That’s summer over – if that’s the right word for three months of freezing fog, howling wind and floods.

TANYA SOUTER – lifestyle guru, on the Autumn trends

I da ken aboot yous, but I’ve been feeling affa caul of late.  The central heating at mines is back up to ‘full’ and I’m preparing to hand over my first born to British Gas fan the bill arrives. It’s nae hass, I wis never that fond of the little radge onywye. And I’m nae saying the weather’s been weet, but on Friday past I seen a mannie with a massive beard gathering twa o’ ivry animal intae a boat.

Noo that the’ nights are drawing in and frosty morning’s is starting, you’ll a’ be needing tae spruce up yer wardrobes a bittie.  Autumn is een o’ my top four seasons so look nae further fer some style tips tae help you stick oot fae the crowd.

First of a’, this season’s ‘must have’ is something retro. Think of Autumn’s big look as mixter-maxter of highlights fae the 40s, to the 70s. And fit could be mair iconic than the classic belted rain coat.? I’d been on the look oot fer the perfect een fer a couple o’ wiks until I clocked it on Setterday fan I wis standing ootside the Crown & Anchor fer a fag.  It wis a wee mannie wis weering it, so I taps him on the shooder an’ asks him far he got it.  He turns roon and tries tae show me the inside label, but the feel gype hid forgotten tae pit his breeks on!  Peer thing, til that moment I hidna realized just fit a caul nicht it wis.

That got me thinking, us lassies also hiv to worry aboot fit wye we can adapt wir usual “night-oot” attire tae suit the cauler evenings.  The answer is simple ladies.  Weer exactly the same outfit you wore for clubbing in Aya Nappa in July, but team it wi’ an additional layer of fake-tan. This autumn, the classic ‘tangerine’ skin tone is considered passé, as darker hues come mair tae the fore. Think teak, walnut or mahogany. There’s a number of excellent products on the market, but I recommend Ronseal’s quick drying woodstain.

Finally, the best wye tae beat the chill fan yer oot on the toon is tae get torn intae the Jaeger bombs!  Efter five o’ them ye canna even tell if yer inside or oot. Ciao!

It’s political conference season, but it wasn’t just the Tories who had their annual shindig last week.

DODDIE ESSLEMONT, Radical Independence campaigner and Chairman, Leader, Treasurer, Chief Whip and Social Convener of the Independence for 39G Seaton Drive Party.

I have just returned from giving my keynote address to the Annual Conference of the Independence for 39G Seaton Drive Party.  This was an important speech, which came at a crucial time in the party’s development.  Last year, sections of the party had been unimpressed by the venue for the conference – a prominent bakers on George Street – and by certain key pledges.  “Yes, we agree that there should be free butteries and Tennent’s Lager for all citizens of 39G Seaton Drive”, said the Treasurer, “but how is this to be funded?”  This led to a spirited defence from the Leader of the Party and fierce allegations of penny-pinching by the Social Convenor before the proprietor of the conference venue, a simple man unversed in the cut and thrust of political debate, asked me to leave his shop. Apparently, me shouting at myself was upsetting the other customers. Radical political ideas can have that effect on the ignorant (I happen to know that in 1922 Trotsky was ejected from the Minsk branch of the Tasty Tattie in almost identical circumstances). In any event, the proprietor of the bakery was insistent, despite my threat to impose sanctions upon the sale of meat and pastry based comestibles when ultimately I am recognised as a sovereign nation.  Truly, there is no reasoning with some people.

Following that farrago, the party spared no expense for this year’s venue – a junior suite in a local dockside hotel, which I had booked for a full three hours.  I spoke – without notes, or a jacket and tie, but with passion and verve – about my vision for an independent 39G Seaton Drive.  One Nation, at ease with itself.  One Nation, with no great disparities between the conditions of the poorest or richest citizen.  One Nation, with one person living in it.

As I concluded, I drew gasps of appreciation from the Party Chairman and the Chief Whip and a thunderous standing ovation broke out which lasted a full 20 minutes and would, I am sure, be still ongoing had a hotel manager not chapped on the door and told me to hop it so fellow who had booked the room for the next half-hour could pop in for a spot of lunch-time adultery.

The conference, then, was a great success.  Greatness is within my grasp. It is time to go back to my scullery, and prepare for Government!

 

 

Review – Pauline Alexander saw Flying Pig Productions’ The Silence of the Bams at His Majesty’s Theatre.

Listen very carefully, I shall say this only eence – Aberdeen’s Flying Pigs delivered laughs in spades during their latest Doric comedy offering, Silence of the Bams.

Fit iver ye dae ower the next dizen days, mak sure ye ging tae His Majesty’s Theatre and tak’ in een o’ their shows and ye’ll nae be dissapinted.

The four piece Buckie Drifters provided a strong opening to the show led by Craig Pike. This is quickly followed by the exasperated Mr Duguid, brilliantly portrayed by Greg Gordon, who try as he might could not get anyone at the end of a phone to pronounce his name correctly.

