Love is in the air. Either that or it’s the cabbage soup

JIMMY HOLLYWOOD – The Sandilands Smoothie offers some Valentine’s Day tips.

As a man about town, love guru, and Woodside’s maist eligible bachelor, I’m ayewis being asked the same question. “Hey min, Jimmy Hollywood, how come you is such a winner with the chicks?” Weel, in today’s P&J, I exclusively reveal some of the secrets of my incredible success with the quines to those less fortunate and less handsome than mysel’ (which is, basically, a’bdy). Just follow Jimmy Hollywood’s golden rules and you, too, can hae the woman of yer dreams. Every week.

“How to woo a lady”.

1. Change yer punts. Daily. Nae exceptions, even on a Sunday.
2. Niver forget their name. They definitely dinna like that. I once totally blew my chunces of a cheeky snog in the Soul Casino when I kept callin’ Josie – a bonny quinie as I recall – José. Canna think why. That wis the name of a Spanish waiter I met in Magaluf last summer. Weird.
3. Women love tae imagine they’re stepping out with Crockett fae Miami Vice (THE coolest dude on the planet). So a fake tan, sharp suit and a pair o’ espadrilles is essential. Takin’ yer mate Tubbs fae Tillydrone along on your date is a step too far.
4. Jimmy Hollywood always makes a quine feel special. So ask her loads of questions. Such as “Div ye like my shirt?” “Should Jimmy get his hair highlighted?” or “Fit’s your favourite thing aboot Jimmy Hollywood?”
5. Dinna ging too flashy on the first date. Somewye posh – like The Grill or The Rusty Nail – can wait until you’re on a promise. Instead, tak her tae Codona’s for a shottie on the waltzers and yer bit of stuff will be weak at the knees before ye can say “Hey Macarena!”  Just be careful she diznae spew on yer loafers.
6. If ye hiv tae tak her for a meal and she suggests orderin’ wine, dinna! Stick tae cocktails. They taste like juice and orderin’ them maks you look classy. Plus, she’ll be steamin’ by the time she’s had her soup.
7. Flooers. Gie her flooers. Daffies fae the Mounthooly Roundaboot are in bloom fae March tae late June. Outside those months, why not nick some Lilies fae ootside een of the florists on George Street?

 

Dear Donna – relationship advice from DONNA BARNEY, our intense Agony Aunt

In my mony careers as personal shopper, Doctors’ receptionist and freelance make-up artiste, I hiv ayewis been a people person. I see it as my duty to share the benefit of my extensive life experience with as mony peer cr’aters as humanely possible. So, without further a do, let’s wheel oot the losers!

Q: Dear Donna, I’ve finally plucked up the courage to invite a colleague out on a date, but I’m not sure what to wear. There’s not much choice for the plus-sized girl (I’m a healthy size 16). What can I do to make sure I look attractive and alluring?

A: Nae being funny, but that’s nae a wardrobe issue, that’s a job for 10 pints of Stella. Have you thought about taking alang an even fatter freen? You’ll look better by comparison. Failing that, I would recommend een of that crash diets. A while back I’d really let myself go. I wis a helluva size. Nae as big as you, obviously, nae massive, but big, ken? The solution? One word – Ccabbage Soup. Fit a diet! But it’s nae without its side effects. Nae matter foo romantically yer date is progressing, dinna light ony candles.

Q: Dear Donna, I’m due to get married on Valentine’s Day and i’ve been planning the wedding for nearly two years. Now, suddenly, as the big day approaches, I’m getting the jitters. Is this normal? I love my fiance, but how can I be sure that he is ‘the One’?

A: Your nerves is totally normal. And justified, ’cause all men is scum. My first husband, Jason wis a nice as ninepence fan we met, then as soon as we wiz merried he changed. Like that.  Twa month efter the wedding, his idea o’ foreplay wiz taking aff his trackie bottoms. My second, Darren, he wis nae better.  He hid six toes on his left fit. Gads. Niver found oot til we wiz merried. I’d seen him naked before, obviously, it’s jist it wizna his fit I wiz looking at, ken fit I mean?  But on wir wedding night I seen it. Well. I says to him, I says ‘Darren, if you think you’re coming near me wi’ that fit, ye’ve anither think coming!’ Next day, I wis straight doon the court for the divorce papers. But my third, Kevin, he wis ‘The One’. Dinna ask me how I kent, I jist kent. We women hiv an instinct for it.  Kevin hid everything I was looking for in a man. Rippling muscles, a souped up Renault Clio and a massive personality. But tragically he wis taken awa fae me. Oh, but he wiz brave.  He fought so hard. In the end it took four bobbies, an Alsatian and twa tins of CS gas.

