Meet a conscientious objector. In fact, he’s practically a workaholic.

“A Bee in Your Bonnet” – One Man’s Struggle, a Blog by TIM BEE.

There are many things that anger me. Pot-holes, bus-fare hikes, wind-farms, the Haudigan roundabout, traffic jams, golf courses, bypasses and the new size of the P&J . “Some” people describe this all this upheaval as progress. Me? I call it “No-gress”.

Someone needs to take a stand against this – for want of a better word – “change”. Take the City Gardens Project.  I don’t have time to wait in traffic because the council has closed roads to develop “Gardens” which a significant minority of the population voted against (fact!). I wrote a letter to the P&J once a week, each week for 36 months, setting out my objections. And how many were published? One. That’s the kind of censorship I object to.

And the same goes for the Western Peripheral Route. We don’t want road-works in Stonehaven or Milltimber diverting rat-run drivers and clogging up our roads! I mean, for goodness sake, the city traffic is bad enough already – why would we want to build a “bypass” which will simply create more road-works and make it worse? Madness.

I also objected to Donald Trump’s golf course. It’s outrageous that such a development could be given the green light in an area of special scientific interest. That dune-grass doesn’t grow on trees you know! In fact the only thing I object to more than the Mennie development is the wind-farm that threatens the Mennie development. Or is it the Trump Organisation’s objection to the wind-farm that threatens the Mennie development? I forget, but whatever it is, it must be stopped!

Most recently I’ve been to Aberdeen City Council’s highly objectionable new offices at Marischal College to protest the proposed demolition of St Nicholas House. I’m as fundamentally opposed to that as I was to the building of the thing in the first place!

I’ve had it up to here (if you could see me now, I am currently sitting with my right hand exactly level with my widow’s peak. And I have a furious expression on my face) up to here, I say!

THEN…my so-called “employer” issued me with a final warning for writing letters, building placards and project managing a multi-million pound legal campaign on company time. Well, I object to that too. If they fire me then I will have my day in court and, appeal after appeal, I’ll take his pizza delivery franchise all the way to “Strasbourg” if I have to!

I’d actually enjoy an overseas trip, putting to one side my objections to the Eurozone. I haven’t been on holiday with the wife since she commenced divorce proceedings. She’s citing Unreasonable Behaviour. All I did was remortgage our house to pay for a team of Edinburgh lawyers, 700 cans of spray paint and a full size squirrel costume. How could she possibly object to that?

 

JOHNATHON M LEWIS, Local Headteacher, on “Muck up day” – when 4th year pupils who are leaving at the earliest lawful opportunity bid a fond farewell to their Alma Mater.

Some dissenting voices have declared “muck-up day” an embarrassment and a damning indictment on the state of modern education.  We at Garioch prefer to focus on the increasingly creative and ingenious ways our more practically-minded pupils choose to express themselves on the day they leave school.

Indeed, I said as much to the fire investigator while we combed the smouldering remains of the science block.  How many 15 year olds are capable of synthesising and detonating TNT?  It is heartening that these young people, while perhaps not the most academically gifted at the school, are taking away some tremendously useful practical skills.

Many local residents have been in touch to provide feed-back regarding the 20-foot mural depicting myself and Madame Dupont, the French assistante, painted on the side of the main building. It’s very exciting when artwork by one of our pupils provokes such a strong reaction.  Disappointingly, some of the feed-back has been negative. But putting to one side the subject matter; and the fact that, facing the main road as it does, it has caused two or three car accidents, it’s very encouraging that there have been no complaints about the quality of the work. Anatomically, the detail is startling (two thumbs up to the Biology department!) and I detect something of a cubist influence  – so ‘bravo’to the Art teachers! This is the kind of flair that we seek to instil in our youngsters at Garioch.  There is no tedious cling-filming of toilet seats at this school.

I know that Mr Kinnear, head of History, was particularly touched by the salting and burning of the school playing field.  A clear homage to the sacking of Carthage. Mr Grant, the groundsman, was equally moved, if his tears and subsequent letter of resignation were anything to go by. And Ms Sinclair will no doubt make positive use of the message permanently carved into the chalkboard in her English class – as both the spelling and grammar of “CLASS O 2012 WIZ ERE YE BAMS!” neatly exemplify some common mistakes.  Not that this should be taken as any kind of criticism of the pupils; there is no spell-check feature on a stanley-knife!

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.

MI5 want to read everyone’s emails. What a dull episode of ‘Spooks’ that’ll be.

STRUAN METCALFE, MSP

In a bid to tackle crime and terrorism, the state will soon be able to monitor the calls, emails, texts and website visits of everyone in the UK.  Well, I say ‘able’; I suppose I should say ‘allowed’.  I’m not convinced that Francis Maude could watch a clip of a kitten falling off a piano without significant IT support.

Now, I will always back Super Dave to the hilt on pretty much anything, regardless of what I really think. But, crikey, as a keen user of the New Media I’m pretty bally ticked that some MI5 spook is going to read all the utterly inappropriate texts I send to my researcher at half 2 in the morning.

The interception of personal communication is horrid. I should know. In my second year at Gordonstoun I sent a letter to Wet-Bed Walkinshaw containing my objective views on his physique – in particular the beautiful architecture of his perfectly formed calf muscles as he ran cross-country in the pouring rain, the moisture falling from the sky merging with the salty perspiration dripping from his adolescent brow. That note found its way into the hands of the 6^th formers and from then on I was known as Pansy Metcalfe. And that hurt.

