Now Aberdeen is popular with tourists – easily identifiable by their pac-a-macs and expressions of disappointment.

Ron Cluny, official council spin-doctor.

I was delighted to see that the number of tourists visiting Aberdeen has continued to grow. This is one in the eye for the naysayers, always so keen to do the city down. Official council figures show that the Spectra Light Festival, and Nuart have both played their part.

If only we had a vibrant summer festival to capitalise on the energy and dynamism of young people, we might really have been able to make the most of the arts dividend. But, you can’t have everything, as I invariably have to put at the bottom of every agenda of the Finance, Policy and Resources Committee.

The city has also benefitted from the increased global interest in the Highlands from fans of the successful TV show ‘Outlander’, which just goes to show the benefits that accrue when you come before Inverness in the alphabet.

Our figures also suggest that the final group of people who have come to the city are holidaying civil engineers, who get a real kick from seeing exposed foundations and large mounds of building equipment lying about. They have provided a much needed shot in the arm to the new hotels at the Airport and on Broad Street.

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

It’s been a frustrating week for Social Justice campaigners like myself, engaged in the struggle against ‘The Man’, as the press have unfairly rounded on my comrades, both real and imaginary, who oppose the monstrous new stadium at Kingsford. Who cares if they used a pseudonym to give interviews to the press? Haven’t we all done it? I’ve got a pseudonym, actually, and I don’t mind admitting it.

I leave my disparaging hotel and restaurant reviews on Trip Advisor under the name “Don’tMessMum” safe in the knowledge that the proprieties can’t retaliate against me. It’s been a lifesaver, as it prevented my friend Saskia booking into the same god-awful yurt we used on holiday near Rabat. I mean, no wine cooler? Seriously?! We wanted ‘back-to –basics’, not prehistoric!

Those in favour of the stadium have been busy gloating about the apparent “scoop” that the ubiquitous and vocal anti-Kingsford campaigner Angus Jamieson does not, technically, exist, but I’ve got news for them. Fidel has been helping me put together an anti-stadium petition on his computer. He is a whiz with technology. In fact, I can hear more pages whirring from his printer right now. It already bears over 1 million names, though admittedly many of the signatories appear to have identical handwriting. He says it’s called Linotype Zapfino Extra.

To be honest, the whole pseudonym business is something of a sore point for the Smythe-Barratt household, after what happened when my husband Milo set up his offshore account in the Cayman Island under a fictitious name to avoid paying thousands of dollars in tax. Is that a crime? Incomprehensibly, yes. Still he’ll get parole in 3 moths, and the sentence keeps him out of the UK long enough to maintain his non-dom status. So, silver linings.

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

It’s been a Luddite wik in the village. Ab’dy has been reeling fae the news that noted pub chain and purveyor of reheated foodstuffs, Wetherspoon’s is abandoning a’ social media. Their boss says it’s nae helping the business, and that withoot it they’d be “mentally and physically better off”. Weel, I could hiv telt him that. We in the Village hiv jist discovered the questionable charms o’ Twitface and Instabook and a’ yon, as it’s nae been lang syne onyb’dy in the Village his hid Wi-Fi (in fact, it’s nae been lang syne onyb’dy in the Village his hid a Hi-Fi). But, much like Christianity, we did withoot a’ that muck for hunners o’ years and we managed oor social interactions jist fine. We didnae hae folk in online forums sweiring at strangers and spikking awa tae themselves. We hid them daen it oot in the open air. We didnae hae “Internet trolls” hiding in darkened rooms. We hid real eens hiding under bridges. Or at least that’s fit we telt wir kiddies so they’d avoid the shacky een o’er the Burn o’ Wartle far Feel Moira’s family bade. Aye, a’ things considered, we wiz better aff withoot social media. If we hid an argument, we didna get wirsels a’ workit up ower a keyboard for oors on end, we resolved wir differences swiftly and conclusively – wi’ a punch-up roon the back of the chip shop. Cheerio!

See the Flying Pigs live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ June 2018. Tickets available now.

First Bus? Any bus would do! 

