a piece of drama. Through the guile of the authors and craft of the performers, we became inexorably entangled with the dramatis personae. In an exhilarating flourish simultaneously reminiscent of Ibsen and fizzing with originality, the audience acts as the subconscious of the characters. Whenever one claims to be sure of their ground we, en masse, cry out to express their existential self-doubt; “Oh no it isn’t!” Then there are the impassioned exchanges when our protagonists seek to avoid a confrontation, only for their nemesis to approach from the rear.  “He’s behind you!” we yell, to apparently uncomprehending ears. And he was. A brilliant evocation of the frustration and impotence felt by the masses under this Coalition Government.

Few will be familiar with the original source material, an obscure Germanic folk tale, “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves”, but suffice to say that among the themes it deals with are problems with body-image, prejudice against non-traditional families and the dangers of genetically-modified foods

Whilst the title invokes the storytelling traditions of Central Europe (clearly the authors are students of Die Gebrüder Grimm) the greater stylistic influence is Molière. I said to the delightful young usherette who sold me a satirically miniscule pot of ice-cream. “I have never seen such a beautiful piece of farce!”  She seemed upset, I can only assume she was embarrassed at having failed to notice the clear parallels with ‘Tartuffe’

Imagine my delight when, towards the climax of the production, the audience was divided into two halves (the Id, and the Ego, as Freud would have observed), and led in a ‘singing competition’ pointedly skewering the current vogue for talent-show entertainments. I feel truly privileged to have been there on the unique occasion when, movingly, both halves of the audience were judged to be equal; neatly subverting the premise and reminding us that we are better united than divided; a clarion call for a ‘No’ vote in the forthcoming referendum on Scottish Independence, and the preservation of the National Health Service.

I wept.

We were deeply saddened by the recent death of Scotland the What’s Steve Robertson.  Steve had been an enormous influence on us; both as a writer and performer we  greatly admired, and also as a very kind and supportive friend.  Greg Gordon writes, in tribute, on behalf of us all.

STW? were (and are) a huge influence on me.  One of the strongest memories of my childhood is of listening to their records over and over again; listening to the words of the sketches, obviously, but listening too to the laugh, that joyful, addictive sound that would rise up, peak and then, just as it was abating, suddenly peak again.  I used to sit and wonder what expression or piece of onstage business had caused the laugh to rise again? And (as I imagined form the records, and subsequently saw in the flesh at His Majesty’s Theatre) Steve really could work a laugh, taking it to new heights with a word or a gesture, riding it to the maximum extent of the audience’s enjoyment and then coming back in again with the next line at just the right time.

I grew up speaking Doric (or at least “Doric-lite”) at home, but not outside it.  The idea that the language of my parents and grandparents was something to cherish and celebrate in writing might never have occurred to me without Steve, Buff and George. The idea that they might hear something I had written and actually find it worth listening to was beyond all imagining; but as loyal supporters of the Student Show which spawned them, they did hear my material (and that of many other writers besides) and were scrupulous in seeking us out.  I first met Steve in 1994 in the Stalls Bar of his Majesty’s Theatre when I was one of a group of writers ushered towards him after he had offered his congratulations to the performers and then asked “But who wrote this? Who wrote it? The writers are always forgotten.”  I was fortunate enough to meet him many more times besides, usually after a Student Show or a Flying Pig production. “Never meet your heroes” be damned, he was an absolute gent, always unstinting with his encouragement. There could be the occasional criticism, too: he had an intense dislike of vulgarity in comedy and would soon tell you if he thought you had cheapened yourself (“You don’t need it, you don’t need it.”) But it was always with the best of intentions, and with the knowledge that times were changing: what was right for him was not necessarily right for the whole audience.  His views were offered not forcefully, but for whatever they were worth; usually, a great deal.