No Flying Pigs show would be complete without the banter between favourite skiving workers Archie and Davie as they put the world to rights. And who needs Elton John when Hilton John is on our doorstep extolling the virtues o’ Rubislaw Den far ye can bide in a hoose that has a lavvie wi’ a door?

Craig Pike excelled himself as Faither, dreading the arrival of nightmare couple and pair o’grips Selma and Eddie who arrived complete with a bottle of tattie brandy.

The Mieklewartle Television sketch featured farming characters Jock and Jim waxing lyrical about their state of the art tractor which runs on North-East sharn is an absolute must for any Flying Pigs’ show – as was the Doric skit revealing the truth behind those lonely hearts columns.

Steve Rance’s hilarious parody on Union Terrace Gardens was superb and really struck a nerve with the audience, while John Hardie excelled as new character The Lurker who happens to be very choosy about who he approaches in men’s toilets.

The air stewards sketch featuring Greg, this time joined by Moray Barber, had everyone in stitches as the retired trawlermen talked everyone through the Doric version of the safety drill – advising everyone to keep their own set of teeth as they would come in handy for identification purposes later on.

Well done Flying Pigs and their superb back-up team of talented writers for another gem of a show.

Evening Express 11/10/2011

They said Aberdeen has its head stuck in the sand. Well, we showed them!

 

ARCHIE FRASER, City Centre Resident

Aberdeen has attracted some negative publicity of late. We’ve been the subject of ridicule; the descisons of our City Fathers regarded by some as shortsighted, lacking in vision, parochial. But recently, the actions of one man have elevated Aberdeen’s profile beyond measure. Now, thanks to incredible advancements in information technology, when the world thinks of Aberdeen only one image is brought to mind.  It’s not an image of granite, oilrigs or an abandoned city centre garden development. It’s an image of one man, a true hero of or time, with his head stuck in a bin.

Willie, or ‘Bucket Heid’ as he is now known to a global audience, has, like myself, been a denizen of the city centre for longer than I care, or indeed, am able, to remember. We’ve shared many a bench, a fair few bottles of Tia Maria and any number of incoherent shouting matches over the years, and no-one is more deseving of the sobriquet ‘ Public Figure’ than he. So I was heartened to read in the discarded copy of the Press and Journal that I had stuffed into my shirt for extra warmth, that he had finally achieved the level of recognition he has always, in all honesty, demanded.

Well known to many, with his humorous catch phrase “Chief! Chief!  See’s a pound?” He is a true renaissance man. A tireless fundraiser for such worthy causes as the ‘Willie Middleton Cup of Tea Fund”, the “Willie Middleton Bus Fare Home Trust” and the  “Friends of Tennants Super”, he is also a trend setter. The recent popularity of Magners, Koppaberg and other cider type drinks in the summer beer gardens of the city can be largely put down to the influence of the style statement he has been making since 2009, to only drink White Lightening on the bench outside the Soul Bar.

He’s also a tireless campaigner on behalf of the homeless, principally (one might say exclusively) himself, and once staged a ‘slump-in’ protest, falling asleep in the reception of his solicitor’s office where he had ventured to escape a particularly heavy rainstorm. Once the weather had improved, his legal advisor, unable to rouse him from his slumber (one might call it the ‘the sleep of the just had a bottle of Buckie’) was compelled to drag him by the ankles out into the street. The next day, Willie re-attended the premises, this time to seeking legal advice as to how to pursue a claim for his mysterious carpet burns.

I know speak for all of Aberdeen’s gentlemen of the road when I say Willie, we salute you! Or to put it another way; hats off to Bucket Heid!

 

 

‘Sorry’ seems to be the hardest word. Except for politicians, for them it’s ‘resignation’.

STRUAN METCALF, MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions – A (Grudging) Apology

Dear friends, constituents and most importantly, Super Dave. It is, once again, incumbent on me to unreservedly apologise for recent comments made – in the heat of battle, one might say – this time to the Turriff Constabulary (namely one PC Archie Findlater) .
I am relieved to report that my latest outburst was not made on Twitter, but orally – through my very own mouth piece – as I was cycling home on my push-bike (a pretty natty Chris Boardman hybrid, natch! None of your “Boris Bikes” for me), following a visit to the local primary school. As a result, rather than being read and re-tweeted by my several thousand followers, my remarks were heard only by a very small number of my constituents. And their young children. I had cycled through the play-ground when the local plod on duty refused to open the gate and let me ride straight through without having to stop. He made me get off my bike and walk 15 metres round to the parent’s entrance. Un-be-lievable. So I let rip.
In my defence it had been a particularly trying day back at HQ. My new researcher, Lexie Tong-Begg (Apparently, in the modern, caring Tory party I am not allowed to call her ‘Sexy Long-Legs’. It’s poitical correctness gone mad.) is proving a slow-study in the most important areas of political life. Firstly, my sausage sandwich that morning was not the usual Cumberland and a spot of HP, but rather involved an inexplicable square of something called ‘lorne’. Next, having failed to acquire, as requested, a bottle of Chateauneuef De Pape 2010 to accompany luncheon she substituted a can of  Vimto. Finally, she hadn’t sorted out the road tax for my new Land Rover Evoque, so it was sitting idle outside the office; hence the bike. All in all, it’s hardly surprising that I was tipped over the edge.
However, I would gently point out that I did not say the words that have been ascribed to me. I fully accept that my language was…choice. One might say fruity, industrial even. I know that the officer in question, and a number of other witnesses, have described it as a disgusting expletive laden hate-filled tirade of foul-mouthed vitriol and abuse. And I wouldn’t disagree with that. However, I’m at least 51% sure that I did not refer to the constable as a “teuchter”. Most people who know me know I would not use words like that in describing anyone. Even total bumpkins like PC Findlater. Having said that, I must apologise for failing to treat the jobsworth rozzer with the respect he deserved.
“Oi, Hamish McBeth! Do you know who you’re dealing with?” I enquired, after he’d threatened to detain me for a breach of the peace “Yes, Mr Metcalf”, he replied. “and thanks to the Police National Computer I also know who that Landrover parked on double yellows outside your office belongs to. Which is why I’m having it impounded.”