View from the Midden; rural news with Jock Alexander from MTv (Meiklewartle Television)
It has been a recusant week in the village.  Despite bidin’ hine oot in the countryside, we here in MeikleWartle do enjoy readin’ in the press aboot daily life in a thrivin’ modren metropolis. But sometimes there’s nae much in aboot London, and we read aboot Aiberdeen instead. And michty, fit a stramash there’s been wi the strikes by First Bus drivers protesting against cuts tae pay and conditions. Huge queues, long waits for buses, ill-tricket passengers, surly drivers fa dinna ken the route – all these traditional aspects of public transport in Aiberdeen are under threat thanks tae the industrial action.  Bosses have repeatedly insisted that they canna pay their drivers ony mair without eatin’ intae the profits necessary tae keep them in their ain salaries. Neither side is for moving. Feelings his been running high – almost as high as the tempers of the aul wifies waitin’ for an hour tae ging hame wi their messages. Of course, you toonsers dinna ken yer born if an hourly bus is o’er infrequent for ye- oot here in the sticks, we can only dream o’ such extravagance, since we dinna hae a bus service tae ging on strike in the first place. We did hae a country bus every ither wik, but it stopped coming after those local loons set fire tae the wheels usin reed diesel and Skittery Wullie tried smugglin at pig aboard without payin’ its fare. So noo all we get is the occasional Bluebird bus trundlin’ through the village square, fan it’s a new driver fa’s missed the turnin’ tae Huntly.  If the wind is blawin’ fae the south he’s in luck, and we tell him tae follow the green clouds comin’ aff the sewage works and he canna ging wrang.  Wi nae buses, maist tend tae take Shanks’ pony.  And Shanks’ is gettin’ gye fed up aboot it.

Onywye, Feel Moira has been closely following the pay negotiations atween the disgruntled workers and the bus company bosses, partly cos she is very much in favour of a weel regimented unionised workforce actin’ in the interests of their livelihoods, but maistly cos she’s hoping fan First Bus gings doon the tubes, she can step in wi her ain replacement service. She has her tractor freshly painted, riggit up her flatbed loader, and is ready tae step intae the breach, offering low cost, low speed travel tae onyb’dy that needs it. Just as long as there’s nae mair than echt folk at once. Unless they dinna mind sittin’ on the knees of twa ither fowk. Wi a vote on the latest Firstbus pay offer underwye, the hale thing may kick aff again tomorrow, and there is a danger Moira may well get her wish.  I widnea accept a lift fae her, though. She can be a gye dangerous driver; I’ve seen her peltin’ doon the road at gye near seven miles an hour.  And the last thing she transported on that loader wiz Skittery Wullie’s pig.  Cheerio!

Struan Metcalfe, MP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

Well stick me in an episode of “Suits” and call me Dick Dastardly!  The wedding of Prince Harry and media starlet Meghan Markle has been declared ‘politician free’. Well not quite ALL politicians. Dear Guardian Readers, you are going to be sick as a sick thing on a sick day at Sick College. You will be aghast to read – and I am delighted to tell you lefties – that this correspondent has received his invite to the big day and I couldn’t bloody bally well be more delighted if I had been invited to the Sex And the City opening as the delightful Cynthia Nixon’s hot date for the evening. Yummy.

So this is one in the eye for Jezza, Bojo, Nige and She Who Must be Obeyed (oh, the irony of that nickname).

And how did Old Struan get his invite may you ask? Well, I do not bally well know. As Macbeth said, ‘Ay, there’s the rub’.

It may well be for my charity work. or it could be a sort of ‘hush money; for that time, a good 15 years ago now, I took Harry on the lash in deepest darkest Aberdeenshire. A mere 23 years old, a slip of a lad, we ended up in The Butcher’s Arms at half eleven at the wrong end of 10 pints, 5 rum and cokes and a bottle of Blue Wicked. Harry was doing his Royal business at the urinals when a local farmer, relieving himself dramatically next to him, looked at his hair and exclaimed:

“Michty mannie, the last time I saw somethin’ sae carrot-topped I fed it tae my beasts!”

The tussle that then ensued nearly went down in history. Until I paid the whole pub off and the whole stramash has been expelled to history. Until now of course. Whoopsy.

Its not what you know folks…!

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I call Methlick!’ at HMT Aberdeen 26^th-30^th June 2018

So, farewell to The Aitken’s Diet – nothing but butteries for 6 weeks.

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle correspondent

I da ken aboot youse, but I was fair knocked aff ma stott tae tae hear aboot the impending closure o’ Aitken’s Bakers. Mony’s the time I’ve staggered intae the Menzies Road een at 3 in the morning efter a big nicht oot and on ivery occasion I have found the staff polite, helpful and delighted tae tak my money in exchange for an excessive quantity of random baked goods. They couldnae hiv served me mair faster, and indeed often helped me oot of the shop at speed an’ a’. It’s funny, is it? Faniver ye ging tae an all night baker ye ayewis buy ower much stuff. I s’pose it’s a defence mechanism for fan ye stagger outside and inevitably drap maist o’ it on the pavement. Normally, I’d apply the 10 second rule and jist pick that macaroni pie and caramel yum-yum up aff the grun, but If I’ve gaan oot in my 6 inch heels there’s nae wye I’m bending doon lik ‘at. Nae again, onywye. Let’s just say I ended up as the star o’ my ain YouTube video entitled ‘Torry faceplant – bambi on ice’. Happily though, I wis unrecognisable thanks tae a faceful o’ pastry and bleed.

