We have advanced to the point where our technologies can answer the most fundamental questions: Did the ball cross the line?

PROFESSOR HECTOR SCHLENK, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science.

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions such as ‘Is human cloning achievable?’ ‘What can we do about climate change?’ and ‘Have you paid for all these items, sir?’ But recently, people have been asking me if I can explain the Higgs Boson so that it can be understood by the man in the street. ‘No’. I reply. ‘This is the very cutting edge of physics, the final piece in a fiendishly difficult puzzle made of multi-dimensional ballistics and very hard sums. If the man in the street could understand it, we in the scientific community would be kissing goodbye to all our lovely research grants’. And then they laugh, in the mistaken belief that I’m joking. And after an awkward silence I feel compelled to continue.

The Standard Model of particle physics attempts to unify what we know about the physical world into one coherent picture. The picture has largely been completed, except for one big hole – The Standard Model can’t explain why matter has mass. Accordingly, the great unresolved question of modern science is: ‘Why am I fat?’

The Higgs Boson is the thing which, it is posited, gives mass to other sub-atomic particles by clustering around them. The more Higgs Bosons you attract, the more massive you become. It is, in a very real sense, the Aitken’s rowie of particle physics.

Scientists at CERN confirm that the Large Hadron Collider (a sort of giant Scalectrix) has found what seems to be this ‘God’ particle, the discovery of which was the project’s raison d’etre. Many of the staff there are now secretly disappointed to discover that they weren’t actually trying to create black holes or working for the villain in the next James Bond film.

Perhaps it would help to imagine that I’ve got two Satsumas, and the label says they’re ‘mostly seedless’. As a scientist, and someone with a loose upper dental plate, this information is unsatisfactory. I need to know, with certainty, whether there are seeds in my tangerines or not and so in order to establish this scientifically, I accelerate each tangie to a velocity approaching the speed of light and then smash them together in a tunnel under Switzerland. Out of the many tiny fragments of skin and pulp spattered over the walls of the Large Hadron Collider (which is a pest to keep clean at the best of times) I find something that looks very much like the remains of a pip.

That pip is almost certainly the Higgs Boson, although the team at CERN concedes that it might be just a bit of pith. We have to wait and see.

Meanwhile, it’s time for elevenses, but my experiment has rendered my small citrus fruit inedible (as predicted by Heisenberg) so I’m forced to eat a buttery instead. Voila, it has given me mass! QED

 

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

Finally the end is night.  This Rangers pavlova has gone on long enough but at last the SPL chairmen has casted their votes.  Rangers Newco will not be playing in the top flight next season.  Quite right I says.  I mean, it’s great that Rangers has got a new home, but I’m not sure they should still be in Scottish football at all. Last night I checked the SatNav, and it turns out Newco is down in Cornwall. That’s some trek for the away fans. And the home fans.

I have fairly enjoyed watching Wimbledon this last couple of weeks. Andy Murray done us proud. He’s the first Brit for over 70 years to even make it into the final. But did anyone tell his face?  He still looked like a bulldog licking bleach off a nettle. The lovely Melody wasn’t too happy neither when she found me watching the women’s quarterfinals.  She says to me, she says “Kenny, cut it oot!  ‘At’s nae fit i’ pause button on Sky plus is for!”   I’d never really watched the tennis before.  For years I was well confused in the pub when the boys was chatting about Wimbledon.  I always thought they was speaking about Vinny Jones and his Crazy Gang.  Especially when they mentioned ‘forehand smashes’ and ‘new balls, please’.

I see Sepp Bladder has given the green thumbs up for goal line cameras in football.  Apparently they’ll be using them in the Club World Cup in December.  I would be bricking it if I was on the goal line with my camera!  What if you didn’t have any film in it?  Or your flash wasn’t working?  Or your finger was in front of the lens? Anyway, My mole at FIFA says to me that it’s taken ages to get goal line technology started because they wanted to make sure it would always catch the ball crossing the line.  They should just have got those boys what do the speed cameras on the A90.  Whenever I’m away to Stonehaven in the Jag, they catch me every time.

 

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It’s the book you simply can’t put down. In case someone clocks what you’re reading

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

I wiz afa pleased tae see in the press that the novel, ’50 Shades of Grey’ his selt o’er a million copies. It’s heirt-warmin’ tae see that in this age of offloadable e-streams and electric kindling, something so traditional can still prove very popular: i.e., getting your jollies buying naughty books. Aye, it fair taks me back tae my youth fan Lady Chatterley wiz a’ the rage and the single copy in the Meikle Wartle library wis the only book in the ‘heavy-demand’ section.

I hope that my ain literary opus, penned on and aff files the weather’s been dreich (that is to say, every day since September, Twa Thoosand and Siven) will also dae great business. Oh aye, I’m nae jist a broadcaster and cultural commentator, ye ken. Ahind this ruddy, horny-handed exterior lies the soul of an artist. And the liver of Oliver Reed.