 

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

I see my good chum and Loose Woman (in more ways than one!!) Denise Welch is back in the glossies again!!  I haven’t actually read any of the stories myself, but from teeting at the photos she seems to be having a great time, reunited with cuddly actor hubby, Dennis Healy.  Either that, or she’s heading a toy-boy-lust booze-hell break-up.  You never can tell with Denise!!

I first bumped into her back in 1993 when she took time out of her breakthrough role in “Soldier Soldier” to travel north and judge “Miss Aberdeenshire”.  Never mind ‘ Britain’s Got Talent’, what a panel of judges that was!!  Denise, Theo Snelders and Robin Galloway!!  Champers Nightclub in Maryculter had never seen anything like it!!  I finished runner-up to Miss Oyne – no shame in that, she went on to be the face of the Scottish Pig Breeders Association – and Denise was good enough to stot up to me and slur a few encouraging words, before passing out face-down in my cleavage.  It was the start of a firm friendship that continues to this day. Granted, we haven’t seen or spoken to each other since, but whatever scrapes our Denise gets into, I’ll never forget what she said to me, it remains the mantra by which I live my life today:

“Where am I?”

Wise words, from a great lady.

 

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

Like most of the crowd, I had went to Pittodrie on Saturday looking for revenge.  12 April 2008 is a date what Aberdeen fans won’t never forget, for all the wrong reasons.  Sadly, when the chance come along for the Dandies to bury the Queen of the South hoodoo, we can only say 3 words – sick as a parrot.  When I look back on my extinguished career, I also have tasted the pain of losing to the underdog too.  I remember it as if it was yesterday.   The gaffer at Formartine had arranged a friendly with the Albyn School for Girls U15s.  There’s nobody can deny we had counted our chickens and was already planning our first goal celebration.  But as my old pal Jimmy Greaves sometimes always said – it’s a funny old game.  They wanted it well more than what we did and stuffed us 3-0. There really is no easy games in football.

I is chuffed to see Aberdeen legend Russell Anderson back at the club.  You don’t get many stalwarts in this day where money does all the talking, like what it does now.  Hopefully Russell will be off the psycho’s couch and back playing soon.  I know exactly how Russell feels – when I left Inverurie Locos, for the bright lights of Brechin City, I says that one day I’d return. Then at the end of my playing days I got a phone call from the club, asking me back.  When I sat down in the manager’s office he says to me, “Fit are you daein’ in my seat?” Turned out they’d just cleared out my old locker after 20 years, and he wanted to give me back my jock-strap.

I hope Craig Brown gives Russell the same support.

 

TANYA SOUTER – lifestyle advice with a local flavour.

Well that’s January awa, and nae doot yer New Year’s Resolutions is a’ready lying smashed on i’ fleer (like I wis, last Saturday in i’ Priory), so here’s a few tips tae help turn yer good intentions intae great results:

Christmas belly still nae shiftin’?  There’s an ower-the-coonter remedy available tae a’body that supresses appetite and his the added benefit of makin’ ye look cool and sophisticated – fags.

My pal Natasha his ayewiz been a smoker and she’s got a figure like Kate Moss.  Her skin’s as wrinkly as Stirling Moss, like, but her body is tae die for.  Soon, judgin’ by that cough of hers.

Of course, if yer a fat pleiter fa smokes a’ready, things is mair trickier. The BMA recommends 20 minutes of exercise, 3 times a wik; but exercise can be very dangerous, especially if yer nae used til it. Gie’t a miss, I say. Naebody’s ever dropped doon deid fae the strain o’ openin’ a bag o’ cheesy wotsits. Often, the problem is that, wi oor busy modren life-styles, wir diet is nae balanced across the 5 main food groups; fat, sa’t sugar, pastry and ingin. But you can cover the hale five in a oner wi a really good balanced meal, like a hot pie and a yum yum.