But Aitken’s will be a big miss. Their food wis richt fine and, and equally I can testify tae the high quality of their paper bugs, given the number of times I’ve woken up in the morning wi een stuck tae ma coupon.   And yet, here we are, nae much mair than a month since Chalmer’s Bakery wiz reported tae be selling aff stores in Aiberdeen. Noo my pal Big Sonya tells me that traditional bakeries hiv been losing customers tae trendy coffee hooses, and how young Aiberdonians dinna ging tae places like Aitkens because they’re dated and nae modren and funcy. Sonya is a mine o’ information on current trends in retail and catering. As a result o’ her twin hobbies, shoplifting and cake.

But I dinna wint a baker fit jist sells artisanal elderberry muffins and quinoa cronuts. This is Aiberdeen, nae Greenwich Village. So maybe the likes of Chalmer’s and Aitken’s, couldna compete wi’ the fashionable design and state of the art facilities ye might find in, for example, a Greggs, but the young eens are missing oot on mair than they ken. Aitkens his three things you canna get fae ony of these new places; Wifies a’hind the counter. (Wifies are essential for oor communities self- esteem. They dinna judge ye fan ye buy dough-rings in yer PJs), rowies, and maist importantly, character. Especially the characters in the queues at three in the morning, at’s far I met at least 3 of my bairn’s faithers!

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

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions, questions such as “What is consciousness?“ “Why do we dream?” and “What on earth is that appalling smell?”, but lately they’ve mainly been asking me about footprints, and not just the gently smoking ones I leave behind me when I inadvertently bring fluoroantimonic acid through the lobby on my laboratory crocs.

They’re talking, of course, about the recent discovery of fossilised dinosaur footprints on the coast of Skye.

This new site records two different types of dinosaurs, long-necked cousins of Brontosaurus and sharp-toothed forerunners of T-Rex-hanging around a shallow lagoon.

How are such footprints formed? Well, they require the application of pressure across a padded part of the anatomy onto a pliable surface. I’m sure you will all have formed similar indentations with your posteriors whilst sitting on the couch.

Thanks to advancements in areas like thermal imaging and drome photography, it does beggar belief that these footprints have lain undiscovered for so long. However, they were formed on a harsh and unforgiving landscape in a climate few among us could bare. And 170million years ago, it wasn’t much better!

Learning that there is 170M year old evidence of prehistoric Saurapods and Therapods on Scotland’s Western Isles has caused no small amount of jollity in the Schlenk household. Mrs Schlenk hails from Lewis, you see, and she maintains that most of Skye’s population are still living in the Stone Age. After a polite chuckle I attempted to explain that the
fossils in question are from the middle Jurassic period, and predate the evolution of even the earliest humans by at least 167.5 million years. But Mrs Schlenk simply looked at me stony faced.

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I call Methlick!’ at HMT Aberdeen 26^th-30^th June 2018

Sand-papering your balls? That’s just not cricket!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports pundit whose balls have not been tampered with.

Regulator readers will know that I’ve never been the greatest fan of the smack of feather on pillow, but even my eyes pricked up when I heard about what happened in Cape Town at the weekend when South Africa took on Austria in the croquet.
When Melody shouted me through and says ‘wait til you see this, the TV cameras have caught some of them fiddling with their balls’, my first reaction was to tell her “fair play to the lads, sometimes, if you is wearing an aesthetic-support on a hot day, it can get right uncomfy”. Then I realised that they wasn’t just doing a spot of gentlemen’s redistribution, but they was trying to cheat.

What a glass neck they had! One of the Aussie lads had some “yellow tape” in his pocket which he was rubbing on the ball, and when he realised he’d been caught yellow handed, he stuffed it down his pants! The whole thing was seed by 30 cameras and now the offenders has been sent home with their tails hung low and their heads between their legs. Even the Austrian Prime Minister, Malcolm Tucker, has had a few words to say, though they was not as sweary as normal.

In this professional era, the steak knives is high, so it’s not much wonder that sportsmen do everything what they can do to gain an advantage over their opponents, and I know of what I speak of about. In my playing days I wasn’t no angel of the North myself – Old Kenny was known to break the odd rule, and opposing striker’s tibia, from time to time. Bending the rules in the heat of battleships is one thing – but pre-medicated cheating is a different kettle of ball games all together.

One of the commentators was saying, he says “they should throw the book at them”. They is missing a trick there, I think. What they should do is get all sandpaper, tape and mud, rough up one of the sides of the book, and THEN throw it at them!
View from the midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander.

It has been a gastronomic wik in the village. I have been sheltering indoors, central heating on, reclining in my Friesian coo onesie, and getting through a shedload of rowies fit I acquired fae Feel Moira. She swears they had fallen aff the back o’ the Asdas at Huntly, and the fact that she had jist gi’en their loading bay a glancing dunt wi her tractor wiz jist a coincidence. Weel, I wiznae gan tae argue wi her, cos I wis keen tae avoid being the recipient o’ a similar quirk o’ fate masel, and perhaps mair importantly, I likes a rowie.