There’s been talk about the erosion of civil liberties, 1984 and Big Brother. Quite frankly, I have no idea what this has to do with George Galloway pretending to be a cat, but as a society we need to ask ourselves some tough questions. Tough questions like “Will deleting my Internet browser history still stop people seeing which gentleman’s websites I have been on?”

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

Weel, michty, fit a wik it’s been!  Nae sooner hid we seen the back of that unseasonal heatwave then we wis plunged intae Arctic conditions; heavy snowfall, sub zero temperatures and jam roly-poly with ice cream in the middle for pudding.

Nae doot readers fae the mair metropolitan settlements such as Tarland and Edzell prefer it fan it’s 21 degrees. They enjoy wearing sandals wi’ their biler-suits, and listnin’ tae Mungo Jerry whilst cruising aroon in a convertible Massie Ferguson, but it’s nae fine here in Meikle Wartle. A wik o’ fine weather jist gets the midden a’ heated up, and there’s nithin pits ye alff yer breakfast like the smell o’ warm sharn waftin through yer windae.

Happily though, wir freakishly balmy March didnae last, and we’ve noo hid ten feet o snaw blaw in an’ entirely cover the village, and michty it’s niver looked better.  It looks jist exactly like the Christmas card ye get fae the EU in the envelope wi’ yer Single Farm Payment.

This is nithin, of course.  WInter o’ 74, the village hid 50 fit o’ snaw overnight. Noo that wiz a bit on the frosty side. I can mind Feel Moira marchin oot intae the drifts tae find a lost Cheviot wearing nithin but a look of grim determination. She’d come straight oot of her monthly bath, ye see. Took her siven hoors, but back she came, in triumph, wi’ that calf on her shooders, safe and sound, jist in time for tea. Some delicious veal escalopes, if I mind right.  Fit a woman!

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY – the Minister of Holburn North North East, THE REVEREND EDMOND EVEREND reflects on Easter.

Easter is my favourite time of the year, but I fear, the one where my own vision departs most dramatically from that of the general populous.  Where I perceive a profound tale of human experience: sacrifice, death, hopelessness, rebirth and joy – who needs “The Twilight Saga” when you have the Gospel of John!? – others see an opportunity to eat their own bodyweight in confectionary.

Looking for new ways to drive home the Easter message, I sought to pep up my sermon with what I understand is known as a “visual aid”.  And so, as I addressed my congregation on the topic of the crucifixion, as Christ’s fateful journey reached its denouement, I produced a hammer which I had secreted about my cassock, and nailed my hand to the pulpit.

I had hoped that this dramatic gesture would emphasise the real and visceral nature of Christ’s suffering.  I must confess, however, that the results were not all that I had wished for.  Betty McPhee, who had been bringing in the offering, found the spectacle more visceral than she could handle, and fainted onto a pile of hymnaries.  I instinctively leapt to her aid, forgetting that I was still nailed to the pulpit and ripping the nail through an artery, causing a great gout of blood to arc out, spattering wall, ceiling and parishioner alike.

But, from out of the darkness, new life emerges.  We had long wondered if the time had come to redecorate the sanctuary; the enforced closure of the church, on public health grounds, will give the project fresh impetus.  The four pints of blood which I received upon my admission to A&E constituted a gift more consonant with the true Easter message than the gaudiest chocolate egg.  And, as the nurse providing my bed-bath reached down and washed my feet, I was reminded of the service that Christ, in his humility, had provided to his disciples on Maunday Thursday.

Truly, He moves in mysterious ways.

Education, Eduction, Education. And Butteries

Oor Ain Folk – This week JONATHON M LEWIS, local Headteacher, on meeting the current challenges in Scottish education

The phone has been red hot here at Garioch Academy.  Mainly because the janitor had inadvertently wired it up to the mains. But there were also a number of calls from concerned parents following last week’s reports about the new exams pupils are due to sit in 2014.

I can reassure our parents that such concerns are wholly unfounded.  Here at Garioch, preparations have been underway for some time, and our new look curriculum is very much geared towards preparing our young people for the modern world.

The Mathematics department, in particular, has looked extensively at key topics such as percentages, fractions and calculus and has significantly improved results – by removing them from the curriculum entirely. And I’m pleased to report that the pupils have really come on board with the new topics, ‘Mobile Phone Contract Comprehension’ and watching Cash in the Attic.

In English the teaching staff have gone even further, by replacing outmoded texts such as the complete works of Shakespeare with more relevant materials such as Heat Magazine and the Evening Express Quick crossword.

The Music department has seen a move away from the now obsolete ‘Classical’ composers and a new, clear focus on singing the hits of Adele and developing a compelling back-story.

Many of our other departments have found ways to modernise – Art have taken to using colour by numbers, Home Economics have been buying in ready meals and Technical now bring in flat-pack from IKEA.  Physics, Chemistry and Biology have been unified in a single, all-encompassing science course entitled ‘Anything with Professor Brian Cox in’.