You maybe seen in the news recently that a’body in Scotland is in danger o’ gettin’ rickets because o’ the lack o’ sunlight durin’ winter months!  Rickets?  GADS!!  Dinna worry though, as ony nutritionist can tell ye, rickets is caused by a lack o’ vitamin D.  Een o’ the best wyes tae get mair vitamin D is tae eat oily fish like sardines and mackerel.  Unfortunately, the Ashvale disnae dae them, so jist dae fit I dae – crush up a Sanatogen and sprinkle it ower yer mock chop supper.

Look after yersel’s!

 

 

 

 

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

Fit like, ab’dy? Happy New Year!  Here in Meikle Wartle we’re slap bang in the middle o’ wir New Year celebrations. It’s nae because the village his a large Chinese population, we jist hinna stopped drinking since Hogmanay. Welcome, ab’dy, tae the Year Of The Neep!

For us, the passing of the auld year is a much mair important festival than Christmas, principally because here in Meikle Wartle we’re still awaiting the arrival of Christianity.

We in the rural communities are all too aware that roon aboot this time of year mony folk find themselves filled wi’ gloom and feelings of despair. But life seems much mair positive for those of us who didna watch Celebrity Big Brother. In fact, that’s een of the main advantages of living oot here in Meikle Wartle far there is nae noise pollution, Channel 5 TV reception, or indeed, trees. Instead, we ken foo tae enjoy the simple pleasures of life. I hiv spent maist of the festive season (or ‘January’ as you toonsers wid cry it) with my nearest and dearest, Maisie and Agnes.  Weel, my wife has locked me oot of the hoose, and the pigsty wiz the warmest place tae bed in. Michty, aye, the air his a bit o’ a sharny tang to it, but by god its fairly cleared oot my sinuses.

Mony of you may not be aware of Meikle Wartle’s unique Hogmanay traditions, particularly if you bide in a mair Metropolitan settlement like Clatt or Gask.  On New Years Eve itsel’, it’s the annual procession doon the main (and, indeed, only) street and roon the village square.  A stirring sight, with the hale population swingin’ great muckle ba’s of flame aroon. Commemorating that famous day in 1657 fan we first burnt the village tae the grun. Ab’dy is in traditional dress, that is to say, the nuddy. So ye’ve tae be affa careful nae tae get singed in the public areas. Then on New Year’s Day there’s the traditional 6 a.m. dip in the bog. This has gone on for centuries, so it’s high time we got a new een. It hisnae flushed richt since 1976.

 

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY – this week, Minister of Holburn North North East, THE REVEREND EDMOND EVEREND

What a week it’s been!  On Tuesday I conducted a mock wedding service for the delightful children of our local school.  On Thursday I visited some of the more senior members of my flock at the Old Folks Home – I hope I have their energy at that age! – and on Friday, I said grace at a Burns Supper hosted by an oil company whose headquarters lie within my parish.

What an occasion it was.  No “hamely fare” here, but a five-course meal with the finest wines.  We began with a “keynote address” from the company’s MD, in which we learned that his decision to focus on operations in Africa had paid off spectacularly He proudly announced that a propitious combination of biddable officials, lax safety regulation and the general cheapness of life had led to an otherwise unimaginable level of profit.  As our host returned to his seat, the company bayed their approval, drained their glasses and toasted his continued success.

I then rose to say the Selkirk Grace, as specifically requested by my hosts.  You may know it:

Some hae meat and cannae eat, and some wad eat, but want it;

We hae meat, and we can eat, sae let the Lord be thankit.

I have spoken it many times before, but as I stood there, it suddenly occurred to me that I had never previously considered what the words actually meant.  And, as I gazed out upon a sea of porkish, wine-tanned faces, I realised what a mean-spirited, self-centred and complacent sentiment it conveys. Because what it boils down to is “There are those in the world who are infirm or starving. But it’s not us, so who cares?””  And it struck me that to offer these words up to God and to associate them with the memory Rabbie Burns was a profanity beyond imagining.  And I felt moved to share my thoughts with the assembled company.