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER – The Football Pundit who kicks back!

I was thanking my lucky charms this weekend because I managed to see the whole of the Ryder Cup.  I didn’t go to Madeira, where they was playing it in the actual flesh – but the lovely Melody was away in Manchester with the girls to see a show with Chris Moyles in, ‘ Superstar? Jesus Christ!’, I think that’s the name of it. Any road, the up-swing was that I got to watch it all on the 50” plasma. It was well exciting. I couldn’t help noticing how good a golfer Rory McGrath has become since he shaved off his beard, and I was surprised to hear Tiger Woods had been left out of the foursome on Saturday. By all accounts he’s had a bit of practice at that sort of thing. I’ll tell you what else though, they fairly picked the right place for it. The course at Madiera is pheremonal, and it’s still daylight there even when it’s well after midnight. Mental.If I had not managed to become a professional athlete, I think I would have liked to have been a golfer.  The boys at Pittodrie thought so too because once I seen someone had wrote up on the wall of the plunge bath “Kenny Cordiner’s had more clubs than Jack Nicklaus ”.  And I am not a loner. A lot of my old pals from the world of Scottish football enjoys 19 holes from time to time. I once played in a pro-am with Alan “Tall-Dark-and” Hansen at Royal Deeside.  He was a great player in his day. There’s not many can say they beat Willie Miller to a 50/50 ball. It is just a pity they was both playing for Scotland at the time. He’s a good golfer too, and I was having an off day. After a well rubbish tee shot on the 5th I says to him, I says “Alan!  What am I doing wrong?”  So he says to me, he says, “You’re standing too close to the ball”.  I shoogled my feets and says “Is that better?” and he says to me, “No Kenny”, he says,  “I meant after you hit it!”

‘Rowie’ has been added to the dictionary. Hang on, ‘Rowie’ wasn’t in the dictionary?

Publishers Collins have been inviting the submission of new words for their dictionary from the public at large. Well, it saves them the bother of hiring any actual researchers. The upshot has been the recent addition to the lexicon of English of both the ridiculous (‘amazeballs’) and the sublime (‘rowie’).  But here are a few more newly minted words to keep them going.

McCartneys (məˈkahrt-neys) noun

A sad condition, which causes the sufferer to labour under the misapprehension that, in spite of their advanced years, they continue to be possessed of the same high degree of proficiency in a particular skill that they demonstrated in their youth.  Thus if Craig Brown became convinced that the way to improve the Dons’ defence was to pick himself at right back, he would be suffering from a touch of the McCartneys.  See also “did naebody tell him?” 

Sigh-Tech (sahy-tek) adjective

Descriptive of an eagerly-awaited and relentlessly hyped piece of modern technology (invariably consumer electronic hardware) that, upon its release, turns out to be almost indistinguishable from it’s predecessors.

 “So what do you think of the new iPhone 5?”

“It’s Sigh-tech, I’m afraid. It’s marginally faster when I’m checking Facebook on the lavvy, but that’s about it”

 Furiosity  (fyoor-ee-os-i-tee) noun

A simultaneous feeling of both strong disapproval and shamefully voyeuristic interest in something.

“What do you think about those foreign newspapers printing those topless photos of Kate Middleton?”

“I am choked with furiosity! I think it’s appalling that her privacy was breached in that way. I spent hours on the internet venting my spleen!”

“Did you see the pictures?”

“Oh aye!” 