One evening I will cherish is the night I fell in with him on the way up the road from a Society of Advocates in Aberdeen dinner. At the time, he had a house in the country and an Aberdeen flat in Sillerton House, the former boarding house of Robert Gordon’s College.  Steve was not a Gordons Boy but an alumnus of Aberdeen Grammar School, and the idea of having a toe-hold in the territory of the “enemy” tickled him.  It was he who was responsible for hanging picturesque views of the Grammar School in the communal parts of the building.  He invited me in for a dram, which turned into several, and we blethered into the early hours. Steve’s main theme was how fortunate he had been: to be a solicitor at a period of time when a man of moderate talent could be successful (he was far too modest); to find such gifted friends and collaborators as Buff and George; to have received the rave review at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe that had brought them such acclaim; and to have such a wonderful wife and family. But then, we were all very fortunate to have known such a good, kind and encouraging man, and to have enjoyed (and still to have to enjoy) the body of work that he leaves for us.

He was a great performer, a great writer and a great man. He will be sorely missed.

Tit-for-tat attacks and dangerous snacks

RON CLUNY, official spokesman, responds to the recent twitter spat between certain members of the Council and their critics

 As you may have read, there has been an outbreak of mud-slinging in the social media between members of the governing group on the Council some of our opponents.  It has been suggested that I, as the Administration’s Official Spokesman, should take to Twitter to make a formal response to our detractors.  I shall be doing no such thing.  I have been in politics for long enough to know what the public wants.  It wants to see its elected representatives working together collectively and in good faith to address the community’s needs.  People have no patience for the politics of petty tribalism, claim and counter-claim and petty name calling.  I understand that.  And the sooner the odious little twerps who oppose us can get it into their thick skulls the better.

 

JOHNATHON M LEWIS, Local Headteacher, comments on the latest educational issues

It reflects the cynicism of our culture when journalists are so keen to brush the many highs aside and to focus on some trifling lows.  As someone who would rather shy away from the media spotlight, I must reluctantly address some disparaging comments that appeared in the press over the weekend.

First of all, Garioch Academy’s ‘Children in Need’ fundraising extravaganza was in no way a “shambles”.  We are all very proud of the £193 our pupils raised for such a good cause and, whilst some of the attempts to raise funds were more successful than others, every pupil should be proud too.

Our third year Home Economics class worked tirelessly to bake fairy cakes to sell at morning interval.  Parents must understand it was nobody’s intention for pupils who ate the cakes to contract salmonella.  Indeed, we prefer to look at the learning experience the incident has provided: “out of date eggs and lax kitchen hygiene do not mix.”

I think there has been quite enough written about the “sponsored head shave”.  Why should we scorn the endeavour displayed by the spirited fourth year boy who borrowed his father’s clipping shears?  Why must we focus on his mistaken belief that he was being sponsored to shave the heads of other people?  As I told the parents of the first year girls involved, their hair will soon grow back.  Unlike Mr Jenkins from the maths department, whose toupee has been ruined.  The boy was understandably reluctant to pay for a replacement and although his protest did attract police attention, he did eventually come down from the roof of the technical block.

Finally, I can assure parents that the note inviting pupils to “dress if you please” was merely a clerical error.  Thankfully, most pupils realised this and we rounded up most of those who interpreted it literally by lunchtime.  As to press suggestions that a boy who had mistakenly wandered into the sixth year girls’ common room was “scarred” by what he saw, I refute this.  The lad has been grinning from ear to ear ever since.

 

 LORD COSMO LUDOVIK FAWKES-HUNTE, 13^th Earl of Kinmuck, on human rights.

So the bleeding heart liberals have won again.  Abu Qatada cannot be extradited to Jordan, just because the evidence against him has been obtained by the use of thumbscrews and electric shocks to the goolies.  These self-appointed experts, with their fixation upon so-called “human rights” and their desire for convictions to be founded upon evidence that is both credible and reliable, will be the ruination of our age.  It’s time for a return to traditional British justice.

My ancestor, the fourth Earl of Kinmuck, didn’t faff about with “credibility” and “reliability” in 1672 when the gang of two-dozen Covenators he found hiding in the woods tried to run away.  No!  He strung them up by their innards and was rightly rewarded by a grateful King.  No doubt he’d be prosecuted for it now.  It’s a world gone mad.