Had I had an opportunity to reflect, I might have expressed my views differently.  I might have decided that I could adequately make my point without shouting about “Mammon”, turning over the top table, or attempting to bodily shove the microphone down our host’s throat.  But chief amongst all virtues is honesty.  I cannot deny that as the chairs flew, the crockery smashed and the head of procurement cried out as his novelty animal sporran was stained by an overturned bottle of Chateau Lafitte, I felt giddy with joy.  So much so that just before the head of security’s meaty fist landed upon my jaw, I imagined I saw Jesus in the Temple, and could hear Rabbie Burns roaring encouragement.

It was a vision which sustained me the whole time I was in hospital, and which comforts me still as I write to you now, from the remand wing at Craiginches.

 

 

Council throw their toys out of the pram – after failing to spit the dummy

Council spokesman RON CLUNY defends the authority over the ‘Helena Torry’ affair

As one might have guessed, the usual whingers and opportunists have had a field day about the Council’s apparent “ineptitude” over the failure of the Helena Torry prosecution.  There is talk about a “bullying public authority” using its power in an oppressive and unjust way. To our critics, I say, firstly, that you’d better be very careful about what you put in your bin if you don’t want to be prosecuted under the Waste Electronic and Electrical Equipment Regulations 2006; and secondly, you are, as usual, about as wide of the mark as Kenny Miller clean through on goal.

Let us look coolly at what happened here.  A protestor formed the belief that she must defend the interests of the “silent majority” (which majority, despite their silence, seem to have found a means of communicating their desires to her, and who, funnily enough, turn out to want exactly the same thing as she does.)  She took the step of entering a dummy in a local election.  In so doing she wasted the time of public officials and dissipated the scarce resources of this overstretched local authority, when the public notification of the identity of the candidates needed to be made again.  Are we then expected to stand idly by and tolerate this wasteful act of foolishness?  “Yes!” our detractors say, “It was a just a joke, and the minimal inconvenience caused to the local authority was as nothing compared to the vast expense of a protracted legal process.” and they openly delight in our embarassment now that the prosecution has failed.

Their shrill and puerile criticism is not about holding the council to proper account.  It is yet another example of the corrosive blame culture to which we are continually subjected and which so undermines all aspects of public life today.  Let us be clear.  It wasn’t our fault.  It was the defence lawyer’s, the judge’s, and the Procurator Fiscal’s.

JOCK ALEXANDER – MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) Personality

Weel, michty it’s been an unsettling wik in the village, with much talk aboot the new wave o’ criminality fit is sweeping the area. We live in troubled times, far teenage tearaways roam wir streets, nabbing high performance vehicles and then bragging aboot it ungrammatically on twitbook. I hear there’s something similar happening in the city, but that’s nithing tae the crime spree in Meikle Wartle.  Noo, Grumpian police may be warning against vigilantism, but that hisnae stopped Feel Moira fae taking the law intae her ain shovel-like hands. She’s even made herself a crime-fechting costume, complete with cape, facemask, and utility belt: nae so much the Dark Knight as the Fite Pudding.

And certainly it has had a remarkable effect. Criminals are feart tae walk the streets at nicht. So is ab’dy else. Believe you me, there are few sights mair terrifying than Feel Moira looming oot of the darkness at you, clad in skintight Lycra. Noo I dinna condone her activities, but fair play til her, she did catch the joyriders. Largely due tae the fact that they’d nicked a 10 year aul Massie Ferguson that didna dae mair than 5 mile an oor downhill, so she had nae trouble strolling up tae the driver’s windae, climbing aboard, and dunting them all on the heed. Cheerio!

JONATHAN M LEWIS, local Headteacher

Following the largely negative response from parents to the recently launched Garioch Academy “Nuff Respect” campaign, I write to clarify the thinking behind it and reassure parents that it will not result in, as some less progressive voices have suggested, a “rammy”.

First of all, I reject criticism of the wording of the policy document.  We at Garioch decided to hand the project over to the pupils, so the wording reflects the current communication norms.  I defy anyone who claims they cannot understand, for example, “u need 2 mk shoor ur fone iz on silent wen ur in class”. As the Young People themselves so poetically say, “Jus chillax, lol!”