RON CLUNY, spokesman for the city council, hits back at recent criticism of the administration

True to form, there has been the all-too predictable outcry over this administration’s plan to shut 8 libraries within the city, with the usual suspects lining up to attack our decision as yet more regressive cost-cutting.  Once again, our opponents have missed the point and are taking the public for fools.  Ours is a progressive measure, part of our on-going policy of ensuring that public services are in line with the needs and desires of the modern Aberdonian.  The simple fact of the matter is that the way that young people use libraries is changing.  Times move on.  You or I saw a library as a chance to bury our plooky faces into our monthly selection of sci-fi books while stealing furtive glances from under our lank fringes at the bonny quine from Albyn browsing her way through the music section.  The modern youth is an altogether more sophisticated and go-ahead individual who looks upon a library building as an opportunity to improve his window-breaking skills, set fires and take video footage of himself copulating in the doorway.  Our critics conveniently overlook the fact that our initiative will not prevent any of this from happening; indeed, it may very well make them all easier.  The true issue, therefore, is not why are we making this cut, but why were we spending this money in the first place?  Moreover, the reallocation of funding away from the library budget will help us to allow our young people to break free from the worthless shackles of the ivory tower. Instead of condemning our young people to a university education, we will be able to provide them with a practical training which matches the opportunities which exist in the modern Aberdeen: removing chuddy from Union Street, lap dancing, and fast food home delivery services.  It is a future that inspires me; it should inspire you, too.

Celebrity gossip with our showbiz insider SHELLEY SHINGLES (Miss Fetteresso, 1993)

To New York this week for the US Open (EXCITEMENT! I love Golf!!). Did you know that the Big Apple is not just the name of a book by Roald Dahl about a little boy who makes friends with some creepy-crawlies, it’s also a real place?? In AMERICA!! Me neither!! You learn something new every day!!! I said as much to my great chum Fergie when we bumped into each other at Andy Murray’s press conference. I never got to ask my question (‘Isn’t it about time you got a haircut?’) because Fergie and Sean Connery gatecrashed and took over the whole thing (How rude! Angry face). It’s amazing that Fergie’s done so well, really, as manager of The Manchester United, when you bear in mind that when she married Prince Andrew she was nothing but a ginger-heided ill-tricket pleiter. And as for Sir Sean, it was amazing to see our greatest living Scotsman in the flesh. That’s not something you’d ever see back home!!! The game itself was amaaaazing. With this victory and his Olympic Gold Medal in the cycling, Andy is a shoo-in for Sports Personality of the Year. People always moan about him having a face like a wet weekend in Colpy, but so would you if every time you hit a ball over the fence, some bloke was there trying to hit it back again. Our paths crossed again on the flight back to the UK, and I’ll never forget what he said to me:

“Are you alright in there? You’ve been in for ages.”

Wise words, from a true gent.

We’ve got our own version of ‘Who Do You Think You Are’. It’s called ‘Fa’s the Boy?’

Last week we all tuned in to see Annie Lennox trail around a fascinating selection of derelict closes, abandoned factories and tumbledown shacks. But her tour of Northern Scotland’s most vandalized buildings wasn’t just kryptonite for the tourism industry, it’s also inspired some of our regular contributors to look into their own ancestry.

DODDIE ESSLEMONT, Radical Independence Campaigner

When a researcher from TV’s “Who Do You Think You Are” turned up on my doorstep, I was not surprised.  I had been expecting it since I heard that they were doing a show on Annie Lennox.  I’d never had proof that we were related but had always felt a deep connection to her.  For instance, I frequently sing her “Thorn in My Side” while looking at a map of England.  It came as a bit of a shock, therefore, to learn that I was not related to her, but to an entirely different public figure from south of the border. The news that I had English blood was disconcerting but not a complete surprise; on reflection, it is obvious to me now that the Sassenach genes are centered in my right knee, which is gammy in a way that no truly Scottish joint could be.  It has, however, taken some time to get over the shock that I am distantly related to David Cameron.  A meeting has been set up and I am very much looking forward to it.  I say this partly because it will provide me with a forum to advance my radically independent agenda; partly because it is a reminder that there is more in life that unites us than divides us, even from our greatest enemies; but mainly, because although two of us will go into that meeting, only one will come out.

JOCK ALEXANDER – MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) Presenter

Weel michty, it’s been a genealogical wik here in the village! I decided tae mak a study of my femly tree, luckily, it’s growin’ oot in the field a’hin my coo-shed. Weel, I say growin’ it’s jist a stump noo thanks to that dose o’ Dutch Elm Disease. So instead, I engaged the help o’ the Meikle Wartle Femly History Society, itherwise kent as Maisie Ferguson, Village Gossip. She kens a’thin aboot a’bdy; in particular fa’s been inveigled with fa, ga’an back tae Nineteen oatcake.  I brocht along the parish records, which were a great help tae her, as they kept her bar stool steady files she regaled me with a’ my femly’s ins and oots. The research broke doon a bittie fan we got tae my great-grandfaither, Wullie Alexander, as according tae femly tradition, he wiz also my great-uncle. And possibly his ain cousin’s faither-in-law. Or his brither twice removed.  Onywye, fit became clear wis that exactly like Annie Lennox’s forbears; folk in Meikle Wartle lived in rural poverty, with illegitimacy and deprivation commonplace. And I’m proud to say that here in the village we’re keeping those traditions very much alive!