Such transformations have not been without challenge – some parents have even refused to pay our increased materials fees of £1000 per child – but we are a solution-focused school.  Those pupils are simply locked in the games hall until the end of the day, with all the equipment necessary for our Physical Education department to comply with the curriculum for excellence; two beanbags, a shuttlecock and a Nintendo Wii.

As for the pupils’ future prospects, the golden carrot for employers has always been good qualifications.  Given that many of these new courses don’t actually have an exam at the end of them and are marked by our own staff, I am able to categorically assure any parent that their child’s results will be excellent – without even having to ask them who their child is!

 

Introducing our very own ‘money saving expert’, king of the grips, KEVIN CASH

I see the price of stamps is up. 60p for first class?!  50p for second?!  Fa’s delivering them? David Cameron on a retired police horse? It’s a letter I’m sending, nae a manned mission tae Jupiter. Here’s my top tips on foo tae economise on communication costs

1. Dinna send letters oot.  Invite yer friends roon t’yer hoose for a drink.  Fan they arrive, hand them a gless o watter, their letter, and their coat.

2. Here’s an approach that mixes creativity with frugality.  Get yersel inveigled with your local Brownie pack and set them a’ an arts and crafts task – who can draw the best very small portrait of the Queen. In profile.  Affix to your envelope using a knocked-off glue stick, earwax or, if you have a cold, snochters.

3. Ask yersel, ‘Do I really need tae send a letter?’ I dae a’hin by Twitter these days,  birthday greetings, sharing my news, dumping my girlfriend.  There’s no better or cheaper wye to get a message across than having it retweeted to twa million strangers by Stephen Fry.

4. Of course,  texts and tweets are nae appropriate for a’thin – like fan someb’dy’s deed. Or you’ve a bill tae pay. You’ve heard the expression ‘Free as a bird’? Weel, seagulls, craws and cooshie-doos mak very effective carrier pigeons, and there’s hunners o’ them ga’n aboot! To pay your council tax by post, simply abduct a bird fae outside Marischal College, tak it hame, row yer cheque up and attach it to its leg, and watch your payment literally wing its wye to the cooncil. Feed it on fig rolls and prunes afore ye let it go and you’ll communicate a powerful message at the same time. Dirt cheap.

That’s far the value is!

 

STRUAN METCALFE, Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North and Surrounding Nether Regions

Once again, it appears  that I need to apologise unreservedly for recent comments made on Twitter. I absolutely regret making the following tweet:

“Just heard news about proposed EU ban on un-rendered fats. Embargo on newly-baked butteries with immediate effect. Better fill up your freezers now, people…it’s the end of the Rowie as we know it”.

I understand my April Fool’s wheeze – tweeted from my iPad3 whilst three sheets to the wind in the bar at The Marcliffe after a particularly rum-sodden Tory Party fund-raiser – caused widespread panic all over Aberdeenshire, a run on the Buttery and what I understand Grampian Police are referring to as ‘The Aitken’s Riot’. My sincere apologies to Esma Mitchell who is currently under observation at A&E having had to have a Yum Yum removed from an unmentionable extremity. But hey! Been there, done that – in my first year at Gordonstoun, fagging to Snorter Simpkins. Although in my case, it was a Millionaire’s Shortbread, natch.

 

 

 

Clocks go forward, petrol goes up, the top rate goes down and Meikle Wartle goes back to bed

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

Fit like, ab’dy? Welcome tae British Summertime. At’s richt, michty, it sterted yesterday. It’s the time o’ year fan new buds stert tae bloom, lambs gambol through the fields, and the air is fragrant wi the scent o’ blossom and warm sharn. Nae doot you’ll be feelin’ the ill-effects of haein’ an hour less in your bed. Especially if you stayed up till 2 a.m. to change yer clocks, then spent twa hours ficherin aboot wi’ yer cooker, yer video and yer microwave trying tae mind foo tae dae it.

Of course, here in Meikle Wartle this is nae a problem, as we dinna believe in new-fangled digital clocks. In fact we’re nae mad keen on the eens ye wind up. It’s still a gye chav wi us, though, as it taks Feel Moira a day tae rotate a’ the sundials in the village forward an hour by hand. Seeing her howking up the grun tae get at the foundations o’ the big een in the toon square, I wiz very nearly moved tae gie her a lend o’ my shovel. Fit a woman she is.

Noo, some of you sophisticates fit bide in mair metropolitan settlements, like New Pitsligo or Tarty, may scoff at oor traditional wye o’ measurin’ the passing o’ the hours. It’s often been said that time stands still in Meikle wartle, and this is certainly true on dreich days fan we’ve nae wye tae tell fit time it is. But that can hae it’s benefits. On days fan there’s nae sun, there’s nae time.  So we usually jist stay in wir beds.

Of course, the other big news in the village this wik his been the increase in fuel duty announced in the budget. And foo gled we are that it winna be a problem, noo were a’ powerin’ oor vehicles on hame distilled methylated neeps.

But it’s difficult tae forecast foo we in the rural communities will be affected by the budget as a whole, thanks tae the fact that we dinna haud wi’ decimalisation in Meikle Wartle. In fact, pounds shillings and pence niver really caught on either and we prefer tae use the coothy auld traditional methods such as barter and theft. That can mak filling oot yer tax return a scutter, but nae tae worry, we hinna hid naeb’dy fae Her Majesties Revenue and Customs visit Meikle Wartle since that unfortunate misunderstanding wi’ the Wicker Man back in 1968.