So too, apparently, does no less a personage than the film director Duncan Jones; son of David Bowie and Hollywood Auteur, fa took to social media last wik tae ask advice for hame-baking a batch of the celebrated north-east delicacy.

I had nae idea that fashionable media types even kent fit a rowie wis, let alone bothered getting their hands a’ mucky making their ain. Nae doot Duncan’s exclusive Islington neighborhood boasts mair than it’s fair share o’ fair trade coffee hooses and artisanal barbershops, but lacks a branch of Thains the baker. Jones awarded his finished foodstuff 7/10, deciding it probably needed “more salt”. Well Duncan, I could hae telt ye that. A’ ye need for a decent rowie is a big dodie o’ lard, and a even bigger dodie o’ sa’t. If ye think ye’ve got o’er muckle sa’t in it, then it’s time tae add mair.

Of course, Duncan’s high profile attempt reignited the online debate aboot fit the delicacy should be cried – Buttery, Rowie or Morning Roll? Weel, the name does vary. Duncan Jones wid ken a’ about that, as he wiz originally cried Zowie Bowie. Parents can be so cruel, as I wiz saying only yesterday tae oor post-mistress, Pocahontas McGinty.

Weel, throughly stappit wi’ rowies, I got oot a’ my auld vinyl LPs of Jones’ faither and gied them an overdue spin. Sadly, David Bowie’s work is nae weel kent in Meiklewartle. The closest we iver got tae glam rock here was Skittery Willie’s brief flirtation wi’ lamé biler suits and platform wellies. In fact, faniver I mention the Thin White Duke folk think I’m spikken aboot an underfed mallard.
Cheerio!

Which 80’s biscuit are you? (And how do you feel about immigration?)

Prof Hector Schlenk, Senior Researcher at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions, like ‘Would you say that Jeremy Corbyn’s hat been photoshopped to make it look more Russian?’, ‘Am I being paranoid?” and ‘Should I turn up the brightness on my TV’?”

But this has been a week of sadness for we scientists, in which we said goodbye to one of the greats, someone who had been at the top of his game for decades despite physical disadvantages, and who famously wrestled with complex mathematical formulae in order to achieve something few of us have ever managed: keeping money hidden from the Inland Revenue.  RIP Ken Dodd. Of course, Professor Steven Hawking is also a great loss to the scientific community, and the world, but to be fair, he never sold out a summer season in Bridlington.

But I have been distracted from these sad departures by the scandal of sleaze, psychological manipulation and data misuse surrounding Cambridge Analytica, the ‘data analytics’ firm which is, together with Facebook, accused of harvesting personal data from Facebook apps, to be used to influence the outcome of the 2016 US Election and the UK Brexit referendum,  There are many questions which come to mind regarding this, the foremost of course being ‘What on earth is ‘data analytics’ and are they hiring?’ And ‘Do all of those quizzes about 80s pop and top 100 biscuits really influence world events?’ Well, it’s all to do with the digital footprint we leave upon the world wide web as we browse.  Think of it like a muddy trail which can be stretched across the living room carpet, causing my wife to hit me about the head with her rolled up copy of TV Choice; except the mud is electronic, and the blows to the head are targeted advertisements for insurance, overpriced slippers and gentlemen’s enlargement devices (though that may be just me).

Yes, data on everything that we see, click, or hover our mouses over helps unscrupulous advertisers (or ‘ advertisers’) to build up a profile of our tastes, influencing which adverts we are assailed with when browsing. It’s not only Facebook that does this, of course; I recently took a hammer to my 4 year old grandniece’s Alexa device to prevent it sending data on her musical choices to Amazon (Little Mix, Mr Tumble, Aphex Twin).

Must we accept that the misuse of our details in this way is part and parcel of modern life? Or should we, as a TV show of my youth once put it, “turn off and go and do something less boring instead”? I tried that, but having done so was stymied by lack of access to my ‘What’s On’ App.

To combat the Cambridge Analyitcas of the world I am currently developing a ‘scrambler’ which confuses online data gatherers by leaving an utterly random trail from which it is impossible to build up a profile. The prototype replicates the web browsing of my 4 year old grandniece on my laptop. Something I was required to allow to stop her telling her mummy about what I did to her Alexa device.

Tanya Soutar, Local Lifestyle guru

The list of names given tae Scottish babies in 2017 has jist been released, and wi’ names like Einstein, Willoughby and Tuppence on the list, it lets ye ken the extraordinary lengths some parents will ging til tae mak their bairn stand oot.

A couple of my pals are up the duff of noo and were asking me how best tae pit their ain unique stamp on their offspring, so here’s Tanya’s top tips for naming yer next bundle o joy!

First of a, there’s nithin mair exotic sounding than using a place name. Mind you, ye’ve tae be careful.  One peer baby born last year was cried “Aberdeen”.  Fit an affront! The classic is tae use the place far the bairn wis conceived.  My pal Sammy-Jo did ‘at wi’ her three, Majorca, Corfu and Folkstone.  It wis meant tae be Brittany, but the ferry wis delayed.