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER – Football pundit

I was dead excited when I babbled in a bit of genealogy the other day.  I was asked at a testimonial dinner if my faither had ever done football for a living.  I says to the boy, I says “Aye. My old man Billy Cordiner used to be sweeper for Hall Russell.” Next day I checked with my mither and she says to me, she says “Dinna be daft Kenny! Sweeper wisna his position at Hall Russell, it wis his job description! He played ootside half for Culter!”  This was quite a revolution, and as I drove away from my mither’s in the Jag, I started thinking, – what about my Da’s Da?  And my Da’s Da’s Da?  And my Da’s Da’s Da’s Da? And then I realised that for some reason I had driven to ASDAs. Mental.

Anyroad, It turns out there’s been Cordiners in and around Aberdeen since the mid-1800s and they have all been excellent footballers. In 1887 one of my Manchesters, Stanley Cordiner, was the first holder of the record for “career red cards” and it only got beat in 1910 by his son Archie.  Spookily, the record has been broke every twenty-odd years by one of us Cordiner boys, right up to my own tally of 31.  Here’s hoping my wee boy, Zander, is a clip off the old block!

JIMMY HOLLYWOOD – Sandilands’ most eligible bachelor

“Fa div I think I am?” God’s gift tae the ladies, that’s fa! But hey, seriously, investigating my lineage is something hiv explored with interest. Just like the Hazelheid Maze. And Internet pornography.

I hiv been real keen on looking intae far I come fae, given I hiv nae real info aboot onybody on my Da’s side of the family. Or aboot my Da, come tae think aboot it.

Onywye, last night I did ask Ma Hollywood aboot my roots – and she telt me l needed to go and see Shireen. Tae get them done again.

Poor Prince Harry just can’t win. He gets stick when he wears a Nazi uniform and just as much when he doesn’t!

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

I see my old pal Prince Harry has been creating a bit of a stir. Well, if a young lad, can’t let off a bit of steam playing “strip cribbage”, then what can he do?! LOL. Being third in line to the throne isn’t all fun you know. Did you see how many events he went to at the Olympics? What a time he must have spent on that ticket website!!

Of course, Hazza and me go way back. We met outside the Fife Arms during the Braemar Gathering in 2000.  I was working as spokes model for Chalmers the Baker and he had a face like fizz after an unsuccessful attempt to get served in the lounge bar. Maybe the reason we clicked was because we’ve got so much in common.  I mean, we’ve both been cried a “Wild Child” in the tabloids (him in the Sun, Star and Mirror, me in the Herald and Post) and I’ll never forget what he said to me:

“Excuse me, would you mind awfully going into the Spar and getting me six cans of McEwan’s export and 10 Silk Cut? I’ll give you the money.”

Wise words, from a true gent.

 

 “ON VICTORY AND VISION” – a Blog by Tim Bee, the extremely conscientious objector

One of the many things I have long objected to is the City Garden Project. Thankfully, the Powers-That-Be have ignored the will of the majority and listened to us, the self-appointed and noisy few.

Some might think that I am sitting back, arms behind head in the classic “gorilla” pose smiling smugly at all I have achieved and mouthing “Up yours the so-called ‘Granite Web’”.  And you’d be right. I’m doing it…now.

But still, I am not content. The Council’s decision was an important first step, but it does not go far enough. Yes, they have halted the “development”, but still they propose to give Union Street a bit of a tart up. Is that really what we want? I say, “no it isn’t”. It isn’t re-development that this city needs, it is “de-development”.

The mistakes of the past must be erased, and I will not rest until the Bon Accord Baths are re-opened, and the St Nicholas & Bon Accord Centres are demolished and replaced with the twin retail powerhouses of Isaac Benzies and The Rubber Shop. We shall rebuild them, brick by brick. And rubber by rubber.

But it’s not just our infrastructure that has suffered in the mad rush to modernise; our very way of life has been affected too. So I propose a three point plan to restore Aberdeen to its former glory:

1. Top Club to return to our screens in a prime-time slot, hosted by Jimmy Spankie (Frank Gillfeather at a push).
2. Doug Rougvie back in his rightful place at the heart of the Dons’ defence. And
3. Every Friday a spotty loon will come to your door, selling cream.

It is this type of ambition and vision that was missing from the City Garden Project. These so-called ‘oil’ tycoons don’t understand what the people need, that’s why they try to give them what they want!

Friends, our time has finally come. Join us, in putting Aberdeen back on the map. Specifically, the Ordnance Survey map, circa 1974.

 

ARCHIE FRASER –  city centre resident of no fixed abode

I have been a long-standing supporter of the City Garden Project. Well, if not long-standing, then certainly long-sitting (mostly on the benches behind the statue of Edward VII, from whence my hacking cough can usually be heard.)

As one of the few regular users of the existing Gardens, I was very much looking forward to incomprehensibly debating the issues of the day with my fellows beneath the fly-overs of the Granite Web, and to relaxing in the Plaza of the Cultural Centre, the ideal spot for consuming, and then regurgitating, a bottle of Tia Maria.

But sadly, through the lack of vision of our elected officials, this dream of a brighter future has been shattered.