Last week’s budget has had the unusual effect of drawing simultaneous criticism from Saga Holidays, the AA and Greggs the Baker. But how does it affect some of our regular contibutors?

TANYA SOUTER– local lifestyle guru

If yer onythin like me, ye’ll hae been glued tae the telly fer the budget.  And if you resisted the temptation tae switch back tae Jeremy Kyle efter five minutes you’ll hiv seen that eence again the Government his hit us normal people far it hurts maist – the wikend.  I found ‘is online thingmy fit telt me that a quine wi my moderate alcohol and fags intake (20 double vodkas and 200 Lambert & Butler) will be worse aff by £50 a wik!  Meanwhile, there’s tax breaks for ‘high-end TV production’. As if the poshos fae Downton Abbey are nae rich enough a’ready. They’ve also lumped VAT on tae the hot pies I buys my bairns ivry Setterday fae Morrisons.  Div they wint tae pit folk aff feedin their kids proper?!  Thankfully, I winna be losing oot on Child Benefit – ’cause I’ll need tae hae anither bairn jist tae mak ends meet!

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

Ask anyone about George Osborne’s recent budget and they will mostly all say the same thing – the lad’s had a shocker.  For me, and speaking personally, the worstest part was the news that the honest publican will now be made to cough up 20% tax on what takings the fruit machine takes in.  And that takings will be lower now because a pint will cost more too. Even a white wine spritzer for the lovely Melody will not go unmolested. When I ran Enforcer’s, Inverurie’s premier Wine Bar, being a landlord had 2 perks what made the job worthwhile: free beer and free bandit.  Now mine-host will have to think two times about helping himself to a pint of 80 whilst jimmying open the moneybox on the puggy.  Criminal

STRUAN METCALFE, Conservative MSP

What was the big surprise in the Budget? It’s not the freezing of the pensioner’s annual allowance (take that, grandad!) It is the fact that people think that there are millionaires in the U.K. who actually pay tax at 50%. Only an idiot would do that. Haven’t they heard of the Cayman Islands?

Super Dave says, “We’re all in this together!” and by Jove he’s right! Me, Fatty Blenkinsop and Winker Cockburn (top blokes from Gordonstoun) are all in it together – as shareholders in a tax efficient financing vehicle with brass plates in Liechtenstein, Labuan and Lagos. Ker-ching!

Me? I’m in favour of a super tax on the rich. Reduce the top rate of tax to the same as everyone else? Yes, thanks, that would be super.

The Mother of all Sundays

JIMMY HOLLYWOOD – the Sandilands Smoothie talks exclusively to the P&J about the most important person in his life. OK, the second most important person in his life.

Fit’s maks a perfect Mothering Sunday? Weel, once a year, Jimmy Hollywood likes to take time out of his hectic schedule o’ pitting smiles on the faces o’ all the ladies, to make one very important lady feel extra special. Jimmy hiz many females in his universe. Some fleetingly, burning brightly like a shooting star; ithers, less so, hinging aboot in a low orbit. – but there his a’wyes been one constant in my life and that is the maist beautiful female iver tae walk this Earth. And I’m countin’ Kelly Brook, Angelina Jolie and Charmaine Dyker fae Hilton on that list. Jimmy Hollywood got his looks fae one person and one person only – and man, Ma Hollywood hiz still got it. She’s still turnin’ heads in The Grill, that’s for sure. And I mean that in a good wye, nae like in that scene fae The Exorcist.

Jimmy loves his mum and one day each year I mak sure Ma Hollywood feels like a princess. I’ll start the day by bringing her breakfast in bed – twa butteries (hot and wi’ a melted Kraft single), a bowl o’ Ricicles and a Marlboro Light – and then we’ll watch my videos o’ Miami Vice till aboot lunchtime. Since I still bide at hame and dinna drive, I’ll get my mate Grayzer to swing by in his Capri and take us oot for High Tea doon at The Washington. Ma Hollywood will offer tae pay, and seein’ as how I am sensitive tae fit a woman really wints, I will insist on letting her.  I dinna wint tae cause a scene and upset her on Mother’s day, ken?

Oor Ain Folk – MARGARET CRAWFORD (59) gives us her view of a Mothering Sunday spent with a much-loved son on the other side of the world.

Black gold.  It’s made us the energy capital of Europe, bringing money, traffic jams, and the highest concentration o’ lap dancin’ bars outside of Vegas.  But a’ these benefits hiv come at a cost.  I won’t hiv been the only mither to find hersel sittin at hame this Sunday, separated fae their loons by the ile and the miles.

Australia, my Ronnie’s in – as if there wizna ile in the grun nearer hame!  And of course, Ronnie sent a card, and bonny flooers an a’.  He’s aye been very thoughtful like that, especially since he moved in wi Charlotte, or “Charlie” as he cries her – fit kind o’ name’s that for a quine?  But I got my card, and my bonny flooers, and I hid a shottie on my neighboors’ Skyte for a bit yap wi’ Ronnie, Charlotte and little baby Kieran, a’ sittin oot in their sit-ooterie in Perth.  And as I said to Faither fan we cam back in, it wiz fine, and I widna hiv missed it for the world.  But it’s jist nae the same as hivin them here.