But the best source o’ inspiration fer a unique name is the telly.  Some o the character names in things like Game o’ Thrones and Orange is the New Black are perfect.  Again, ye need tae exercise caution.  A boy I went tae school wi was obsessed wi’ Rod Hull’s Pink Windmill, which is an affa peety for his daughter, Grotbags.

See The Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ at HMT Aberdeen 26^th-30^th June 2018

Just think; ‘the spit of Jamie Carragher’ used to be a compliment.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s gobby in a different way.

My regulatory readers will know that Old Kenny is very open mined when it comes to modern football, but there is some things what has no place in the bountiful game; like racialist abuse, men with ponytails, and match fixing when nobody has not told me what to bet on.  Spitting is another one, and I is sad to say that this week a former great of the game has let his self down badly after he got caught on camera extemporising at a young lassie.

Jamie Carragher might not be the most intelligent footballer in the world,  in fact he might not even be ahead of old Kenny on that list, but he should well have knowed better than to let his emulsions bubble up to the surface when a Man Utd fan was goading him in his car.  Sadly for JC, when the fan kept adding in salt to his injury, he seen red and sent a massive greener across the carriageway.  Like a lot of pros, I was shocked and disappointed, disappointed and shocked.

First of all, his technique was all wrong.  My old school pal, Dunter Duncan, was like a sniper with his grot.  He once took aim at Specky Spalding’s satchel out of the detention room window at Kincorth and hit it right on the buckle!  Dunter always said the trick behind the perfect gob was to smoke 20 Woodbine a day.  He was great at the spitting, was Dunter, but not too hot at the 100 yard dash.

Most importantly though, Carragher needs to learn how to handle situations like that in a much more classier way.  I used to get a lot of attention in the Covenanters Bar back when I had signed for the Dandies.  Folk would come up to me when the Dons had lost and tease me about it.  Yes, it made me angry, but I didn’t spit on them.  I just kept myself composted, and lamped them.

J Fergus Lamont, Arts Correspondent and author of “How Green Is My Buttery: A History of Food Safety in the Baking Industry”

This corner of the world continues to burst full with the most bounteous fruits of artistic endeavour. I’ve heard a lot of weeping and wailing recently both locally and nationally over the loss of the International Youth Festival, the collapse of the Scottish Youth Theatre and the end of free school music lessons, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about.  Aberdeen continues to lead the way when it comes to vibrant culture. You will have noticed that the staff and students of Aberdeen University have this week been presenting a stunning festival of synergistic street theatre, featuring, placard waving protestors, picket lines and sit-ins. All of these of course vividly evoking the bad old days of the late 60s and 70s, with their unionised strikes, power cuts and the 3 day week. But do not worry, gentle reader, this is not, of course evidence of society’s collapse, but a searing commentary on the cyclical nature of history from an artistic collective of unusual perspicacity. History, you see, is very much like my home-brewed parsnip prosecco; it vanishes quickly, but when you least expect it, it will suddenly and violently repeat. Often accompanied by a noisy trump.

I was, therefore, delighted when I stumbled upon the actors pretending to be banner-waving strikers at Aberdeen University, with their battle cry: ‘What do we want?’ “No change to the Universities’ Superannuation Scheme from a “defined benefit” pension, which gives workers a guaranteed income, to a “defined contribution” scheme, in which pensions are subject to fluctuations in the stock market.’ ‘When do we want it?’ ‘On retirement!’ .

It so evoked the student protests of my youth that I dashed home to don my purple loon pants and the kaftan which Jimi Hendrix’s roadie was once sick on outside the Cafe Metro. On my return to campus and having swallowed an entire packet of orange tic-tacs offered to me by a passing student, I developed a tremendous thirst, then removed my trousers and ran home, laughing all the way. There, I turned on the news to see that even the UK Government was joining in the nostalgic role-play by upbraiding Russia. Deciding that nothing says 1970s nostalgia like the threat of mutually assured destruction, I wept. Then laughed, for no clear reason. Then wept again.

 

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ at HMT Aberdeen, June 26th – 30th

‘Beast From The East’ – The aftermath: An affa lot of carrots in an affa lot of gairdens.

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

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions.  Questions like “Is there a correlation between depth of snow and likelihood of a subject not going into work? Does said correlation change if this subject has a 4 x 4 with power steering? And is that factor cancelled out if the same subject has central heating, a fridge full of beer and Netflix?

Of course, the biggest impact after 3 days of snow was the devastating effect on the fresh produce shelves of our shops and supermarkets. With some roads impassable, outlets across Scotland were left without essentials such as eggs, milk and bread while those supplies that did get through were quickly snapped up. I was amazed to watch Aberdonians so terrified by the situation that they were actually buying powdered egg, long life milk, and in the most extreme cases, brown bread. This was both sociologically fascinating and immensely irritating for those of us who like to start each day with eggy soldiers and a latté. However, as always, where extreme weather and human frailty have caused a problem, science will bring the solution. With no bread supplies, I simply decided to make my own.