Secondly, I am disappointed at accusations that staff hadn’t “bothered to check” what our Young People had written before implementing policy. We at Garioch seek to mould fledgling minds into responsible citizens.  The pupils can only learn about appropriate use of power by being given some in the first place. Admittedly, some of the things now decreed as acceptable conduct might take some getting used to – I am still slightly taken aback when a pupil bellows “A’right, slapheid” at me in the corridor.

Finally I categorically refute that I have “gone soft” on the pupils.  Respect is a 2-way street and I admire the pupils for realising this.  If we look deep down, I’m sure we would all agree that the days of teachers demanding that pupils solve quadratic equations, conjugate a verb or do 20 star jumps were somewhat one-sided.  What better way for them to understand the true meaning of respect by placing similar demands on their teachers?  I defend the right of any pupil who has been instructed to write a reflective essay to respond, “Not until you complete level 3 of Angry Birds. You slapheid”.

The Resolutions will not be well-advised.

Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte – the 13th Earl of Kinmuck.

The month of January: when the censorious do-gooder, who we so sensibly ignore for the other 11 months of the year, is given unwarranted credence. “What’s your New Years’ resolution?” is the whining enquiry, and coupled with it the encouragement, more or less explicit, depending on the modus operandi of the wet-minded ninny, that you will undertake to spend more frugally, exercise more often, smoke nothing, eat little more, and drink naught but water hand-drawn from organic springs by bearded lentil-botherers. All on the premise that ‘It’s good to change’. Well, to them and you I say; Piffle! Devilled piffle, on well-fired, heavily buttered toast. Change is not good. Change is bad. Change gave us parliamentary democracy, lost us an Empire and means I now have to pay those below-stairs a minimum wage. I want no part of it. So my resolution is simple. “More of the same.” Gout, alcoholism and coronary heart disease have been my family’s birthright since James I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I shall continue to fill the window-washers of my Land Rover with Veuve Cliquot champagne (non-vintage, naturally; using the good stuff would be wasteful. I use that to wash my hair). I shall continue to smoke heavily throughout my waking hours and to have Thomson, my manservant, blow cigar-smoke into my somnolent face while I am at repose. I shall continue to avoid wear and tear on the joints by insisting that I am carried on a litter whenever I wish to visit the further-flung parts of the house. I shall do all this in defiance of our more censorious commentators, secure in the knowledge that the annoyance that my conduct causes them is increasing their blood pressure as much as it is harming my own.

Jimmy Hollywood – Sandilands’ most eligible bachelor

Jimmy hiz over-indulged this festive period. Mair wine, women and song than one lothario can hundle. And that wiz just Christmas Eve at Ma Hollywood’s. A crate of Baby Cham, my twa untys and Singstar on the PlayStation. Oosh. There’s nae point in general resolutions like your gonna get fit (could Jimmy be ony mair fit?), spend mair time with family (if I’m nae with my ladies, I’m with Ma. Sorted), or give up alcohol (aye, right). Ye need to set specific goals. So, for 2013, I am resolving tae niver ging hame fae a night oot at Babylon (or “Babs” for us regulars) withoot a smashing bit of stuff on my airm. Or at the very least, a macaroni pie fae the all-night baker.

Struan Metcalfe – Conservative MSP for Aberdeenshire North-East and Surrounding Nether Regions

My New Year’s resolution is to give something back, to truly make a difference. I am going to personify Super Dave’s “Big Society”. This year, I have resolved to spend time with neglected children – my own.

Tim Bee – the very conscientious objector

I object to being asked to come up with a set of New Year resolutions. But if I had to, then my list would include: 1) Write more letters of objection (to “various”) 2) Pursue my objections through the highest courts in the land, and, in the event that I am ignored, seek vast amounts of compensation under the European Convention on Human Rights. After all, it’s the principle of the thing.