And, of course, it’s nae the same for them, either.  Stuck oot there on their ain, withoot onyone to lend a hand.  Cos I wiz very handy fan they wiz here.  If iver they needed someone to sit for a delivery, up I’d ging.  Or if Charlotte wiz needin a handie wi Kieran.  Fit a help I wiz to them wi that bairnie.  I wiz up there every day. And I mean to say – I wiz needed.  These young folks, they may hiv been to the varsity, but they’ve nae idea foo to bring up a bairnie.  I said to them, it’s got nithin to dae wi yer books, nor lectures, nor yer documentaries by Professor Robert Winston.  And oh, me they’d a lot to learn.  Fan they got him hame fae the hospital.  De ye ken fit they pit him in?  Jeans. Little bittie jeans!  Can you imagine? Hally-racket! I says to Charlotte you pit jeans on that bairnie and he’ll turn oot to be a hooligan!  I’ve nae been tic-tackin’ awa on a wee matinee jacket for three months to see young mister daen up like the Wild Bunch.

But we aye got on great, Charlotte and me.  I used to meet her for her fly doon toon, in Lewis’s, ivery wik.  The last time – and I’ll mind it to my dying day – I’d jist made a start on my Grunny Slice fan she said “Kieran’s hungry too” and oot it came!  In the middle o’ Lewis’s!  Well I jist said to her, very nice like, “Noo my young lady.  You may hiv jist hid a bairnie, and it may be the maist natural thing in the world, but that’s nae excuse to ging and flash a flash yer bosoms like Janet Jackson”. I says “it’s natural ye’ll mak mistakes files ye find yer feet.  It’s a peety ye’re makin as mony as y’are, but look on the bright side.  At least you’ve got me to keep you right, morning noon and night.”  And then I jist leaned across, took ahud, and popped it back in.   And that wiz the last I seen o her, cos the very next day, there wiz oor peer Ronnie, posted against his will to the ither side o the world.  It maks ye think.

“I had the time of my life, and it’s high time, at my time of life!”

J. FERGUS LAMONT, arts critic and author of the 900-page opus ‘I Canna Believe It!: A post-Brechtian analysis of the Life and Work of Cameron Stout’, attended His Majesty’s Theatre this week.

Few will be aware of the new piece of experimental theatre, ‘Dirty Dancing’, currently playing at Aberdeen’s foremost avant garde performance space, HMT, but the complex power of this stunning work can not be over stated. You may never have heard of it; it has received little, if any, promotion, but I can assure you this is the most moving production I have witnessed since the Singing Kettle’s towering ‘Funny Farm’.

Based on an obscure arthouse movie from the director Emile Ardolino, (best known, of course, as auteur of the Pinter-esque ‘Three Men and a Little Lady’) it fuses dialogue, dance and, principally, wardrobe, in a searing indictment of postwar American hypocrisy.

I was particularly touched by the moment when, clutching a watermelon (symbolising both the weight and power of the womb), the ingénue, ‘Baby’ is rebuffed by the emotionally impotent ‘Johnny’.  I attempted to mount the stage at this point to offer my congratulations to all concerned, but, having been restrained by an usherette, had to be content with a hearty cry of ‘Bravo!’ which the cast greatly appreciated. Indeed, ‘Johnny’ even broke off from his rendition of “Hungry Eyes’ to glare approvingly at me.

The plot is intricate, yet deceptively simple. It can best be understood as a heady distillation of King Lear, with more than a nod in the direction of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler, and flourishes of Hi-De-Hi.

Last night’s clearly knowledgeable audience were aware of the symbolism of the piece, many joining in with key sections.  Indeed, one group of young ladies in my vicinity, seemed drunk on the raw emotional force of the more intimate scenes, regularly yelling “Get them off!” – no doubt referring to the socio-economic chains binding the visionary Johnny to his bourgeois paymasters.

And then, it happened! In a moment like none I have experienced before in all my years a theatre critic, Johnny declaimed “Nobody puts baby in the corner” and the audience, so intensely affected by this universal truth, rose as one to whoop, not cheer, but WHOOP! – their approval.

Suffice to say that at it’s climax, as ‘Baby’ was hoist aloft by the now redeemed Johnny, in a moment of such startling spontaneity that it can only have been improvised on the night, I felt moved to cry out a  ‘Bravissimo!’ At which point ‘Johnny’ dropped her into the orchestra pit. A searing coup de theatre.

I wept.

Community Policeman PC BOBBY CONSTABLE adds his voice to the recent debate about police privatization.

Grumpian his aye been in the forefront of police innovation.  We wis the first force in Britain to work oot foo tae extract a confession withoot leaving a mark. It wis fan the Custody Sergeant forgot to gie the prisoners their supper, and then DC Tubby Thomson came on the night shift wi a carry-oot fae the Ashvale. Fan the boys in the cells got a whiff o’ it, they telt us a’thing they kent in exchange for a puklie chips and a bit o his fite pudding. It’s worked a treat for us ever since.  Also, I am proud to say that I personally wiz leaking information to my pal at the Fetteresso Enquirer long afore the boys in the Met cottoned onto the idea.  How else do you think they managed to get ahold of the shock exclusive that Henry Stirling’s prize heifer hid Brucellosis?