How tragic it is to see the country which, in the 1590s, led the world in witch-burnings reduced to such foppish hand-wringing.  Of course, the politically correct mob wouldn’t let you burn a witch now: they’d be too worried about “counting the carbon emissions”.  And why oh why oh why does the legal system provide endless opportunities for appeal after appeal?  Just find the damned fellow guilty and be done with it.  Our ancestral records show that Sandy Spencer, the local cooper who was castrated and tortured to death by the Seventh Earl for maybe looking at Lady Kinmuck in a funny way, uttered not a cheep throughout the long and bloody process.  He showed a true British stiff upper lip, right up until the moment the Court Dempster ripped it off with a pair of heated pincers.  We have it still, preserved for posterity in the family vault.  It looks like a little slug that’s got caught in the sun.

It’s time for a return to the values that made this country great.  We must embrace intolerance and return the courts to the hands of a vigorous and uninhibited aristocracy. Only then will we reap the benefits that will come from a righteous outbreak of judicial violence.

Can it really be too much to ask?

 

Looking for that special something for your loved/loathed ones? 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 give one of our CDs to that special someone., or better yet, keep it for yourself.

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.

[oqeygallery id=16]

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 new reality show that’s just for Nadine Dorries: ‘I Lack Credibility; Get Me Out of Here!’

 STRUAN METCALFE, MSP – an Apology

It has been a trying week here at Metcalfe Towers, we’re all very disappointed at the result of the U.S. Presidential election where the conservative candidate took a right thrashing. I speak, of course, of Mumsie’s attempt to depose the incumbent head of the Udny Station WRVS. Regrettably, Mumsicle’s traditional Victoria Sponge was trounced by Rosie Worthington-Worthington’s more liberal Tarte aux Pommes. Meanwhile, over in America, things didn’t go too swimmingly for Mitt Romney either. The expectations of the electorate have been raised to impossible heights by Barrack Obama. Here the same effect has been created by Mary Berry. I have a lot in common with Mitt, though, so I know how he feels. What people don’t understand is that politics is a tough business, and it’s hard for a privately educated chap with a massive personal fortune and the backing of obscenely wealthy special interest groups to get a break.

That aside, as MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions I find that I must, yet again, apologise unreservedly for an ill-considered posting on Twitter. My tweet was provoked by tuning into ITV on Sunday night. I had been hoping to catch the X-factor for a shuftie at the latest arrangement of clingfilm and cobwebs being very nearly worn  by Nicole Sherzingrer; but instead of that I was confronted by Tory MP Nadine Dorries in safari shorts. Incredibly, she has entered “I’m a Celebrity Get Me out of Here”. Can this be true? Is this what UK politics has descended to?  Why did I not think of this first? Accordingly, caught off guard and the wrong side of a better-than-decent Château Le Boscq, I tweeted as follows:

“I’m a Celebrity? I’m a Nonentity more like! Should she have the whip withdrawn? Not until it’s been firmly applied, preferably to her bahuky”.

I’m so sorry. I know that’s not how you spell bahoochie, but in my defence, I only had six characters left. The Squeak has already run several articles, and there have been numerous contributions to their “My Letters” page. I’ve even had Norman Harper on the phone (a lot) telling me off. What a pest he is.

But Westminster’s answer to Fatima Whitbread wont prove to the electorate that she’s different from the ‘arrogant posh boys’ by doing jungle trials on prime time TV. If anything, these so-called challenges – eating creepy crawlies and kangaroo nads and such-like – sound like exactly like the sort of whizzo pranks Super Dave and BoJo got up to at the Bullingdon Club. And I’ll never forget that sunny afternoon in 1983 when Siegfried Holton-Marr of the Upper Fifth – a particularly strapping Gordonstoun prefect – force-fed me foggy bummers on Lossie-Green.

Happy days.