Entitled  ‘7 Shades O’ Sharn’, my debut novel is the torrid tale o’ Moira, a naive fairmer’s quine, fresh oot o’ Craibstone Agricultural College working the fields during the Meikle Wartle heatwave of 1977. She’s swept aff her feet by Jock, the suave and sophisticated orra loon, fa seduces her in the swish surrounds of his pent-hoose bothy at Fyvie. It’s my first bash at erotic fiction, but if I do say so mysel, it is affa mucky. Particularly Chapter Six, fan the temperature hits 34 degrees and a’ the beasts come doon with an affa dose of Bloat.

You can buy my book exclusively fae the Meikle Wartle Village Post Office and Bakery. Jist ask Esma behind the coonter and she’ll gie ye it in a plain broon paper bag. But be quick, they’re selling lik hot cakes. ‘Cos the first twa hunder copies are free fan ye buy a hot cake.

Unlike the work of E.L. James, this is nae sae much  ‘mummy porn’ as ‘dubby porn’. I’ve been storing them in my ain coo-shed, so if ye scratch and sniff the pages, it’s like you’re really there. But for ony sake, mind and wash yer hands afore you eat yer cake.

 

OOR AIN FOLK – This week, LORD COSMO LUDOVICK FAWKES-HUNTE, thirteenth Earl of Kinmuck, on the proposed reform of the House of Lords

Nothing but nonsense under the guise of modernism seems to be produced by the despicable shower of oiks and parvenues who currently call themselves our Government.  The country hasn’t had a leader of substance since Sir Anthony Eden.  As usual, knee-jerk populism seems set to triumph over tradition and stout British common sense.  Yes, of course the House of Lords is undemocratic, but answer me this: if hereditary peers such as myself are to be excluded from Parliament, where are we going to hang around, waiting for our clubs to open?  No doubt the powers that be expect us to sit in the public parks, aggravating our rheumatism – at massive cost to the already hard-pressed National Health Service.   As per usual, they simply have not thought it through.

My Great-Great-Great-Grandfather didn’t fight tooth and nail in the Crimea to see centuries of tradition cast aside like an unprepossesing chambermaid.  He didn’t fight tooth and nail in the Crimea at all; he was doing some watercolour painting in Tuscany at the time.  However, he did send the ghillie and some of the beaters from the estate to fight tooth and nail on his behalf.  They had wonderful teeth and nails, those men.  I know this because after they’d done their bit, “The Charge of the Light Brigade”, they were collected off the battlefield, and, as a tribute to their great sacrifice and unstinting inability to think for themselves, we keep them, to this day, in a little silver bon-bon bowl in which I also have the cricket ball with which I bowled the Nawab of Pataudi to take the winning wicket in the Varsity match of 1931.

But I digress.  With the things that made Britain great banished by this Bolshevik administration, with tradition now counting for nothing and the country going to the dogs – it is quite plain that what we need now is an armed struggle, to throw off the oppressive yoke of this modern fad for democracy.

So.  Who’s going to do it for me?

 

JONATHON M LEWIS, Head-teacher at a local secondary school, marks the departure of some colleagues:

The end of term is such a sad occasion in a school. The pupils have to ponder 7 weeks without structure, discipline and rules whilst the teachers have to somehow fill their days without the infectious personalities of their pupils.  Another emotional aspect of the end of term is that it frequently coincides with some of our esteemed colleagues departing for pastures new.

All at Garioch Academy will sorely miss Mr Thwaite, from the Physics department.  Though I’m sure many parents will have read about his “sabbatical” that may last up to 6 years, I can assure everyone that he deeply regrets wiring pupils up to receive electric shocks when they couldn’t solve an equation of motion.  He promised the judge this practice would desist upon his release.

The Drama department will simply not be the same without Miss Forbes over the next 9 months.  Her bubbly personality has proved very popular with our 6^th year boys and I know they will be lost without her.  Some parents have alleged that the boys will need to find someone else who will buy beer for them in the local off license – I have been advised by our solicitor not to comment.

Perhaps the deepest void to fill has arisen as a result of Mr Wilson’s sudden early retirement from the Maths department.  Pupils in 4A will be especially affected, given the detailed statistical assignment they had carried out for Mr Wilson based on horse racing.  I’m quite sure there is no connection between the pupils’ hard work and Mr Wilson’s 6-fold accumulator on the Newmarket card last Friday.  We wish him well in his new career as an international playboy.

The people of the North-East have spoken, and they have said ’Ppfff’!

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

I was in two minds when Roy Hodgson got the England job last week.  On the one mind, I felt sorrow for my old mate ‘Arry Redknapp but on the other mind, when he had that spot of  bother with the taxman, I had stuck twenty notes on Roy at Ladbrokes.  It is a bit of a shocker though for ‘Arry, who most people thought was a shoeing.  The papers is all saying the suits chose Hodgson because of his experience with national teams like the Swizz, but my mole at the English FA tells me the other day the real reasons why they done it.  Apparently David Bernstein, who is the one what makes all the decisions, is a massive fan of Steptoe and Son.  Every time he heard Roy doing an interview he couldn’t not think of Harry H Corbett!  So he had to choose him – I suppose that’s why they cry it “Hodgson’s choice”.  It wasn’t on, though, the way the Sun didn’t not waste no time in taking the mick out of Roy’s speech impeddlement. Unfair play, I say. The tabloids has to give a new manager the chance. They shouldn’t be having a go at him until England has been knocked out of the Euro’s at the Quarter finals.