But the commercialization of policing is nothing new. Speed cameras is a good example, fit a money we mak oot o’ them!  The day they first come in, we made a mint, clocking up ower a hunner speeding tickets inside fifteen minutes on the A90.  Then we noticed we hid the thing set tae 30 mile an ‘oor. Unfortunately, camera revenue is fit they cry “ring-fenced”.  So a’ the speeding fines we tak in his tae be spent on road safety: very frustrating when you ken that money could be put to better use, like community outreach, crime prevention, or an all-inclusive cruise roond the Dardanelles for me and Mrs Constable.

That is fit wye I hiv launched “Operation Kipper”.  Faniver I lift a burglar wi’ a laptop in his holdall – I simply plant some drugs on him.  Afore he starts bleating on aboot his Human Rights and a’ that Greenpeace muck, I says, I’ll drap a’ the charges if he hands ower the computer. Quick trip tae Cash Converters, twa hunner quid.

Noo, some folk are opposed to my methods. Victims of crime, for example. And ither policemen. But if I charges him, the laptop wid be evidence.  And the fingerprint boys wid mak a sotter o’ it wi’ their talcum pooder, significantly reducing it’s resale value.

Onywye, you canna argue wi’ results. On my beat, recorded crime is at an all time low and if you want to ken the time, ask Pc Bobby Constable. I’ll check my Rolex!

Mind how ye go noo!

Ladies and Gentlemen, please give it up…for Lent!

This month we observe that special time in the calendar between Lemon-Pancakes-for-Pudding Tuesday and Chocolate-Egg Sunday, when we remember that Jesus spent forty days and nights in the wilderness, resisting the temptations of Satan. His poor mother. She couldn’t get to her bed for worrying, and did he ever think to phone?

During Lent, people traditionally give up luxuries as a form of penitence, so this week we’ve asked some of our regular contributors to tell us what they’re packing in until Good Friday.

DODDIE ESSLEMONT – radical independence campaigner.

In preparation for the glorious day when Scotland finally casts off the shackles of imperialist Westminster rule, I’m giving up anything to do with the rest of the UK.  For the next forty days, only the produce of Caledonia’s bounteous shores will pass my lips. I look forward to feasting as did our forefathers, the clansmen of old, upon good Scotch beef and porridge oats, washed down with Highland Spring water, Irn Bru or a pint of Tartan Special. Perhaps with a Tunnock’s Caramel Log for afters. I’m sure I’ll be able to resist temptation; doing without English breakfast tea will be a doddle.  Irish potato farls, I can live without.  But I have to admit, not having a leek for a month will be a struggle.

‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER – football pundit.

It’s no secret that I likes a flutter on the racing. So my good lady, the lovely Melody, is suggestive that I give it up for Lent. Melody and me has been together through thick and thin (she is a size six), and she knows me like the back of her head. She says to me, she says “Not just the gee-gees, Kenny, the greyhounds as well!” So I promised her I would not gamble on nothing with four legs. But I is not as daft as she thinks I look, ’cause I never said nothing about having a bet on something with two legs, like the Champions League Quarter-Finals.

GRAEME SMART – head of the Northeast’s fourth largest business empire.

I’m going to give up trying to portray other local tycoons in a negative light.  You’d never see Stewart Milne doing that. Although I happen to know he once over-fed his goldfish, with predictably tragic results. Damn, damn.  Resist the temptation, Graeme.  RESIST!

SHELLY SHINGLES – showbiz reporter.

Just back from a post-Oscars party! (Easily the most glamorous cocktail bar in Inverurie!) I suppose I could give up going to the movies, it feels like I’ve been doing nothing else for weeks! Loved Meryl Streep in ‘The Iron Lady’, her performance was amazing, though, as is often the case with sequels, I don’t think it lived up to the first two, with Robert Downey Jr. (Delish!). ‘The Artist’ has picked up a load of prizes, and I’m sure it’s great, but unfortunately, when I went to see it there were some technical hitches. In fact not only had the colour gone, but so had the sound! (Sad face). If I do have a teensy-weensy bad habit, it’s that, with my glamorous life-style, I just can’t help sometimes seeming like a bit of name-dropper! So I’m going to give that up for Lent. Just like my great pal Madonna.

JIMMY HOLLYWOOD – the Sandilands Smoothie.

Een o’ my extremely numerous exes (the ‘previously lucky’, as I like to think o’ them) suggested that, for Lent, I should become celibate. But, hey, Jimmy Hollywood disnae ken the meaning of the word. Literally. Onybody help us oot wi’ that? But, if I hiv tae gie somethin’ up, foo’s aboot this?  For the next 40 days and nights, Jimmy Hollywood is gan tae totally desist fae trappin’ bits o’ stuff in the Soul Bar.  I’ll ging tae The Paramount, instead.

STRUAN METCALFE, MSP

After the recent hullaballo surrounding my playful head-butting of Jock Rankine, Labour MSP for Cumbernauld in the Holyrood Members bar (for which I apologise, unreservedly), I have decided to give up the innocent rough-housing that constitutes my trade-mark bonhomie, lest it be, yet again, misrepresented as thuggery by the po-faced moaning minnies of the press.  So no more wedgies,  (or ‘stinky flosses’, as they were known at Gordonstoun), for the BBC’s Brian Taylor, an end to giving Tavish Scott a friendly nipple-cripple, and I’ve gnumpfed Kenny MacAskill for the last time.  It’s sad, really, because my chum Annabel Goldie is really going to miss her regular wet willies before First Minister’s questions.