 

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

Football often brings grown men to tears – ask anyone whoever stood in a defensive wall and took one of my direct free-kicks square in the drappers – but watching Celtic last Wednesday fair had me choked with emulsion.  They was taking on Barcelona, the artistic crafts of European football, down at Parkhead.  There was no one what gave Celtic a snowfall’s chance in hell, but they done them Catamarans up like a kipper!  The Spaniards was all over Celtic like a rash, but like anyone who played the game knows all about, the only statistical that counts is goals.  If you get more goals than the opposition, you won’t lose too many matches. I saw Rod Stewart in the crowd blubbing at full time.  Everyone on the telly was saying how sweet it was.  I was greeting just like Rod, but the lovely Melody says to me, she says ‘man up’.  If only she knew I had a hundred notes on 2-0 Celtic at 50-1!  She’d have grat too when Messy scored that late goal, by way of constellation. I have also savouried the sweet smell of defeating a more fancied opponent, just like what Celtic done. I’ll never forget when Inverurie Locos took on the giants of Huntly in the Aberdeenshire shield final in 1982. No one gave the Locos a ghoster, but against the odds we squeaked a 1-0. What was most impressive was we done it with 10 men for 89 minutes. The boy was asking for it though. And I still got my winners medal.

One of our Olympus heroes had a total shocker last week.  You could say he come crashing down to earth.  I didn’t hear about the story until Melody was talking about it the other day.  She kept saying “Bradley Wiggins” this and “Bradley Wiggins” that.  I says to her, I says “it’s Arjo Wiggins, Melody!” But she was not talking about the paper mill at Stoneywood, she was meaning the famous bicyclist .  Poor Wiggo clattered into some wifie in a van and suffered minor injuries.  I think he broke his rib and sprained one of his sideburns.  Fancy that, someone like Bradley – what managed to went all round the whole of France on his bike without a wobble – comes a cropper at the end of his road!  The ironing is delicious.

An unsuitable job for an inabootcomer

J FERGUS LAMONT, arts critic and author of ‘Gilfeather! – The Unauthorised Biography’

‘Unsuitable’.  It was with overwhelming melancholy and a heavy heart that I heard that Aberdeen City Council’s efforts to appoint a worthy personage to lead their bid to be crowned ‘2017 City of Culture’ had been frustrated by the paucity, both in terms of quality and quantity, of the applicants. I fear our City Fathers have been looking in the wrong place.  No doubt the position was advertised nationally, in illustrious publications like the Scotsman, and the Times of London. But where was their cri de coeur in the local media? I saw nothing in the Herald & Post, nor heard a peep through broadcast media, and I refer not just to the twin behemoths of Northsounds One and Two; equally, Shmu FM was silent on the issue.  Truly this region is a mecca for the creative arts, and I cannot be alone in feeling that only someone indigenous to the area would be fully cogniscant of the remarkable cultural beacons, which shine from this Granite City like the ancient lighthouse at Pharos. I feel sure that once these gems are properly publicised, the bid is bound to succeed.

Visual Arts – The city is awash with accidental frescos, created by an army of savant ‘street’ Raphaels. There are mobile installations appearing on the rear of many a freight vehicle; “aslo available in white” and “pleese cleen me” (the deliberate misspellings always put me in mind of Anthony Burgess) and also more permanent works which utilise the very fabric of the city as their canvass. Who can say they have not been affected by “pay no more than 30 a score”, Bridge Street’s insouciant “Rachel T is a right slag” and, brightening the gloomy surrounds of College Street, the convivial “A/deen casuals kill all away fans”?

Music – As Bram Stoker, a great writer with a strong connection to the North East (he used to work in ‘Slaines Castle’ on Belmont Street) famously penned, “Listen to them, the children of the night.  What music they make!”  Aberdeen is akin to the likes of Salzburg in offering a nightly festival of music to satisfy any afficionado. Two, in particular, merit wider recognition.  The Union Bridge Piper, who combines the traditional red face and folk melodies with the modernity of Reebok trainers and industrial noise, and the Monkey House Guitar Wifie (the artist formrly known as the St Nicholas Guitar Wifie) whose performances, owing much to the John Cage school of minimalism and the atonal experimental work of Philip Glass, attract a herd of followers, particularly at 3am, like a latter day Pied Piper.