Scotland has never had that many world champions in sport. Chris Hoy, Jocky Wilson, and Eric Lidls, out of Chariots of Fire, are the only names what spring to mind. So when Stephen Hendry announces he’s hanging up his cue everyone must be thinking the same thing – why is he hanging it up? He should probably unscrew it and put it away in it’s case. Or maybe put it in a rack with some other cues. You’d think he’d have one of those in his house. Any road, not many people can say they’ve had a career like what Stephen has had.  World champion 7 times, 11 maximum breaks and sponsored by the Sweater Shop.  Of course, me and him has got a lot in common.  We both broke onto the scene with a face like a pepperoni pizza and we’ve both accumulated more than our share of straight reds.

 

OUR AIN FOLK – The people who make the North East what it is today. This week, retired gas-fitter ERNIE CHALMERS gives us his take on the local elections

In the run up to last week’s council elections, there wiz a mannie come to my door, seeking my vote.  He wizna fae ony o’ yer usual parties, he wiz standin as een o’ yon independent candidates.  And, given that The One Show was on, I chose to engage him in political discourse.

Fit he wiz saying wiz that the Council Tax freeze, that a’ the main parties is for, proceeds on a mistaken premise.  Files it appeals tae the voter in the short term, it’s really jist a recipe for unfilled potholes, school closures and Christmas decorations fit are hazardous in a high wind.

Fit he wiz saying wiz that fan ye think aboot it, increased local taxation should result in improved public services – presumin’ the additional revenue is wisely spent.

Fit he wiz saying wiz, if ye proceed upon a Keynesian model, greater public spending leads not only to the maist logically proximate good (the enhancement of local amenities) but can also help stimulate an itherwise ailing private sector ecomony.  Thus, counter-intuitively, not only aiding recovery, but simultaneously bringing  us closer to the establishment o’ a true social democracy.

So did I vote for him? Did I Haudigan! The theivin’ radge winted tae pit a tenner a month on tae my council tax!  That may not sound like a lot of money, but fan ye think aboot it in a wye that the common man can understan; in fags – with 20 Regal King size at £6.97 – at’s 28 fags a month! I mean, in February, that’s a fag a day, and that’s a month fan ye’r a’ready runkit efter Christmas! I says to him, ye come roon here, wi yer rosette and yer funcy talk, and try to steal the fags oot of my moo?  So I kicked him in the chuckies and I chased him doon the street! And then I collapsed. ‘Cause of my emphysema. Wi’ my smokin’.

So on pollin’ day itsel’, I looked down the list of candidates and did my best to pit them in order of preference, but I have to admit, I wiz stumped. Weel, there a’ jist as bad as each ither, are they? So, determined to fully register my dissatisfation wi’ the hale political scene, I calmly, and deliberately, soiled my ballot paper. It wisnae til I wis recounting the story in the Grill on Thursday night, for the benefit of Alfie Mutch and Bill ‘The Barker’ Barclay that I discovered my mistake. Though I dare say I made my point.

It wiz a great day for democracy, but a gadsy een for the returning officer for Linksfield and Seaton.

 

 

 

This week’s local elections invove a record number of candidates standing as independents. We provide some of them with an opportunity to get their message across:

DODDIE ESSLEMONT, Radical Independence Campaigner, asks for your vote

In stark contradistinction to the small-beer, cheap rent, vision of independence peddled by a certain well-fed First Minister ourt who I COULD mention but certainly won’t, I, ME, Doddie Esslemont of that ilk, offer you all the real deal.  Where others prpose a referendum on the breaking up of the Union, I actually promise to break up the Union, with a series of explosive charges along the line of Hadrian’s wall, down the Great Glen Fault, up the line of the A90, and along the garden wall that forms the boundary between myself and THAT BALLON AT NUMBER 20.

No man is an island?  I beg to differ.

 

TANYA SOUTER, Lifestyle Guru, asks for your vote

I widnae say I’ve eyewiz fancied bein’ a politician – but I think I’ve got fit it takes tae mak a difference.  I’ve nae idea aboot yous, but I’m fed up seein’ wir female cooncillors lookin’ so frumpy!  Yer Jaeger suit might be knockin’ them deid in the planning committee, but yer nae going tae generate much interest in yer hustings if yer covering up yer main electoral assets. Da get me wrang, my grunny sweers by her twinset – but if she tried tae attract the young male vote dressed up like yon, she’d lose her deposit!  And the men are nae better. It’s a choice between baldie mannies in blazers and spotty loons in their first suit fae Slaters. Fit ivery elected chamber needs is a bittie Tanya Souter makeover mugic. So, if elected I’m gan tae bring some much needed glamour tae the cooncil, an’ I’ve got ma canvassin’ outfit back fae the dry cleaners.  I think thigh-high PVC boots, leopard-skin hot pants, an’ a spungly boob-tube will let everyone see fit Tanya his tae offer!