To my advantage, I had perfect recall of the formula for the optimal ratio of each ingredient, but to my detriment I didn’t in fact have all the ingredients. But scientific progress, as in the discovery of penicillin, often results from serendipity, so I decided to proceed nonetheless, making a few judicious swaps. Alas! I now realise that garlic salt is not an adequate substitute for yeast. And, despite their similar constituencies whilst inert and uncooked, it is not scientifically sound to replace flour with Plaster of Paris. The resultant substance, which I have named ‘Unbread’ is entirely inedible, but possesses such density and adhesive qualities that it has provided invaluable insulation from the floodwaters now rising at my backie.

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

I don’t know about all the other ordinary Mums out there, but I found this recent spate of cold weather more than a little stressful!  I mean, the weather was bad enough, but the behaviour of some people was just abhorrent.

Take the roads, for example.  All we ever heard about was cars getting stuck in snowdrifts, going off the road, unable to get up hills etc.  What’s wrong with people?  Why can’t they heed the very sensible advice and not travel unless the journey is essential? If you absolutely must take the roads, as I did on Friday for a vital Reiki session with my Aromatherapist – leave the MG at home and take the Disco.  Job done.

That’s where I was headed when I had an encounter with a snow-bound young driver who had managed to get his Fiesta stuck in the white stuff. The silly sausage waved me down as I eased past, and asked if I could tow him free. I did what I think we’d all have done in those circumstances – kept going.  Well, how will youngsters ever learn if people are always pulling them out of trouble? Anyway, when I come to sell the Disco (which, like any car, I’ll do as soon as I’ve had it for 2 years. That’s when the screenwash light comes on, which is a handy reminder) just think what having once attached a Fiesta to the tow bar towbar would do to the resale value! Some people are so selfish.

The biggest issue, of course, was all these idiots panic-buying groceries.  At the weekend I had Emmeline’s friends round for a birthday soiree, and the caterers were struggling to find breadcrumbs for the deep-fried langoustine and caviar bonbons.  So, with the nightmare scenario of Emmeline’s party being utterly ruined by a canapé related disaster very much on the cards, I set off to the shops to save the day.

When I got there – the shelves were virtually bare!  I couldn’t believe my eyes!  So of course, I bought every one of the 30 loaves they had left.  The shop manager asked if I would consider leaving some bread for other people, but I explained that our need was greater.

Funnily enough, while I was out the caterers had improvised a really marvellous tempura batter, and didn’t need the bread after all, so I threw it out for the birds. Honestly, you couldn’t make it up!

‘Beast from the East’? – it’s a snow storm, not an all-in wrestler fae Arbroath.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunt, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

Well, strap me to a snowplough and call me Gerald, what a lot of tommyrot has been bleated in the last couple of days about a spot of inclement weather. Chaos, disruption, trains cancelled and schools closed; a whole lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth merely because some lily-livered central belters have got a bit of the white stuff to contend with. Depressingly, even up here in the normally resilient North-East of the country we’ve got panic stations. The Met Office have issued a ‘Yellow Snow’ Warning, which I usually only have to worry about when I’m taking the hounds out for a canter at Christmas and inadvertently stand downwind.

Now, you all know me, I’m not one to be prejudiced, unless it’s against foreigners, but this is not even traditional British snow, such as that described by Dickens. Instead I read it’s the distinctly sub-standard imported Russian variety. Well, call me bonkers, but I thought Brexit was meant to put a stop to this sort of thing? We don’t want Eastern European snow coming over here, taking away the livelihood of hard working British sleet and hail. But as ever, we allow Johnny Arctic Blast to waltz in and lower our temperatures without so much as an attempt to learn the language or integrate into our way of life.

Back in the good old days we had proper British snow-drifts. I still recall the winter of ’79, trudging 10 miles to prep school through 5 feet of snow with my 4 foot Nanny; and she wasn’t the only one we lost that winter. Perhaps I am made of hardier stuff thanks to the Kinmuck family pile being here in the frozen north, but I take a very dim view of “snow days” and bleating about it all on the news. ‘Red Alert – risk to life is likely’ indeed. What piffle! Whatever happened to rolling up one’s sleeves, pulling up one’s socks, and just getting on with the work in hand, whatever the weather? Not that I do any work, of course. I have the staff do that sort of thing for me. But dash it all, they sleep in unheated outbuildings, and I don’t hear them complaining. Though, now I think about it, I haven’t heard or seen anything at all from them since Tuesday.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who takes a bit of everything

“And sent them homeward, tae sink a gin”. Old Kenny is still on a high after watching the egg chasing down at Murrayfield at the weekend. I was busting with pride when the boys in blue stuffed the auld enema! I’m not normally a big fan of rugby, but when one of your pals lays on a VIP coach trip, pre-match hostility and 5 star digs, I’d honestly go and watch a scrabble tournament!