Gastronomy – As with all true cultural hubs, Aberdeen boasts a wide array of haute cuisine eateries. In food, variety and authenticity are everything, and in those areas the late night bistros of our city centre are unsurpassed. Where else could one purchase, as I did on Friday night, the succulent Asiatic delight of doner kebab, the bohemian mish-mash of chips, cheese and gravy and the Italian classic pizza marguerita – all in the same polystyrene box?

I wept.

Entertainment news with showbiz insider SHELLEY SHINGLES (Miss Fetteresso, 1993

I finally made it to the flicks to see “Skyfall” at the weekend. OMG!  It was the guts of twenty quid for a seat plus a wheelie-bin of popcorn and a slush-puppy.  And they’ve the cheek to say watching pirate DVDs is criminal?!  I’m glad I get in free with my press pass! IMHO it’s almost as bad as the theatre! (I get in free there, too! LOL)

What a bosker of a film it was.  Love the bit at the begining (SPOLIER ALERT! He’s not really dead!) and Adelaide’s fabby theme song where she lists all her favourite puddings; “Lemon Trifle, Apple Crumble!” Plus it features two powerhouse performances from one of my oldest and one of my newest showbiz pals.  It was only recently I first bumped into Daniel Craig.  He’d just left the London premiere of that Swedish film he was in, “The Girl with the Fag and Tattoo” and was in his taxi to the aftershow party.  I was driving behind him and, talk about star-struck; I drove clean into the back of him at the traffic lights!  Nightmare!  I rushed to give him mouth-to-mouth but he was fine (gutted!) Still, it was worth it in the end.  I’ve got an autograph from him that I’ll treasure forever.  It’s right at the bottom of the restraining order.

Dame Judi Dench is aceic as “M” (short for Marjory I think) and she is still one of the nicest wifies I’ve met in showbiz circles.  It was at the Lonach Gathering in 1997 when I first met her.  As always, “The Big Yin” was there and he had heaps of his showbiz pals with him, including Robin Williams (who had really let himself go since leaving Take That) and Dame Judi.  I was there as a spokesmodel for the Fetteresso WRVS home-bakes stall. I’ll never forget what she said to me that day:

‘How much is your Millionaire’s short-bread?’

Wise words from a great lady.

Granny’s golden rule for when the clocks change: ‘Spring Roll, Fall Over’. Of course, she was dottled.

TANYA SOUTER – Lifestyle Guru

I da ken aboot yous, but every time the clocks change I get right confused!  Firstly, it happens twice a year. Fit’s that aboot? My Grunny had a rhyme fit telt you fit wye they go each time. “Spring Rolls and Fall Over” she used tae say – no, hud on, that’s nae right –  “Spring Up and Fall Doon”. “Spring Up” means fan they change in the Spring ye hiv tae get “up” in an affa hurry.  “Fall Doon” is fit happens if you’re in a bar with a 2 o’clock licence fan they pit the clocks back, and you end up spending another hour slamming tequilas! My Grunny had a wee saying for athin. “You can’t take it with you” She used to say. Weel, that was rubbish for a start, as she proved the day she cleaned out Granda’s Post Office account and done a shoot to Magaluf.

Secondly, there’s nae doot that the worst bit of the hale jing bang is the scutter of changing all the clocks in the hoose.  That means your alarm clock, your oven, your micro, your video, and all the bairns’ videos.  The tricky bit is working oot fit time tae change them til, since all the clocks are wrang.  I’ve found this phone line called “The Spikkin Clock”.  Ring it up, pit it on speakerphone and then wander aroond the hoose re-setting everything. It’s nae cheap mind, so best to dae it using the mobile of the lad you brought hame fae the Priory

Last of all there’s that anxious moment when you get tae work on Monday morning.  Hiv ye got the change right or hiv you rocked up an hour late?  Or, worse than that, an hour early?!  Never fear, you can use your telly for a safety check.  If  “Everybody Loves Raymond” is on fan your eating your cornflakes, you’ll be fine.  If it’s  “Jeremy Kyle” – you might be a bitty latchy.