 

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRAT, Ordinary Mum, asks for your vote

I’m sure I’m not the only ordinary mum who has had enough of our ordinary issues being ignored by our local representatives.  Every single day I seethe with rage when dropping Fidel and Emmeline at school.  It’s a nightmare, and not at all safe. Who is responsible for these infernal zig-zag lines that stop me parking the X5 at the door?!  I’m forced to pull over on the only part of the road that doesnt have lines, the zebra crossing.

Obviously, as a lifelong supporter of the underprivileged both here and abroad (We sponsor a little boy in South Africa. It’s only a few pounds a month to us, but what a difference it makes to them. His name is Joost Van Der Beek. Not so little now, as it happens, he’s an engineering consultant.) I was all in favour, in principle, of last year’s public sector strike. It was clearly unjust that the government was forcing a unilateral variation of their terms and conditions of employment. But what they failed to consider is that Wednesday is our recycling day. Our utility room was packed for a fortnight with old copies of the Guardian, empty bottles of fair-trade Peruvian Malbec and Palestinian olive oil. I did consider putting it all into the stables, but Emms would have had an absolute meltdown!

Anyway, vote for Davinia – keeping it real.

 

JOCK ALEXANDER, Host of Mtv (Meikle Wartle Television) asks for your vote

If elected tae Aiberdeenshire Cooncil, I will dae my damnedest tae rid oor village of the scourge that is motorists, tourists and ither unwanted visitors fae the big city, or as we cry it, Inverurie. They jist get Ethel in the village shoppie a’ raivell’t fan they come in askin’ fer directions tae Auctherless. I propose diverting the funds currently being squandered on education, housing and enviromental services intae oor top-priority infrastructure project; movin’ Meikle Wartle 20 mile further inland. There’s a rare lookin’ blasted heath o’ a place at the fit o’ the Cairngorms fit wid be ideal

We shall also be seeking funding fae the private sector, by attracting the world’s top entripeneers. On that topic, I note Donald Trump has been complainin’ aboot bein’ lured tae Scotland under false pretences. I can confirm that the good folk o’ Meikle Wartle did consult wi him on the feasibility o’ bringing his Golf Course here, and yes, we did attempt tae lure him. Weel, it wiz Feel Moira hersel’ that did the actual lurin’, but I wiz ahin’ a dry-steen dyke, eggin’ her on. Unfotunately it didnae work, he showed nae interest in the raw meat she wis birlin’ aroon her heid. She’ll maybe hae better luck wi’ Richard Branson.

HELENA TORRY, The Union Terrace Gardens One, asks for your vote in her own, distinctive voice:

“   “

 

And finally, in the interests of political balance, here is a brief statement of the platform of each of the main parties standing in the election.

SNP  “Vote for us, it’s all the other lot’s fault”.

Labour  – “Vote for us, it’s been ages since it was our fault”

Liberal Democrat  – “You’re not going to vote for us, this time, are you? Can’t blame you really.”

Conservative  – “Vote for us, please? Someone? Anyone?”

Tax Doesn’t Have to be taxing. Or Expensive

STRUAN METCALFE – MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

Unfortunately, I find myself one again having to apologise unreservedly for “unhelpful” comments I made on Twitter last night regarding the immoral practice of tax avoidance.  I fear my tweet has been blown out of all proportion and a silly joke I made, as I whizzed through my second bottle of Château Laffite, has gone viral:

“Jimmy Carr’s in trouble for tax planning and Super Dave says he’s morally repugnant. Hope Dave doesn’t find out about my Dutch EBT Scheme! LOL”.

Clearly I do not have a Dutch EBT scheme (into which I pay my salary only for the trust to loan the money back to me, thus avoiding the payment of income tax and national insurance on the “earnings”). No, No, No!  I have a Cayman Islands Offshore Family Trust which lends my salary back to my 9 year old son on a tax free basis so that he can buy the latest Ben 10 toy, afford those expensive rugger boots Gordonstoun insists he wears, and pay the mortgage on our country pile in Glen Alva.  It’s all perfectly legit.

So, for the avoidance of doubt (not tax!), I say “Yes”, tax evasion is morally repugnant.  Because it’s illegal.

“Yes”, in this current climate – whilst MP’s tax records do not currently have to be disclosed to the public! – tax avoidance is wrong.  Ish.

And “Yes”, exploiting a tax loop-hole because you’ve paid a super-dooper smart London-based tax lawyer is nothing short of criminal. Have you seen their charge out rates!?

SHELLEY SHINGLES – showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

This week my Jimmy Choos have been a blur as I’ve been rushed round visiting Edinburgh, Dundee and Inverness (phew!) as I heard it was a rare chance to see the Dalai Lama!  I’ve been a big fan since a holiday in Peru with all my showbiz pals, when one ate Chesney Hawkes’ hat!  Kim Wilde asked him, “Was that your one and only!?” (ROTFL!)

But I couldn’t find any Lamas there at all, just a little man in some red curtains!? (Sad face).  I’ve not been so disappointed I went to the Grassic Gibbon Centre and they refused to show me any monkeys!

 ‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner – the football pundit who kicks back!