Tanya Soutar – Aberdeen’s foremost style guru

I dinna ken aboot yous, but my liver hisnae recovered from Hogmanay yet, and neither his ma wallet! We hid tickets tae ging tae een of Aiberdeen’s top nightspots (I winna name it, but I will tell you it’s Grrreat!) But fit a price for drink! Four double vodka and diet cokes wis the guts of thirty quid! So I’ve got some New Year’s Resolutions that’ll help cut doon costs on a night oot. First, it’s all aboot front loading. That‘s fan you tak a helluva skite afore you ging oot. If ye tak a trip oot tae Costco ye can get 12 litres of Liebfraumilch for £20! Ideal for a “Ready Brek glow” afore ye hit Espionage. Secondly, cloakroom charges are beyond a joke these days. So dinna worry fit your weather app’s telling ye – leave your jacket at hame. If you’ve stuck to the first resolution, you’ll niver notice. Lastly, ivry girl’s night is improved fan a kind stranger buys ye a drink. But afore fate will smile upon you, you need to pick your target wisely. Young loons with their jeans hingin roon aboot their unkles? Nae chunce. Flash Harrys in suits? Forget it. Sidle up tae that lonely looking aulder gent, the baldy een in the specs, ask him if he kens onything aboot computers, and – kerching! Happy New Year!

Jock Alexander – MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) Personality

This year, my initial Resolution was tae remember fit my New Year’s Resolution was last year. Sadly, efter the hame-brewed nettle and turnip beaujolais at Hogmanay (a cheeky vintage with notes of de-icer and tattie-boggle) the task proved beyond me. This means I have nae idea if I was succesful in sticking tae it or nae. That represents a 50% success rate, a damn sight better than most years. Cheerio!

Aye aye, fit like?

Welcome, one and all, to the Flying Pig Productions website.

Here you will find a cornucopia of information and related thingamybobs and hoojimaflips about the finest comedy sketch team in the sunny and cosmopolitan metropolis of Aberdeen, Scotland.

So wondrous are the achievements of our web designer (that’s a real job you know, for grown ups. Amazing. When I was a boy they called them “spiders”) that the whole thing really speaks for itself.

So join us, and explore the world of Archie & Davie, Mither & Faither, Ruaridh Duguid, Maurice The Liar, Pishy Pishy Watson and others too numerous to mention.

‘Fracking’ is all over the news just now. Mary Whitehouse must be turning in her grave.

Professor Hector Schlenk, science explained 

As a scientist, I often find myself called upon to explore important questions, like, is there really a God particle and if so, which football team does it support? Or is buying 3 packs of basic ham better value than taking 2 packs of the good stuff when the 2 for £4 deal is on?   Recently, I have been asked about  ‘fracking’ and why it causes the public such concern.

The problems start with the name of the process itself.  Some words are beautiful; some are ugly. “Fracking” is the Shane McGowan of the lexicon, to be found hanging around in the corner at the dictionary’s annual disco, drinking heavily and wondering why nice words like “cuddle” won’t dance with it. In onomatopoeic terms, too, it is not a success, with the sound it makes suggesting a flaming drilling rig crashing into the splintered earth.  This does little to inspire public confidence.  The name of the first company to hold licences to frack is also less than optimal.  The great oil companies have names that suggest solidity and dependability, British Petroleum, Royal Dutch Shell, Conoco Phillips. Cuadrilla, on the other hand, appear to have named themselves after a villain from the Transformers.

Of course, there is more to this than names alone.  We interviewed 100 members of the public.  Once they had recovered from the disappointment of realising that their answers were not going to be used on an episode of “Pointless”, we provided them with pieces of information about fracking and asked them for their views on the process.  We mentioned that it would allow us to domestically produce more oil and gas.  80% of people supported it. We mentioned it might cause earth tremors. Support fell to 37%.  We mentioned that if the drilling work was not carried out properly, there was a risk of drinking water being seriously contaminated by hydrocarbons or arsenic.  Support fell to 3%.

We then mentioned that the introduction of fracked gas into the wholesale market would probably reduce their heating bill by a few quid, and that all the negative consequences we had outlined would be suffered by a bunch of rhubarb farming black-pudding fondlers hundreds of miles away, and support for the project shot right back up again.

Davinia Smythe-Barrett, ordinary mum

Once again, the people of this country are being taken for fools by the powers that be.  Such is the uncontrolled lust for oil and gas that the very ground beneath our feet is to be fractured in order to feed this addiction.