If you’re still confused, jist be thankful you dinna bide in America.   The clocks there change fan you ging fae one city tae the next!  Imagine – if you bide in L.A. een of your pals in New York could tell you fit happens in Hollyoaks afore you’ve even watched it. Nightmare!

 

RON CLUNY, local government spokesperson, speaks out in defence of Halloween

It’s Halloween again, the season of jack o’lanterns, dookin for apples, and the Education department being bombarded with letters and phone enquiries from killjoy parents moaning that Halloween celebrations promote their childrens’ interest in the occult.  More arrant nonsense from a public that does not deserve the calibre of local authority what they have got, and who probably have all seven volumes of the Harry Potter trilogy on their bookshelves at home.  But no, no: their childrens’ interest in ghouls and ghosties can’t be anything to do with that or the Twilight saga – blame the Cooncil!

Previous administrations have sought to “accommodate parents’ concerns” and “dampen down” the celebration of Halloween.  Not us.  This administration is committed to ensuring that Halloween remains at the centre of our civic life for generations to come.  Why?  Firstly, it is a long-standing part of our culture, tracing its roots back to the Celtic festival of Samhain.  It is not to be cast aside by the objections of a few loud mouthed weary wullies.  Secondly, it is a festival of the dead, allowing us an opportunity to reflect both on our own mortality and the fine line that separates the quick from the dead.  And finally, it provides us with an unrivalled opportunity to see lovely, glossy photos of all the hot totty from the telly done up as scantily-clad witches and sexy vampires.

 

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

It seems like a dark cloud has distended over sport following the recent revolutions about Lance Armstrong. The US Anti-drugs Agency says, they says, it was the most sophisticated, professionalised and successful doping programme ever seen in sport. What a shame it is to see that someone who has been an idle to so many has had feet of clay on his pedals all long. I’m no expert, but I always had my suspicions. I mean, it’s one thing to win 7 Tour de Frances, but to do it 40 years after being the first man on the moon? That is mental!  What’s even more mind-blogging is that apparently, although he did all that,  he only had one testimonial. I have got one up on Lance in that respect – I had 2, and they were both massive. One from Longside Juniors and one from Hall Russells

Drugs in sport is a right Dutchy subject. I’m not proud of it, but I once falled foul of performance enhancing substitutes myself. When I was captain of Inverurie Locos we was playing a grunge match against Kintore, and I wasn’t feeling one hundred and ten percent. When the referee wasn’t looking, I quickly touched a wee bit of something to my nose. Sadly, I also touched my eyes so I had to be subbed off. And that was the last time I went near Vicks Vaporub.

 

 

 

You say ‘Potato’,  we say ‘Tattie’ (Holiday)

JONATHON M LEWIS, Head teacher at Garioch Academy

Whilst I prefer to avoid the media spotlight, recent comments levelled at myself and my colleagues necessitate a public retort.  On behalf of all members of Garioch Academy’s extended family, the current October break is not, as some unenlightened parents have suggested, “yet another blimmin’ holiday”. No, it is a much-needed, hard-earned respite for all of us, staff and pupils alike, after 8 frenetic weeks of ceaseless toil (weekends, 2 in-service days and the local holiday notwithstanding). Two teachers were literally on their knees when the bell rang for end of term, and I can assure concerned parents that this was due to the fatigue engendered by imparting knowledge – not, as was alleged, because they spent the lunch break downing celebratory Jagerbombs in the staffroom. Some of the dedicated educators on our team push themselves so hard during term-time that they fall ill during the holidays.  Sadly, Mr Bridge in Modern Studies has suffered another relapse of his spondylitis whilst visiting his niece, Consuela, in Torrevieja. Needless to say, he was devastated to have to let us know that he has to convalesce on the picturesque Costa Blanca for the first 2 weeks of the coming term.  He is in our prayers, and I solemnly vow to root out the individual who daubed his classroom door with “Donde esta, Señor Bridge?” When I discover his or her identity, I will not hesitate to award them the school prize in Modern Languages.But no matter how exhausted the staff, it always fills me with delight to see the pupils at the end of term.  Drained from their hectic day of watching ‘Harry Potter’ or ‘High School Musical’, somehow they overcome this lassitude with a boisterous exuberance, reaching never-before-seen levels of energy, noise, and good-natured damage to school property, reaching a crescendo as they pour out of the school gates – something I’m sure our parents will thank us for throughout the October break.