This week was a well busy time to be a respected Dons legend.  I done my first bit on the wireless for the Euros last Tuesday, then Stewartie Milne gave Willie Miller his jotters and then sadly another Dons legend, Teddy Scott, passed away.

The lovely Melody looked out my best suit so I looked the part for going on the wireless but I was still a bag of nerves.  I was the punnet on the Ireland v Italy game, probably because I know a lot about playing the Italians – La Lombarda won the over 50s 5-asides against us last month.  The commentator says, “Shame Greece weren’t drawn with Italy, Spain and Ireland, then it would be the ‘Group of Debt!’”  I jumped in and says he meant the ‘Group of Death.’  Lucky I was there!

England done well to qualify, even though they was more in the ‘Group of Serious Illness’.  Mind you, that was definitely a goal what John Terry cleared off the line against Ukraine.  All the other punnets is talking about cameras on the goal line but I don’t know.  It’s not as if people will still be talking about a ball maybe crossing the line 50 years later.

I always tried not to let boardroom shenannygoats affect me when I was a player but my mole down at Pittodrie says you could cut the air with a fork since Willie got the push.  But there’s no room for sentient in football.  The boys just have to turn their face to the wall and move forwards.  Stewartie got shot of most of the board last week.  He says he needs to freshen things up.  I reckon he wasn’t watching the players last season if he thinks the board’s what needs to go.  You have to feel for Willie.  The greatest player ever to pull on the captain’s hairband but in his management rolos he remained something of an enema.  Still, he’s a talented guy.  He won’t stick and, with his track record in business, there could even be a job going at Rangers.

I felt very sorrow when I heard about Teddy Scott passing away.  Teddy and me had a lot in common.  Despite both being legends for the Dons, we only played one game for the first team.  We were both hugely popular with the other players and the fans, and we were both modest and humble.  There is a famous story about when Teddy packed the wrong socks for an away game and Fergie going to sack him.  Then Gordon Strachan says “You’ll need to hire 10 men to replace him” and Fergie demented.  The boss didn’t always have a softer side though.  I once turned up for a reserve game without my shorts and he fined me 2 weeks wages and made me play in my pants!

God bless, Teddy.  There’s a pie and Bovril waiting for you in the great dugout in the sky.

I love you, you’re perfect, now keep the change

J. FERGUS LAMONT, arts critic and author of “Pigs, Sprees and the Dramaturgical Muse  – A Post-Brechtian Analysis of the Bothy Ballad”, attended the Degree Show at Gray’s School of Art.

This week saw your humble correspondent precipitously evacuated from his comfort zone within the performing arts and transported to the realm of the visual.  Gray’s School of Art, a Garthdee-located salon fit to match the finest in Paris, has this year organized a showing of its graduands’ work.  The show opened to the masses on Saturday, although I was fortunate enough, 3 days earlier, to secure a private viewing.  I hadn’t been invited and was apparently not expected, as I could not initially enter the premises.  Thankfully, a fellow critic came to my aid.  He had obtained a set of keys – doubtless he had called ahead – that permitted ingress.  A taciturn man dressed in a humble workman’s blue (no doubt a reminder that, however lofty our insights, we critics remain the servants of the people) he did not say for whom he writes, though his name badge – Jan Itor – suggests Dutch ancestry.

Once inside the space, I was treated to a minimalist’s nirvana: each wall a bare, brilliant white.  Amidst the void, almost lost in the brightness, a solitary, modern installation drew one closer with its stark red outline.  Further inspection revealed an invitation at once whimsical and profound: “In case of emergency, break glass”.  The artist‘s work was so utterly compelling that your correspondent felt that destiny required him to deal the suggested blow.  No sooner had the glass fissured than one was literally immersed in the artist’s ruse – an interactive multimedia experience!  Water gushed forth in a shocking, life-affirming deluge from a phalanx of previously unnoticed nozzles in the ceiling!  Crazed with joy, I tipped back my head, ripped open my shirt and bellowed my appreciation! Before long, Mr Itor was bellowing too.

I wept.

KEVIN CASH – Wedding special: money-saving expert and king of the grips offers some tips on budgeting for the big day.

I love a wedding, me – fa dizna?  (Weel, my pal big Alan, obviously, efter Sandra’s faither threatened him wi a double-barreled lead transfusion if he didna get her doon that aisle quick-smart.  Nae fine.)  But weddings is expensive an expensive business, wi even the simplest een likely to set you back a fair whack.  Or so you thought!  Follow my simple money saving tips and not only will you keep costs doon, you could even turn over a handsome profit.  Noo that’s fit I call a special day!

Mind, major breakdowns of civil order apart, this is the greatest chance you will get to get a free houseful of electrical goods.  Da faff aboot wi’ ony “the greatest gift will be your presence on the day” crap.  Be mercenary.  Hae a list, and pit nothing less than £50 on it.  Tell yer pals that whoever gies maist gets to dunce wi the drunkest bridesmaid, and that whoever gies least will be sat next to your Uncle Eddie, fa his been instructed to tell them in graphic detail about his maist recent operation.