There is nothing more important than the preservation of the enviroment, and now is the time for ordinary people to stand up to the greedy corporations who have no care for the harmful impact of what they do. So I’m going to keep Fidel and Emmeline out of school this week and drive them all the way down to Balcombe in Sussex to stand shoulder to shoulder with the protesters.  And the great thing about taking the LandRover is that we’ll have enough room to take the patio heater and portable butane-powered refrigerator down with us

Tanya Souter, lifestyle advice with a local flavour

I dinna ken aboot yous, but I canna wait fer the school holidays tae finish!  A single mum like me his important things tae dae with her day – the last 6 wiks his been a nightmare.  Instead of lang lies, watching Jeremy Kyle and swanning roon toon looking fer bargains and day-dreaming store detectives I’ve hid tae entertain the kids.  “Mum, can we go to the beach”, “Mum, can Brogan fae next door come roon tae play?”, “Mum, where’s the ladder? wee Beyonce’s climbed oot her bedroom windae again.”  – it niver stops!  Some of yous oot there hiv maybe got kids fa’re jist awa tae start school.  It’s an anxious time, so here’s Tanya’s top parenting tips tae ensure yer little darling settles in:

First of all, they’ve got to weer the right uniform.  This year, It’s tiny pencil skirts with bleck tights for the lassies and half mast black addias trakies for the loons. Aye, I’m nae spikkin’ aboot the stuff the school wints them to weer.  I mean the stuff fit’ll stop them lookin like a spoon, and getting bullied.

Bullying is a very tricky issue.  My brither was a right swot at school an’ it wis really difficult.  Fer me – I hid to pretend I didnae ken him so’s I didnae get pelters in the playground.  So mak sure your little cherub kens fit kids they hiv tae watch oot for.  The first kid that gets lines fae the teacher, the een that lamps fowk in the playground fer no reason, the quine fa snogs someb’dy on the first day; these are yer cool kids. Mak sure your kid kens tae hing aboot with them and they’ve nithing tae fear. Unless, of course, they are Ginger or speccy, in which case I wid recommend hame schooling.

 

 

The Hidden Depths of ‘The Bear and The Hare’ – laid bare!

J. FERGUS LAMONT, Arts critic and author of ‘‘Show me the Monkeys’ – My Summer as a Guide at the Grassic Gibbon Centre’

Regular readers will be aware that my opinion of the chattering gogglebox known as television is so low as to be positively subterranean.   But, amongst the audio-visual effluvium, one occasionally stumbles across a true delight.  Last night’s chance encounter with a short piece by the experimental film-maker John Lewis provided just such an epiphany.

I’m ashamed to say that I have not immersed myself in any of his previous work, and I understand that he produces but one short film a year, but his latest thought-provoking pasquinade captivated me from start to finish.  Most readers will have missed this oscar-worthy masterpiece, which received little, if any, promotion, but I can assure you it is the most coruscating satire of our aspirational consumer culture that I have ever witnessed. And I include in that the Singing Kettle’s blistering ‘Magic Wishing Well’.

Mr Lewis uses hand-drawn animated animals to coolly lampoon the excesses of commercialism, much as Disney did in their polemic against overfishing, ‘Finding Nemo’. The film opens with a bear and a hare enjoying a leisurely perambulation through a woodland idyll.  But there are already cracks in the relationship as the energetic, hard-working hare rides atop his lethargic ursine companion, symbolising our society’s elevation of the value of industry over contemplation.  Indeed, the sedentary bear finds the constant activity of the hare overwhelming and retires to his cave, much as John and Yoko retired to their hotel bed in 1969, seeking only ‘Peace’. The hare then enlists some equally industrious and acquisitive forest dwellers to help show the indolent bear the error of his ways. Their labours result in a garishly decorated tree (nature, despoiled by consumerism) and the Orwellian horror of perpetual daylight, and with the help of a cruelly placed alarm clock, the bear is roused from his slumber to “see the light”.

With a clear nod to the oeuvre of the Cohen Brothers, the piece ends abruptly, inviting the viewer to draw their own conclusion, but only one conclusion is possible  – that, as Marx predicted, capitalism contains within it the seeds of its own destruction – movingly conveyed by the fact that the bear has been forced to emerge from hibernation in December rather than March. The cold conditions and lack of food will, of course, cause him to die a slow and bitter death.