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER, the football pundit who kicks back

Scotland Supremo Craig Levein has come in for a fair bit of stick since the national team crashed out of conception for the World Cup in Reno. In football, it’s never fair to lay the whole blame at the footsteps of one individual, but I will say this: his tic-tacs was mince.I never played against Craig Levein in the whole of my extinguished career.  Some of my old mates at Tynecastle says he was a gentle, quiet bloke – apart from that time when he punched one of his teammates in the face during a friendly and broke his nose.  We’ve all done it.  I’ve done it three times. After last week’s Scotland results, Craig must have felt like he was the one getting a doing.  I couldn’t believe what my eyes was telling me when Wales got that penalty. Everyone who seen it seen it was a dive. Apart from the Ref. And both the Linesmen. Then on Tuesday the Tartan Army was in Brussels to see Levein’s squad play the Belgiums.  Unfortunately for the supporters, that game didn’t go no better, and our World Cup dream came to the end of the road with a bump.  They look to be a good side, though, and Scotland was outclassed. The last Belgium I seen carving open a defence like that was Hercules Parrot in Murder on the Orient Express.

View from the midden – JOCK ALEXANDER on the unique challenges of Tattie Fortnight in Meikle Wartle:

Weel, it’s been a solanum tuberosumy wik here in the village, for it’s that time of year fan traditionally a great load of scruffy kids descend upon us to earn a few bob howking tatties. Of course, the Tattie Holiday is nae fit it wis. For some reason, the youngsters today is jist nae interested. Nae doot they’re sae busy with their X-wiis and their i-twitters that they hinna time for twa wiks of back-breaking manual labour fae dawn til dusk. It’s a peety, cause fit better wye for young folk to learn aboot the meaning of ‘hard work’ and, indeed,  ‘the exploitation of labour’. Here in Meikle Wartle, however, the Tattie Holiday is still a very special time. As weel as howking  and roguing tatties, we also select the biggest een to run the village for a fortnicht. This year we have a verra impressive 5 pound Kerrs Pink, fit is currently sitting on a big reed cushion in the village hall.  And I must say it’s doing a grand job. We hid a pucklie tourists fae the far flung Metropolis of Aiberdeen visit the village last wik, and fan we telt them a great big tattie wiz in charge, they said it fairly reminded them of hame. Sadly, that was jist aboot the only tattie that’s been picked this year. A combination of hard soil, high acidity, and clement Spring weather, followed by biblical flooding, has resulted in the poorest crop in mony a day.  Fit tatties we’ve managed to harvest had to be howked fae a very difficult location indeed. Aisle four of the Tescos at Huntly. Cheerio!

 

Eating deep-fried confectionary doesn’t get tougher than this!

KEVIN CASH, resident Money saving expert and king of the grips, on city centre conveniences.

I loves a bittie value, so I wiz horrified fan I heard the Cooncil’s thinking o’ upgrading the Union Terrace lavvies at a cost o’ 2.5 million notes.  How much!?  I’ve recently daen up my en-suite (well, the pail that I’ve pit in the eaves o’ my hoose) so I ken a thing or two about chuntie improvement programmes.

Funcy urinals – waste of money!  Mak dae wi the auld Pittodrie system instead: a great muckle trough running the length o the fleer.  Or we could ging a’ Continental, and jist dig a dirty great hole in the grun.  Thrifty!

Wash basins – there’s nae need for movement sensor operated taps.  A basic twisty-twosty job fae Poundland will dae ye.  And half the cost, and save yer watter heatin’ bills, by only fittin the cauld een.  Oor peely wally North East bodies are acclimatised to one temperature – Baltic – so play it cool.  That’s the value!