The dress can also be a costly item.  Silk is crazy expensive, and it’s made fae stuff that comes oot o beasties!  Gads min!  White polycotton is available for peanuts and shimmers awa bonny fan smeared wi Vaseline.  Pit the mailbag-sewing skills of ony o yer jailbird friends to good use by hiring them as your dressmaker.  And mind, a bonny veil can be made fae the net curtain in your doonstairs cludgie.  Fan ye draw it back and see the tears in her eyes, ye’ll ken ye did the right thing.

Fan it comes to gentleman’s attire, it his to be the kilt.  But that’s £60 to hire.  (That means you hiv to gie it back efterwards, unless Mick the Pill set you up wi a false identity beforehand.)  So mak yer ain.  Tartan swatches can be borrowed fae ony kiltshop.  Stitch twa hunner thegither to mak yer ain patchwork kilt.  Stapling a rubber band to a piece of roadkill gies you a magic sporran.

Obviously, ye hiv to hae the big day somewye.  And obviously, it his to be special.  Hotels see you coming though, don’t they?  And castles is worse!  Hire charges can be avoided, though by staking oot the big mansions on the North Deeside Road, and using a millionaire’s gairden as your venue fan he’s away on his holidays.  But if you absolutely must use a hotel, use yer noggin and a’.  Een o my pals got taen for £10 a head for stovies!  That’s a lot of wedge for tatties, ingin and gravy.  My pal Billy The Fish runs a fry van.  He will happily park on the public road nearest to your venue and dae you twa hunner cones o chips for a pound a pop.

Finally, photies.  I ken you’ll wint a permanent record o the day but this cost can be avoided altogether by startin a rumour that you are a drug dealer getting merried under an alias.  This will guarantee the attendance of a large number of police surveillance photographers.  Memories of the indignity of undergoing a full body search in front of your guests will fade.  The high-quality reportage-style photographs will last a lifetime.

Until next time – keep smiling, and keep saving!

 

In April 2010 we shot a 30 minute TV Pilot for BBC Scotland, and what an eye-opener it was. Here’s our daily diary from the shoot.

Day One: Monday, 05 April

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Filming begins; 15 of the finest film and TV technicians in the country, and us. What must they be thinking? We’re off to a cracking start at 7 am on a gye mauchie day in Inverurie with Susan, Craig and Elaine up first in the shop. First item is in the can by 10:30 and the crew seems pretty happy with what they’ve got. The TV incarnation of Susan’s character ‘Donna’ looks uncannily like Amy Winehouse. Later action has Greg wrestling the Mitchell’s dairy coo across the High street, to the bemusement of passersby. We spent the remainder of the day pretending to be primary school children. Lots of laughs as we get to know the crew, many of whom are fresh from filming the latest series of ‘Taggart’ including Karen (make-up designer, mutilations and cadavers a specialty) for whom Greg’s grazed knee for ‘Mrs. Valentine’ does not present too big a challenge.

Quote of the Day: Faye (1st Asst Dir)

‘…Cut! Can we reset Steven’s bottom, please?’

Day Two: Tuesday, 06 April

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On location in Old Aberdeen, another 7:00 am call for Greg and Susan. Shooting schedule is knocked for six when a great muckle removals van arrives at the location an hour early. Out on to the High Street for Robbie Shepherd’s ‘Fit Ye Sayin’ Til’t?’. Only gaggles of cagouled tourists, the surprisingly frequent number 20 bus and traditional Aiberdeen pishing rain to contend with there. 3 more items in the can, and we break for lunch. Great soup courtesy of ‘The Inn at The Park’ (Other hotels are available, but we can’t guarantee the quality of their soup). In the afternoon Elaine takes over from Susan in the Caledonia Bank call centre, John gets some tattoos and Greg gets his chest shaved in preparation for the ‘Personal Trainer’ sketch, much to Susan’s barely concealed delight.

Quote of the day: Eleanor (Director)

“Can I get the art department to confirm the position of Greg’s electrodes, please?”

Day Three: Wednesday, 07 April

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We’re doon on Doonie’s Fairm for Mtv (Meiklewartle Television) and the ‘Haud ‘is’ video shoot for their biggest hit, ‘Auchnagatt For Good’.
Today’s guest star was McGinty the Ram, the James Earl Jones of sheep, whose personal attributes drew the attention of Eleanor, our director (a close second for quote of the day: “Ivan, make sure you get his danglers!”). Then Susan gave the Haud ‘is boys the nasal equivalent of colonic irrigation as they expressed their love of rural Aberdeenshire through the medium of interpretive dance. All that remains is for Karen (Make Up Designer) to apply Greg’s Willie Miller moustache at lightening speed before Mr Duguid is ready for his close up.

Quote of the day: Joy (Costume Asst)

“You are to be congratulated on your turds.”

Emer (Prod Designer)

“Thank you. I made them last night, in my bedroom.”