My associate, Ronnie McKenzie (you may know him; formerly of the steps of Gilcomston Church, nose like a beefsteak tomato) suggested I should dull my disappointment with a bottle of White Lightening. Regrettably, I was stony broke, and could not afford the £1.42 required. Seeing the sorrow etched on my face he proposed to provide me with 50p of his own funds, and then introduced me to the venture capitalist Big Al McGarvie, who loaned me 92p at a very reasonable rate of interest. I enjoyed my cider, and shouting obscenities at passers by as I drank it. With my shiny new bottle of booze, I became very popular, as a number of other gentlemen-of-the-road gathered around me convivially, some even paying 5p for a scoof. But it was not enough to repay my debt, (well, these are straightened times for everyone). Eventually, the cider was gone, and I was left alone, with nothing but an empty vessel and a slight case of the DT’s. Now I am destitute once again. And Big Al says if I don’t give him a pound by teatime, he’s going to break my thumbs.

That’s just change to some folk, but unfotunately it’s change I simply can’t afford.

Why stop at the Bible? Let’s translate every book into Doric, from Lady Chatterly’s Bidie–In to Captain Corelli’s Squeezebox

A Buchan man has translated the New Testament into Doric. J. FERGUS LAMONT, arts critic and author of “See You Neist Wik’ – A Post Brechtian Analysis of the Life and Work of Robbie Shepherd’ has been inspired.

When I learned that someone had completed a version of the Gospels in ‘the Mither Tongue’ it struck me that this should be regarded as only the first arabesque in a greater movement. What marks out the argot of the North-East of Scotland, along with its impenetrable obscurity, is its honesty, its blunt, matter-of-fact truthfulness. What better way to reveal the ‘intimmers’ of other great works of literature, until now hobbled by the misfortune of being written in standard English, than to translate them all? Poetry, prose or drama ‘the Doric’ illuminates all writing.

Daffodils; William Wordsworth

I trachled roon, jist on my Todd, confused by unfamiliar hills

Fan fit should I espy, by God, but heaps and heaps o’ Daffodills;

I’m lost nae mair, there’s nae a doubt, I’m on Mounthooly Roundabout!

The Fall of the House of Fraser; Edgar Allen Poe

Durin’ the hale o a dreich, dull day wi the rain batterin doon like stair rods – fit we cry “high summer” here in Aiberdeen – I’d been traipsing doon a verra gloomy and unloved piece o grun – Union Street.  And as I pushed my wye through the winos, pastry-eatin minkers strung oot on drugs and auld folk, strung oot across the width o the pavement, yappin’ awa and blockin the wye through, I cam upon a maist unhappy scene.  There, its wa’s damp and grey and soulless windows starin oout upon an unsympathetic world, unsympathetically butchered and split up into several gaudy shops, wiz the melancholy House of Fraser.

Aye. It’s nae fit it wis.

Hamlet; William Shakespeare

Hamlet: I am Hammy. Prince o’ Denburn. Here I stand atop my highest battlements. Ken ‘is, I’m knackered. Fit a steps there is up here. Hud on, fa’s that? Jings, it’s my da! But he’s deed! Fit is this, ‘You’ve Been Framed’?

Ghost: Wheesht, loon, I’ve somethin’ affa important tae tell ye. There’s been…a murder.

H: Like on Taggart! Fa’s been murdered?

G: Me, ye gype.

H: So that’s fit wye yer deid! Fit happened?

G: I wiz pizened by my ain brither.

H: Nae… feel Uncle Cloddy ?!

G: Aye! And noo he’s shacked up with yer ma.

H: I ken. Gadsy, is it?

G: I wint you tae ging an gi’e him a richt good hidin’.

H: Fair enough, da. I’ll dae it.

G: Swear.

H: Ok, I’ll bliddy dae it!

G: Magic. But Hammy, get a bend on. You’re an affa loon for faffin’ aboot! (gings aff)

H: Tae be, or nae tae be, Fit a scunner. Is it better tae tak it on the chin or gi’e it a square go – oot in the car park! Tae snuff it. The big sleep. Tatties. Wid that be better than hunders o’ wee electric shocks? Tae sleep, mebbes tae dream. Aye, that’s the danny o’ it. But fit dae ye dream aboot, fan ye’ve shoogled aff this mortal coil? It’s nae going tae be scoring the winner for the Dons at Hampden, is it!? My mither’s shacked up with my uncle. My uncle’s murdered my da. My da, fa’s deid, keeps nipping ma heed. And my blonde thinks I’m a nutter an a’!