The Scots was superb and got torn into the English right from the let-go. And fair play to the ref, he had loads of big decisions to make and he done the right thing every time, by giving them all in Scotland’s favour. So for the first time in 10 years we got our hands on the Calculator Cup, which is a funny name for a trophy, but fair play – it is a headache adding up all that different points for penalties, trys and conversations.

At the match I got a shot of one of that special high-tech headrests that allows you to hear what the ref is saying to the players. It got me wondering what it would have been like if fans in the stands had been able to hear all the things the refs used to say to me when I was playing… “Watch yoursel Kenny”, “That’s a yellow Kenny”, “Sorry Kenny, you’ve got to go”, “No Kenny – get your hands off me!” “Help!”
It’s just a shame that the Dandies never matched the rugby team when they was sticking Celtic on Sunday. Once again they copulated to the bhoys in green and white. To make matters worse, Aberdeen’s latest signing got his jotters for trying to half Scott Brown. That’s just not good enough at this level – if you’re going to get a red for a tackle on Scott Brown, you’ve got to make sure you catch him properly!

See the Flying Pigs live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ June 2018. Tickets available now.

Shock as KFCs closed due to chicken shortage – fa kent it wis actually chicken?

Kevin Cash, money saving expert and King of the Grips

I’m sure mony people wiz as shocked as I wis that Kentucky Fried Chicken has hid tae close 600 stores as they hidna hid their chicken delivered. I mean, until noo, fa believed that fit you got in a KFC actually wis chicken?

I am a huge fan o’ a Bargain Bucket (and nae jist because the contents can feed a family for a tenner. The real value comes eence yer feenished, fan yer left wi’ a free bucket! A quick dicht and it’s ready tae be repurposed as a bath for pets or wee kiddies, an ironic fruitbowl or a single use crash helmet). And I’m nae the only een fa likes a KFC, so, far there is demand, let their be supply. My pal, Mick The Pill, his an auld deep fat fryer, and it turns oot that jist aboot onything looks plausibly Kentucky Fried Chickenish eence ye roll it in breid crumbs and lob it in biling fat. So I’ve chopped up a load of auld Amazon boxes I had been using tae insulate my windaes, fried it up wi’ my secret blend o’ herbs and spices (a squirt o’ HP sauce), and pit it intae the red plastic buckets I got in the fire-damage sale efter Jimmy Chungs burnt doon.  I hiv pit the initials K.F.C on the side (short, of course, for Kevin’s Fried Cardboard) alongside a picture o’ Jim McColl fae the Beechgrove Gairden. I’ll be selling it ootside the currently closed front door of the KFC at Union Street for as lang as a grateful populace needs me. Or I get chased awa by the bobbies, fit iver’s soonest.

Struan Metcalfe, MP for Turriff and East Speyside

Well, hear me sneeze and cry as I tear an intercostal, what a week it’s been! Not only is it amazeballs that David ‘Thunderdome’ Davis has actually seen Mad Max (I would have had him down as a ‘Dirty Dancing’ sort of chap) – but he managed to weave it into one of his mental Brexit fever dream rambles. Meanwhile Jezza Corbyn has been accused of being a spy from behind the Iron Curtain. Now, I thought the Iron Curtain was what the fragrant Margaret had hung across the windows of her boudoir at Number 10, but by Jingo it’s not. Apparently, it’s the part of Europe that was on the wrong side of the Berlin Wall, back in the day. Full of Reds, Pinkoes and fantastically handsome female javelin throwers. And, of course, spies. Commie Spies.

Now, look here, I bally love a spy. James Bond (BANG!), Emma Peel (Phwooar!) Kim Philby (good schooling, classically handsome). But are we seriously suggesting old Jezzer was a sleeper agent for the Evil Empire? Come on. Spies are supposed to ‘blend in’ – I’m no fan, but Jezz has been standing out like a sore thumb in everyone’s side ever since he stated wearing long (corduroy) trousers! Just because he has a beard and eats hummus does not mean he has colluded with the Eastern Bloc. You know, they used to say the same sort of thing about my geography teacher at Gordonstoun, Mr Molotov. Most unfair, he was a great chap, Welsh, I think? Crazy accent, always railing against the capitalist hegemenony. What a laugh. Pity, but no-one from school seems to know what happened to him after he went missing on that exchange trip to Prague. Odd.

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult tae entertain my bairns at the wikend. My eldest, Tyler, he’s easy tae please. He sets aff on Friday night wi’ a screwdriver and a balaclava and I dinna see him again til Monday morning. I’ve nae idea fit he diz, but as lang as it keeps him oot o’ trouble, ken?