Day Four: Thursday, 08 April

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A hairy kind of a day today, starting with Greg’s aural and olfactory orifices and Elaine’s decollage. Karen (Make Up Designer) and Lynne (Wardrobe Mistress) brilliantly turn everyone into their own parents for Eddie’s Woes, but the morning shoot over runs, and the price is paid at the end of the day when we run out of time, light and Craig when filming The Liar. It would be a pity if Susan had been shot repeatedly with ping-pong balls for no good reason. Hero of the day is Moray, whose painstaking efforts to strain soup and barbecue sauce through his RAF moustache proved, ultimately, futile. An honourable mention goes to Jim (props master) who squeezes his size 10s into Maurice’s size 8 golf shoes for the filming of the golf shots, undaunted by the fact that he’s the only person on set (or, possibly, earth) with less golfing experience than John.

Quote of the day: Faye (1st Asst Dir)

“Now we need the close up on Elaine, licking the biscuit. Thank you.”

Day Five: Friday, 09 April

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Back in Old Aberdeen today for Man’s Man, which requires the Machar Bar to be set dressed to make it look ‘more like a pub.’ Archie and Davie and Bob Spence; plus a couple of quickies and a great load of little wee fickery bitties. Happily, last night ended well with Jim (props-master) completing all the golf shots in one take, thanks to the tactical masterstroke of deploying ‘beginner’s luck’. The end is in sight; just one last push… and we’re wrapped!

Quote of the day: Faye (1st Asst Dir)

“Eleanor, you are now asking for jam”.

The Council elections. Have your say on local government….and a nosey round a primary school

This week’s local elections invove a record number of candidates standing as independents. We provide some of them with an opportunity to get their message across:

DODDIE ESSLEMONT, Radical Independence Campaigner, asks for your vote

In stark contradistinction to the small-beer, cheap rent, vision of independence peddled by a certain well-fed First Minister ourt who I COULD mention but certainly won’t, I, ME, Doddie Esslemont of that ilk, offer you all the real deal.  Where others prpose a referendum on the breaking up of the Union, I actually promise to break up the Union, with a series of explosive charges along the line of Hadrian’s wall, down the Great Glen Fault, up the line of the A90, and along the garden wall that forms the boundary between myself and THAT BALLOON AT NUMBER 20.

No man is an island?  I beg to differ.

 

TANYA SOUTER, Lifestyle Guru, asks for your vote

I widnae say I’ve eyewiz fancied bein’ a politician – but I think I’ve got fit it takes tae mak a difference.  I’ve nae idea aboot yous, but I’m fed up seein’ wir female cooncillors lookin’ so frumpy!  Yer Jaeger suit might be knockin’ them deid in the planning committee, but yer nae going tae generate much interest in yer hustings if yer covering up yer main electoral assets. Da get me wrang, my grunny sweers by her twinset – but if she tried tae attract the young male vote dressed up like yon, she’d lose her deposit!  And the men are nae better. It’s a choice between baldie mannies in blazers and spotty loons in their first suit fae Slaters. Fit ivery elected chamber needs is a bittie Tanya Souter makeover mugic. So, if elected I’m gan tae bring some much needed glamour tae the cooncil, an’ I’ve got ma canvassin’ outfit back fae the dry cleaners.  I think thigh-high PVC boots, leopard-skin hot pants, an’ a spungly boob-tube will let everyone see fit Tanya his tae offer!

 

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRAT, Ordinary Mum, asks for your vote

I’m sure I’m not the only ordinary mum who has had enough of our ordinary issues being ignored by our local representatives.  Every single day I seethe with rage when dropping Fidel and Emmeline at school.  It’s a nightmare, and not at all safe. Who is responsible for these infernal zig-zag lines that stop me parking the X5 at the door?!  I’m forced to pull over on the only part of the road that doesnt have lines, the zebra crossing.

Obviously, as a lifelong supporter of the underprivileged both here and abroad (We sponsor a little boy in South Africa. It’s only a few pounds a month to us, but what a difference it makes to them. His name is Joost Van Der Beek. Not so little now, as it happens, he’s an engineering consultant.) I was all in favour, in principle, of last year’s public sector strike. It was clearly unjust that the government was forcing a unilateral variation of their terms and conditions of employment. But what they failed to consider is that Wednesday is our recycling day. Our utility room was packed for a fortnight with old copies of the Guardian, empty bottles of fair-trade Peruvian Malbec and Palestinian olive oil. I did consider putting it all into the stables, but Emms would have had an absolute meltdown!

Anyway, vote for Davinia – keeping it real.

 

JOCK ALEXANDER, Host of Mtv (Meikle Wartle Television) asks for your vote

If elected tae Aiberdeenshire Cooncil, I will dae my damnedest tae rid oor village of the scourge that is motorists, tourists and ither unwanted visitors fae the big city, or as we cry it, Inverurie. They jist get Ethel in the village shoppie a’ raivell’t fan they come in askin’ fer directions tae Auctherless. I propose diverting the funds currently being squandered on education, housing and enviromental services intae oor top-priority infrastructure project; movin’ Meikle Wartle 20 mile further inland. There’s a rare lookin’ blasted heath o’ a place at the fit o’ the Cairngorms fit wid be ideal

We shall also be seeking funding fae the private sector, by attracting the world’s top entripeneers. On that topic, I note Donald Trump has been complainin’ aboot bein’ lured tae Scotland under false pretences. I can confirm that the good folk o’ Meikle Wartle did consult wi him on the feasibility o’ bringing his Golf Course here, and yes, we did attempt tae lure him. Weel, it wiz Feel Moira hersel’ that did the actual lurin’, but I wiz ahin’ a dry-steen dyke, eggin’ her on. Unfotunately it didnae work, he showed nae interest in the raw meat she wis birlin’ aroon her heid. She’ll maybe hae better luck wi’ Richard Branson.