VIEW FROM THE MIDDEN – Rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter, JOCK ALEXANDER

There wiz excitement this wik in the village fan we saw got an unexpected visit fae fugitive Julian Assange.  Apparently, efter a pucklie wiks in the Ecuadorian embassy, he wiz sick tae the back teeth o’ cocoa an yucca plants, and decided tae try a different hidey-hole afore wee Wullie Haig made good on his threats and sent in the SAS. And if you need a place that’s totally unknown tae the rest o’ civilization, far better than Meikle Wartle?Wi’ jist the one phone box and nae CCTV we’re fairly ‘aff the grid’ here in the village. Ye cannae be traced fan ye use yer credit card in Meikle Wartle, cause we dinna tak plastic. In fact, we dinna tak Sterling; oor local currency is neeps and tatties. So Julian fairly thought this wid be the place for him. Unfortunately, his visit wisnae a total success and afore lang he wis back doon in Knightsbridge  chapping on the embassy door and smelling faintly of sharn. He’d turned up at Mains O’ Skitteryhippen fairm asking Wullie Kemp for Asylum. Unfortunately, Wullie’s getting a bittie deef, so he pit him in a silo. For a wik. But he’s nae the first fugitive fae justice we’ve hid in Meikle Wartle, ye ken. We hid Lord Lucan here for a filie, back in the 1970’s. He wis a fine lad, nae trouble tae naeb’dy and kept himself tae himself. Maist o’the time he jist hung aboot wi that great muckle sumpf wi the funny name, Elvis fae Persley. Mind you, he hid a rare singing voice. His bothy ballads wis second tae neen. Elvis I mean, nae Lord Lucan. He couldna cairry a tune in a bucket.

Hooray! Hooray! Its a Holi- Holiday! destination Magaluf and Minsk

This week, a number of weel-kent local folk tell us what they did on their holidays.

JIMMY HOLLYWOOD – Sandilands’ most eligible bachelor

Fit a time I’ve hid wi’ the lads this summer – twa wiks o’ unadulterated carnage wi’ the Kittybrewster and Ashgrove posties “on tour” in Ibiza!  Weel, it wiznae much of’a tour given we flew direct fae the ‘Deen – mair like a tourette.Onywye, I spent the hale twa wiks getting bleezin and chattin’ up some tasty bits o’ stuff.  Back of the net!  Best bit wiz the all night rave at Pacha wi some o’ the world’s best DJ’s – Judge Jules (apparently he’s nae a real judge), Pete Tong and John McRuvie.  All the greats!Fit’s even better aboot the hodilay wiz that wir hotel hid free WiFi – so I could FaceTime mither every night fan I got hame tae let her ken I wiz safe and sound. I really miss her faniver I ging awa.  And no amount of “quality time” wi’ some nubile 19 year aul fae Slovenia will niver change that.

JONATHAN M LEWIS, Headteacher of Garioch Academy

Whilst the staff and pupils at Garioch Academy have been taking some well-earned rest, I have been working tirelessly to further our school’s journey to becoming a world-class centre of excellence.  Chief among my tasks has been posing for and overseeing the sculpting of a 20 foot bronze statue of myself.  Sadly, this understated tribute will not be unveiled when term starts as a stray bolt of lightning struck the effigy during a storm.  Hopefully the sculptor will soon have a gap in his schedule to return my face to its original pristine splendour.  In other news, parents will no doubt be delighted to hear that our exam results have proven to be the best in the country.  Cynics will suggest that this is related to the retrospective permanent exclusion of any pupil who did not obtain straight ‘A’ grades however I remind all stakeholders that I am a strict disciplinarian.  Some of the affected pupils had committed serious breaches of school rules like running in the corridor, waking the janitor and not saluting the headmaster.  Naturally, with a reduced senior school of only 7 pupils, the majority of our teaching staff have been placed on the Local Authority’s compulsory transfer list.  But I am sure we will all agree that disrupting the careers of a large number of talented professionals is a small price to pay for our leap up the league table.  Ever onwards!

TANYA SOUTAR – Lifestyle Guru

I had a crackin’ time on my hol’days!  Me and my chums hit Magaluf fer some sun, sea and sangria.  Fit a laugh we hid!  ‘Scept for Tracy, fa spent 4 days solid in the en-suite chunty!  Weel maybe “solid”’s nae the best word to use, noo I think on it.  I telt her nae tae drink ‘at tap water! Unfortunately, wir hol’day wis spoiled a bittie fan wi passed through airport security on the wye hame.  Melanie wis fumin’ fan they telt her she couldnae tak her Blue Label Smirnoff back in her hand luggage.  They wis ga’n tae poor it awa but she downed the hale lot!  She managed to keep it doon, too, right up til we wiz landin’ at Luton.  It wiz a shame aboot that wifie’s sombrero, mind. Aye, those security fowk really need to loosen up wi their rules and regulations.  I dinna even wint to think aboot fit they did tae the peer goldfish Shelley won at the fair.
THE REVEREND EDMOND REDMOND, Minster of Holburn North-North East.

I initially intended to spend my summer holiday in retreat on the Holy Isle of Lindisfarne.  “Holiday” is, after all, a contraction of “holy day” – a fact which is, I fear, sometimes lost on the Club 18-30 fraternity!  However, recent events moved me to alter my plans; to replace reflection with action.  So troubled have I been at the plight of “Pussy Riot”, the Russian punk feminist collective charged with hooliganism for invading the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour to demand that the church take a stand against Vladimir Putin, that I travelled to Moscow to join the protest against their arrest.  I realise, of course, that a provocatively named group of punk activists who have deeply offended their national church might seem a strange cause for me to to ally myself to.  But, in his own way, Jesus was a punk: an outsider not afraid to speak the unvarnished truth, irrespective of how unwelcome the authorities found his message.  It takes a hooligan to turn over the tables in the Temple.  It was while I was making this point through a loud-hailer outside the court that I was tear-gassed, baton-charged and clapped in irons by the Muscovite police.  My holiday, therefore, has not been all that I would have wished it to be.  Still, there have been positives.  Over the years I have often wished that I could find the time to travel, learn a language and become more physically fit.  It now seems that I will have a perfect opportunity to do so, as I serve out my sentence of two-years of hard physical labour in Siberia.