But it’s the younger twa, Beyoncé-Shanice and Jayden, that’s a pest. Last Setterday I went tae een o’ that “soft play” centres tae try and keep them occupied.

I hid barely plonked masel doon in the café wi’ a latté and a slice o’ tiffin and sterted looking on Tinder for nearby hunky single dads fan a wifie comes ower and says “We’ve gone a bit ‘Lord of the Flies’ I’m afraid”. Weel, I’ve nae idea fit ‘at meant, but I turned aroon and seen Jayden shoving a’ the ither kids up against the helter skelter files Beyoncé-Shanice wis robbing their snacks. I telt the woman I’d sort it. ‘No!’ I says tae the pair o’ them, ‘That behaviour is not asseptable. Nae snacks, ye’ll spile yer denner’.

_{Do Ice-skaters ever wonder if their career is slipping away?}

_{Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who knows his bunions} 

_{Piles of snow, freezing conditions, biting wind… Inverurie can be a brutal in February, so I’ve gone and gotten myself hooked on that Winter Olympics that’s on the telly just now.  And I tell you, the weather over there in South Korea isn’t much better!  The wind his been even worse than what comes out of Kris Boyd’s lips when he has a go at being a TV punnet.  There’s been all sorts of problems with skiers and snowboarders getting blown off course.  That must have been what was wrong when I had a dibble with snowboarding down at the dry stane slope at Kaimhill.  I felled over more times than my old football opponents did when I kicked lumps out of them, but if the pros can blame the elementals, so can old Kenny.}

_{I felt dead sorrow for Scottish quine Elise Christie in the speed skating.  She got wiped out on the last lap and missed out on a medal, and she was incontrollable afterwards.  Mind you, I felt even worser for the South Korean skater who thought she’d got silver only to get the dunt for pushing an opponent.  It must have been difficult for the judges to make that call, but pushing people needs punished because it’s dangerous.  That ice was so slippery – it was like a skating rink.}

_{There’s some right funny events at the winter Olympics.  The luge just minds me o the time I once seen a drunk mannie tripping when he tried to take a tray of drinks upstairs in the Hogshead.  I’ve not the skeleton bob yet, but it sounds like it either involves shoving a long-dead mannie on a sledge and sending him downhill or ducking for bones instead of apples.  Either way, it’s nae sport like what I ken it.  Mind you, the curling is always a good bet for a British medal.  It’s a cracking sport, the curling.  It combines the drama of bowling with the excitement of furious paced housework.  I once gave curling a go when I was playing for the Dons.  It was one of Fergie’s steam building activities.  I was playing in a team with Doug Rougvie, Stewpot Kennedy and John McMaster and we kept mucking around and having a laugh.  The gaffer seen us larking about and shouts out, he shouts “hoi, less of the nonsense Kenny – yous are skating on thin ice!” Which is a bit stupid if you ask me.  8 lads and 8 massive curling stones on thin ice is surely a recipe for disaster.}

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

_{It’s been an acroamatic wik in the village. In fact I’d ging as far as to say it has been recondite and cabalistic an’ a. Or I wid dae if I kent fit those words meant. I’ve seen them a’ in connection wi the topic I’m explorin’ this wik, so your guess is as good as mine. Ye see, I stumbled upon an advert in the national press in which the United Grand Lodge of England complained aboot their members being discriminated against and stigmatised. Noo Skittery Wullie was sat by me on the bar stools fan I read oot this ad, and he wiz outraged aboot this. He wiz yarkin on at great length aboot how he had a great respect for a’ god’s creatures, and if they wanted jobs, fit wye should beavers lose oot, even if they *were* English. I had then to explain tae him that this wisnae aminals in this Lodge, but freemasons. He then skailt his dram and knocked ower his Scumpi fries in excitement at the thought that there were masons oot there that could patch up the crumblin’ stone wa’s of his pig-shed for free.  I then moved tae a different bar stool.} 

_{But it set me ponderin’ on this topic, and I came tae the conclusion that masons is like MPs or cooncillors – ab’dy has heard of them, maist folk complain that they’re up tae somethin’,  but naeb’dy has ony idea fit it is they actually dae. Even so, it is affa sad tae hear they they feel they’re being unfairly discriminated against.  Although that’s also quite tricky, given that naeb’dy kens fa they are in the first place. Noo I’ve heard it said that being a mason is maistly aboot big lunches, being secretive, engagin in arcane practices and haein a affa funny handshake, which jist sounds like Feel Moira to me. Noo I ken she’s nae an obvious candidate for an all-male secret society, but let’s face it she does pass as male in dim light, so chances are she’s the ideal een tae ask about this hale topic. I think I shall jist awa and roll up one trouser leg and borrow Skittery Willie’s billy goat afore popping by her hoose, and see fit she’s sayin’. Although if she’s got her apron on and mutterin’ in Latin again, I may jist keep gan hame without stopping. Cheerio!}