Hand-dryers – nithin’ bit a needless luxury.  If yer haunds are weet, just rub them oan the jaicket o’ the boy next to ye.  Or, if hot air is absolutely necessary, get Barney Crockett tae lecture ivery chunty-user and hand-washer in the place.  He’s got enough o’ it for abody.

 

J. FERGUS LAMONT, Arts and Restaurant Critic, speaks on a recent gourmet experience.

I was most intrigued to watch the final of Celebrity Masterchef on Friday.  I cried “bravissimo!” at the sight of Danny Mills’ chocolate fondant and wept with joy at Emma Kennedy’s Isles Flottant.  However, not even Ms Kennedy’s most exquisite offering could hold a candle to the repast I sampled at the weekend. I was en route to a major art exhibition at the Lost Gallery, and – fittingly – I was lost.  In Stonehaven, I stumbled upon a rustic eatery named the Carron Fish Bar.  Inside, I espied signs proclaiming “no endorsement” from Mars for their products.  Struck by this public rejection of the corporate giant, I reasoned the restaurant’s fare must be the kind of fairtrade whole-food that forms my staple diet.  I ordered “the speciality of the house”, and was presented with a Deep-Fried Mars Bar.

It was beyond words. Thick, chocolaty, but with an outer crust redolent of tar macadam, the taste was indescribable, primarily because I burnt my tongue so badly that my tastebuds were destroyed.  But the texture, and the smell!  Suggestive of the cocoa plantations of the Ivory Coast, and promising pleasures naughtier than a tipsy Nigella!  I was moved to order a further five which I ate there and then, forcing them into my blistered maw between whimpers of joy, before seizing the wide-eyed girl behind the counter and embarking upon upon a passionate declaration of my admiration of this wondrous foodstuff.  So impassioned was I, indeed, that I passed out and awoke in hospital.  Be assured, however, that I shall be returning as soon as my blood cholesterol reading has fallen to a safe level, and after I have overturned the interdict preventing me from entering the premises.

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

Weel it’s bin a remarkable wik here in Meikle Wartle, efter it emerged that candid photos hid been taen by surreptitious means.  At’s richt, siven grainy oot o focus shots o’ Feel Moira workin oot in the fields durin’ that one hot day last wik, topless. The village has nivver seen the like! It turns oot that she wiz “papped” by local photography expert Billy “the Snapper” Knapper, fa’d been hidin up a tree in Moira’s gairden, overlookin’ the field. A’ the evidence pointed tae him, such as the empty film cases, a discarded wallet, and o’ course Billy himself, fa hid fallen aff the tree and got trapped in Feel Moira’s whirly.  Verra few o’ us accepted Billy’s explanation that he wiz up the tree lookin for spurgie’s eggs but we still freed him and took him doon the Chemist so he could get his cuts and grazes dressed.  And so that we could get the photies developed.  Faith aye.

 

PC BOBBY CONSTABLE, local community policeman, on the City’s Fresher’s Week festivities

Late September is my favourite time o’ year.  The leaves is turnin’ russet, it’s gettin’ caul enough fer Atholl brose an’ me and the boys fae the station hiv usually sewn up the Bowling Club pennant by noo.  Sadly, ‘ere’s jist one thing fit ruins it. Fresher’s wik.

Dinna get me wrang, I’ve nihin’ against students – the boys fae Drug Squad’s awyse seeking oot their company.  But I’ve spent the hale summer enjoyin’ my evenin’ shifts tucking into a vanilla slider doon ‘e beach or rakin’ fer lost gowf ba’s at Auchmill.  Last wik I wis up tae ma oxters in stolen traffic cones, drunk an’ disorderlies an’ fowk flaggin doon the squad car thinking it’s a taxi.  An’ ‘is is supposed tae be the flower o wir youth?

Friday night wis i’ worst.  Belmont Street wiz like the fall o the Roman Empire: fowk peein’ and boakin’ awye!  Fit a work it is tae clean!  Widnae be sae bad if they boaked first an’ then sluiced it awa efterwards, but ye canna teach these young fowk nithin nowadays.

Mind how you go!