Meikle Wartle is gripped by Olympic fever! Well, better that than Foot and Mouth

VIEW FROM THE MIDDEN – Rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter, JOCK ALEXANDER

Weel michty, fit a rare twa wiks it’s been in the village! Like the rest o’ the country, Meikle Wartle has gone Olympics daft! So taken were we by the hale thing, that we’ve staged oor ain version of the Games. We may not hae London’s money and infrastructure, but we’ve nae shortage o’ wasteland, and wir ain version of the Olympic Spirit. Fit I hiv personally distilled fae olives, vine leaves and greek-style yoghurt.

We hid a grand Opening Ceremony. Feel Moira provided a history of Meikle Wartle through interpretive dance, fae the founding o’ the village richt up tae the modern day wi’ the arrival o’ electricity and Christianity. There wiz concern, fan we tried tae light oor version of the Olympic Cauldron, that the wheel of Jock Stuart’s tractor wisna big enough. But luckily he’d forgotten to tak the wheel aff the tractor first, so the hale thing went up, and by the liberal application o’ reed diesel it’s still burning awa.

Some of the London athletes hiv been getting a bittie boozy eence their events wiz feenished. Many of them hidna hid a drink since Beijing and made feels o’ themsels in the bars and nightclubs o’ the big smoke. Weel, I’m proud to say there’s been nithin like that at the Meikle Wartle Games. All oor competitors were bleezin’ afore they sterted. As a result, in the one hunder meters, a’bdy stotted aff at full pelt in different directions. The gold medal wiz eventually awarderd tae auld Jim Moir fae the Post Office. Or at least it will be fan we find him, because he’s still going noo. I hear he’s roon aboot Wick.

The fitba match wi New Deer went weel, though there wis a wee hitch fan the boys refused tae come oot of the changing rooms because we’d pit up the flag for Old Deer by mistake. Ither highlights included Robbie Aitken winning the Doldie Discus with a record breaking hurl of 50 yards. It wiz fairly one in the eye for the judges, fan it hit one of the judges in the eye. There were some very fast times in the Steeple Chase aroon Jim Barron’s pasture, though they wiz probably helped by the fact that Jim hidna taen his bull oot of the field first. But the greatest celebrations come fan the Miekle Wartle Triathlon, (muck spreading, tattie howking, and lamb neutering) was won by Skittery Willie, fae the piggery at Westerton. Already very much the people’s favourite efter he and Muriel, his prize Tamworth, took Gold in the Mixed Livestock Dressage.

Unfortunately, these terrific results led tae some mutterings aboot cheating, so ab’dy wis tested for performance enhancing substances. And I’m delighted tae report that we all came oot positive for methylated spirits and neeps. So it’s been a level playing field all roond! Which is mair than you can say for wir playing field.

But noo ab’dy‘s knackered, the GP’s run oot o’ paracetemol, and ivery chuntie in the village his been painted gold. All that remains is wir Closing Ceremony. We’ve invited Emeli Sande tae sing the village anthem, ‘The Muckin’ O’ Geordie’s Byre’, backed up by Dizzee Rascal. If they dinna turn up, Feel Moira’s daen it. Still, at least it’s nae the Spice Girls!

 

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER – The Football Pundit who kicks back!

I was well chuffed to see Pittodrie so full on “Sell-out Saturday”.  I was lucky enough to be in one of the hospitalised suites, but if I couldn’t of swicked in for nothing like usual I would of definitely paid for my ticket.  What a great idea it was for all the fans to show that we can survive without Rangers.  The Dandies are well prepared for life without them, but there is one key area that has been looked over.  Hatred.  How can SPL fans survive without a club to direct most of their songs and witty banners at?  The bigwigs need to get together and agree which team the other fans are going to hate whilst Rangers are not in the upper itchy loins of Scottish Football.

It’s a shame that Saturday’s game wasn’t quite full to capillary, but selling out Pittodrie is no mean foot.  Only three times in my career have I seen a totally packed house down Merkland Road, and Ross County cannot compete with the big names that pulled in the punters those times: Elton John, Rod Stewart and The Reverend Billy Graham.

In the skylight of my career I did get to play in front of a sell-out crowd when the mighty Longside took on our neighbours Mintlaw FC at Davidson Park in a friendly.  It might of only been 200 people but it still makes the hairs on the neck of your back stand up when every voice in the crowd screams your name.  Sadly, they was all screaming at the ref to send me off, which he done.  Just goes to show that people can buckle in a pressure cooker atmosphere – I mean, if the other boy had been wearing better shin guards he probably wouldn’t of needed that ambulance.