JOCK ALEXANDER – Mtv (Miekle Wartle Television) presenter.

Here in Meikle Wartle, Christianity is slowly beginning to hae an influence upon wir auld country wyes. So, this year I am gan tae give up makin’ my traditional spring sacrifice tae Cernunnos, the horned god o’ fertility. Weel, it’s a sair fecht tae find a virgin in Aberdeenshire these days, onywye. I am also givin up the drink. Mainly because, efter that fifteenth bottlie o’ home-brew Tattie, Hemlock and Dubs, my legs hiv stopped workin’ and I canna stot oot tae the coo-shed tae bring in anither crate. I am reliably informed that efter 40 days the effects wear aff, so I’ve timed it nicely, michty aye!

TANYA SOUTER – lifestyle guru.

I’ve been tryin to give up smoking since Hogmanay, so for Lent, I’m ga’an to give up giving up.  Well, naebody likes a quitter! My pal fat Senga his pushed the boat oot though, she’s signed up on the Internet for a forty day De-tox diet. Worse luck for her she’s a bittie dizlestic, so she’s ended up on a Dettol diet. She’s nae been weel, but on the plus side, her cludgie his niver smelled sae fresh!

The Retain Union Terrace Gardens Campaign

…oh, we give up.

Down and Out in Woolmanhill

Union Terrace Gardens continues to divide opinion across the City.  Here, city-centre resident ARCHIE FRASER explains why he is a ‘YES’.

As a life-long user of Union Terrace Gardens I have followed, with keen interest, the debate on its future, and the remarkable passion it has engendered. I am overwhelmed by the community spirit, civic spirit, and, from my associate Ronnie MacKenzie sitting here next to me beside the statue of Edward VII, surgical spirit.

Throughout my colourful and eclectic career as a vagrant, I have travelled far and wide and spent the night in many a Town Centre. And I can honestly say that there is not one, not one my friends, which is as sad and bedraggled as ours. Dundee included. Gasps? Do I hear gasps? As you were, that’s just Ronnie hacking away on the tab end of a Lambert & Butler.

So that’s why I am in favour of replacing Union Terrace Gardens with something new, something exciting, something vibrant. Something with fly-overs, beneath which I can sleep off that bottle of Croft Original, and a world class Cultural Centre designed by leading architects Diller Scofidio & Renfro in which I can surreptitiously consume the steak-bake I’ve liberated from the bin behind Gregg’s the Baker, before the security men work out where that awful smell is coming from.

Many is the time I have toured the Union Terrace Gardens, marvelling at their blood-spattered steps and needle-bedecked paths, and wishing, fervently, for a grove of mature upland pine trees behind which I might evacuate my aching  bladder without the risk of PC Bobby Constable catching me in the act.

To those concerned about the proposals, I say; ‘Be not afraid of change’. I have spent many a happy day staggering around the Castlegate since it was pedstrianised and then, much like myself, entirely ignored for a number of years. But the splendid opportunities for bellowing incomprenhesible obscenities at strangers presented by the Mercat Cross pale in comparison with the potential for startling passers-by offered by the acoustics of a dramatic outdoor amphitheatre.

Right now, the rheumy eyes of the world’s Gentlemen-of-the-Road are on the tramps of Aberdeen. For this bold vision, this vagabond Shangri La, we must stand upon our calloused, fungal-ridden feet and be counted. Years from now, in my final moments, as I lie in a ditch, a gutter, or if I’m lucky, the doorway of a vacant shoe-shop, reflecting on all the golden opporunities I have allowed to pass me by, I refuse to look back and think that I missed my chance – my one chance – to experience a dynamic new parkland drawing people into its heart through connecting pathways, and regurgitate White Lightning all over it.

So please, get involved and vote for the City Garden Project. I can’t vote; I’ve been of no fixed abode since 1973.

TANYA SOUTER – lifestyle advice with a local flavour.

This week offers a chunce fer a lassie tae tak control o her life.  Since it’s a leap year, us quines can get doon on one knee and pop the question on the 29^th o February.  So, if your boyfriend disnae look like he’s ga’n tae pull his finger oot onytime soon – read my guide tae the perfect proposal!

First of a’, ye hiv tae be sure he’ll accept. If yer onythin’ like me, there’s a stream o desperados fa ye’ve callously knocked back in Tiger Tiger on a Setterday night.  If ye look beyond the tremendous feelin’ o’ self-worth it gives you, apparently it’s a devastating blow for him.  Experiencing that yersel widna be fine.  So tae be certain he’s going to say “Yes” or at least “Aye, fitiver”, why not get yer tartiest mate tae gie him the glad-eye fan you’re at yer Zoomba?  If he keeps his hands tae himsel’, he’s yours!

Next ye’ll hae tae pick a venue.  Maist quines wid prefer tae be asked in a romantic setting – wi’ candles, music an’ bonny flooers.  But if your man’s been dragging his heels lang enough tae mak you resort tae fit is, let’s face it, his job – best mak your proposal somewhere public, preferably full o his mates, so he canna back oot later on.  Try surprising him at work or even in the pub fan he’s watchin’ the fitba.  A’body there will ken that ye love him, but that you’re deeply disappointed in him an’ a’.