 

HELENA TORRY, The Union Terrace Gardens One, asks for your vote in her own, distinctive voice:

“   “

And finally, in the interests of political balance, here is a brief statement of the platform of each of the main parties standing in the election.

SNP  “Vote for us, it’s all the other lot’s fault”.

Labour  – “Vote for us, it’s been ages since it was our fault”

Liberal Democrat  – “You’re not going to vote for us, this time, are you? Can’t blame you really.”

Conservative  – “Vote for us, please? Someone? Anyone?”

The panda is an endangered species, but it’s not all black and white

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

What a weekend we have just had for sport. Grand National Day is always a favourite in the Cordiner household, as it’s the only time I can stick a bet on without the lovely Melody giving me the three degrees. Melody always has a punt too, and this year was no different. I sits for hours with the Racing Post, checking the form, the jockeys and the going and eventually picks Viking Blond. Melody looks at the paper and says, she says “I like’s Neptune Collognes cos he’s got a kind face”. I tells her “that’s no way to pick a winner!” but she never learns.

Speaking of picking a winner, I was caught between the devil and a hard place on Saturday when my old club, the Dons, graced the Hampden pitch in the Scottish Cup semi-final against another of my old stamping grounds, Hibs. I didn’t make it to the game myself. I had been waiting for the call from the BBC to be their neutral pundit, but it never come. No doubt my old clubs thought the same, because I never got no invite to go with neither of them neither.

Most readers will have fond memories of my extinguished Dons career, but I still sometimes get asked all the time why it was cut so short. Well, when Fergie arrived at Pittodrie, he was faced with a dressing room full of big personalities. Straight away I could tell he had the potential to do great things but he might feel intimidated by my presence and as long as I was at the club would remain something of a shrinking violin. So, to make sure that he went on to be one of the top gaffers in the history of the game, I put in a transfer request. Obviously this started a bidding war. Dumbarton, Clydebank and Hamilton Accies were all after my signature, but it was Hibs what I plumped for. I didn’t last long there though, because Melody got homesick. She never settled in Penicuik. It was a culture shock for her, I think. That and the smell. Hot Weetabix still makes her cowk. Still, I enjoyed my 3 appearances as substitute.

People ask if I have regrets but I’m glad I stood aside to let Fergie have his 35 years of 15 minutes of fame. I know he appreciates it too, because he once says in an interview about his Aberdeen days ‘The first thing I had to do was get shot of that idol Cordiner”. I seen Fergie at a dinner not long ago and thanked him for saying something so nice as that. ‘No problem, Kenny’ he says to me ’Even after all my years in football, you is still the idolest player I ever managed’.

What a gent.

 

PROFESSOR HECTOR SCHLENK, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science.

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions such as ‘How did the universe begin?’ ‘Is time travel possible?’ and ‘Would you mind blowing into this bag, sir?’

But recently, a lot of people have been asking me about Pandas. ‘Well’, I say, ‘while I’m not an expert in that particular field, I understand that they are a form of musical-comedy theatrical production traditionally performed during the Christmas season’. And then we laugh. Albeit briefly.

The black and white bear native to South Western China has been in the news as we all waited with breath bated to see if the two currently shacked up at Edinburgh Zoo would get, as evolutionary biologists would say, ‘jiggy’. Alas, while clearly good friends, Yuang Guang and Tian Tian were unwilling to allow their relationship to get all complicated. Admirable restraint in a human; a game of extinction roulette for Pandas.

For while, with their big eyes and slovenly posture, they are extraordinarily anthropomorphic (a Giant Panda up close looks exactly like Boris Johnson in eye-liner) there is one enormous difference between them and us. We are the most successfully adapted life form on Earth; while they are what we scientists call, ‘rubbish’. Seriously, if it weren’t for our Herculean efforts they’d have gone the way of the Dodo yonks back, and while the erosion of their habitat is a big part of the problem, they’re not exactly doing anything to help matters.

The Darwinian model is often referred to as ‘survival of the fittest’. And so it probably helps to think of the Panda, in evolutionary terms, as Eric Pickles. This, after all, is a carnivorous bear that wilfully refuses to eat, not just meat, but anything at all apart from a particular strain of bamboo, which tastes terrible, but makes hard-wearing floor coverings. It can barely digest the stuff, and so has to spend 18 hours a day eating it to get up enough energy to sit still and look photogenic. It’s a wonder they ever have the energy for sex, and it’s nothing short of a miracle if that event coincides with the 36 hours a year when the female can conceive. That’s not a big window. In fact it’s not a window at all. It’s barely a cat flap.

In short, the future of the Panda is very much like St. Nicholas House. No matter how you approach it, it doesn’t look good.