Finally, assumin’ it’s a’ gone smoothly, ye hiv tae think aboot goin’ public.  There’s 3 simple steps tae makin sure ab’dy kens your news.  First of a’, get een anither’s names tattooed on yer necks. Nithin’ oozes class mair than that. Top tip, if yer nae a hunner percent sure you’ll keep him, get your een daen in arabic. Saves on the laser surgery efterwards. Secondly, book a swanky venue fer a party!  Ye canna ging wrang wi’ the Abergeldie Bowlin’ club – cheap drink an’ staggerin’ distance fae the Albyn.  Oh aye – an’ mak sure ye get a photie o’ yer shindig in the Evenin’ Express.  Preferably wi’ yer spotty 14 year aul cousin stunnin’ wi’ his spaver doon! Lastly, an’ maist importantly, pit it on Facebook. It’s the modren wye tae get yer news oot tae abody ye ken. And abody ye dinna ken an’ a’!

Look after yersel’s!

The Butter-Fingered Philanthropist

Union Terrace Gardens continues to divide opinion across the City.  Here, local tycoon GRAEME SMART explains why he is a ‘No’.

I would like to set the record straight on why I am against the redevelopment of Union Terrace Gardens.  It has been suggested that my opposition stems from some kind of personal enmity between myself and Sir Ian Wood.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

Sir Ian and I go way back. We schooled together at Gordon’s, where I was the Dux and captain of the First XV, and Sir Ian tried hard.  The mischief-makers have referred to an incident in the rugby changing room in 1962, but this has been misconstrued.  Yes, Ian inexplicably dropped the ball in the final minute of the Schools Cup Semi-Final (he was a gangling youth and poor sportsman).  Yes, this gifted our bitter rivals, the Grammar school, the game.  And yes, I, as captain, would have dearly loved to lead the team out in the final at Murrayfield.  But when, after the match, I took ahold of Ian by his gawky shoulders and frog-marched him to the toilets, it was purely out of kindness.  The whole team had been infuriated by Ian’s breathtaking, staggering uselessness – I mean, how hard is it just to keep ahold of a rugby ball!? – and I could see that Ian was upset by their jibes.  Pushing his head into the toilet bowl and flushing it was not an attack, but an act of compassion designed to disguise his tears.  To contend, as the rumour-mongers have done, that this incident resulted in a bitter rivalry between us, and gave Sir Ian the steely determination necessary to make a success of himself, makes no more sense than to claim that I am still smarting, 50 years later, from Eleanor Maitland’s decision to snub me to attend the School Leaver’s ball with Ian.  Yes, my sporting and academic prowess made me the more obvious suitor; and yes, she was a smooth-skinned, doe-eyed beauty possessed of a laugh of such surpassing loveliness as to melt a young man’s heart – but is it really credible to imagine that I might still be nursing a grudge, half a century on?  Is it?  Really?

Is it really 50 years since last I saw her?

Let us be clear: I have nothing but admiration for Sir Ian.  He has done tremendously well for someone who previously found keeping a secure grasp on an oval leather object an insurmountable challenge, and who never got above the second-top maths group.  I wish him well.  Eleanor, too, for that matter.  Wherever she may be.  Lovely Eleanor.

Sir Ian’s success – his remarkable, one might say undeserved success – provides a shining example of what may be achieved by a man of modest abilities who finds himself in the right place at the right time.  As such he is an inspiration to many in the modern world, like Alex Salmond, Andrew Considine, and Dappy from N’Dubz.

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

The beautiful game has been on the front pages as much as the back this week.  I is dead against anyone dragging the good name of the sport what I love through the byre – but I feel dead sorrow for my old pal Ally McCoist.  Ally and me go way back.  When he signed for Sunderland in 1981 I was down there too, on trial.  Me and the boys from Forres Mechanics had played a pre-season friendly against a local side and things got a little bit out of hand in the bar after.  Ally thought he’d landed his dream job as Rangers manager, but it has turned out to be a bad dream. What a nightmare. Rangers’ Administrators has already laid off some staff to cut costs – 2 referees and a linesman. Still, it’s not every club can get 10 points chalked off without affecting their league position. It reminds me of the time that the men in suits got in the way of my career. The council sent everybody home from Kaimhill Primary School the day before our Champion Street quarter-final because of an outbreak of nits.  The game was rearranged for the next weekend but I was away at my Granny’s caravan in Burghead.  I was greeting like Gazza.

After Fabio Calippo got his jotters from the England job, I was straight on the phone to the FA to throw my spanner into the ring. They seemed well impressed with my Curriculum Vitamin – I was third in the Parkvale FC Fantasy League two seasons running – and the lady I spoke to said I wouldn’t be required to attend an interview, which can only mean I’m a shoe-in.  That will be a blow for my old mate Harry Redknapp. The English papers reckon he’d be perfect for the top job now he has got off with all that tax invasion. I know all too well how it feels to have the crooked finger pointed in your direction.  When Enforcer’s Wine Bar in Inverurie mysteriously burned to the ground back in 1994, I had just insured it for a tidy sum. Luckily. I was accused of all sorts in the press.  Like Harry though, I just gone about my business without letting it get me down.  The new Jag and the holiday in Barbados never hurt neither.