I wept.

Entertainment news with showbiz insider Shelley Shingles (Miss Fetteresso 1993)

It’s always a shame when one of my showbiz pals gets a hard time in the press.  Last week it was celebrity bookie and fashion innovator John McCririck’s turn to get his name and reputation dragged through the mud.  But I bet it made a fine change from him getting dragged through a hedge backwards!

Poor John was raging that he lost his age discrimination case against Channel 4 Racing.  He reckons they only got rid of him because he was old.  Sadly for him, the panel unanimously agreed that the average viewer found “repulsive”.  Who knew you could get the sack off the TV for that? Piers Morgan must be bricking it.

I would never slag off a broadcaster who’s talents were so amply displayed on such shows as Big Brother and Wife Swap, but he did kind of let himself down when he claimed it was all a conspiracy run by mysterious suits and skirts!  Talk about sour grapes, LOL!  His Big Brother appearance was a revelation though, especially when he wandered about in nothing but his massive keks – OMG what a sight!  I hadn’t seen that much ghostly-white gooseflesh since I went skinny-dipping at the Falls of Feugh with Charlie Allan!

Of course, me and John go way back.  We first rubbed shoulders down at Perth races in 1989.  He was trackside, shouting the odds (LOL!) and I was there in my capacity as spokes-model for one of the North-East’s premier brands.  I have to say that with his cigar, deerstalker hat and sideburns he looked ridiculous, and I was embarrassed to be near him, as the face of Grampian Country Foods in my oven-ready chicken costume!  Our paths did cross eventually though and I’ll never forget what he said to me. “How on earth do you go to the toilet in that thing?”  Wise words from a true gent.

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who kicks off in the tunnel.

It was an international weekend in the football, so I got the chance to catch up with some of that minority sports on the telly.  There was a lot of noise gotten up about the Indian batsman, Sachin Tendulkar. He has thrown in the trowel, anddecided to hang up his wicket after his 200^th test.  200 tests?  That is unbelievable.  I passed my test on the 6^th atempt, which, according to my calcifications makes me 33 times better than this Tendulkar character.  And I don’t even play croquet!

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November”. Though some folk would prefer to forget.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who kicks back!

It was yet another hammer blow for that dying brood, the football hardman, this week when a Fulham player got into bother after the ref consulted video feetage.  The boy had gave some little whapper-snipper in a Man Utd shirt a well-deserved stamp on the ankle, and had cleverly managed to shield it from the view of the whistler. But now he’s got his jotters, retrospeculatively. It might surprise my readers to learn that I, too, has also been punished after the event on account of video evidence.  As soon as the laws was changed at the start of the season, some bob-a-jobs’-worth refs what still have it in for me got out their old VHS and Betamaxes to watch some of my old games.  Needles to say, they’ve tried to pin all sorts of historic impingements on old Kenny.  You don’t need me to tell you it’s an absolute stitch up cos the men in black have always had a vienetta against me.  So far I’ve picked up an additional 2 red cards for off-the-ball incidentals and, after they got a lip-reader in, 13 yellows for dissent and foul language. This is the latest in a long line of changes to the laws of the game what is designed to margarinise those of us what have made our careers out of halfing more talented opponents.  If you ask me, it all started to go pea-shaped when they made shin guards complimentary.  They says it was for players’ safety but I reckon shin guards has caused more injuries than what they have not caused. I remember once going in studs-up on some chancer from Brora Rangers.  It was so rough I tore his sock and put a big dent in the shin guard.  He picked it up and waved it at me and he says to me, he says “you’re lucky I wiz weerin’ this, pal, you could of broke my leg!” The ref was looking the other way, so I grabs it off him and clouts him over the head with it.  Obviously, if it wasn’t for the shin guard, he never would of got that percussion.

Jonathan M Lewis, local headmaster

Once again I find myself responding to completely baseless calls for my resignation in the wake of what has been mischievously, and erroneously dubbed “Anarchy week“.  Let me take this opportunity to state that the events of the last few days have been nothing but a source of pride for all here at Garioch Academy. Mr Cameron has long been the inspirational figurehead of our successful History department.  The way he brings the subject alive for the youngsters truly is without equal.  Surely parents can appreciate the effectiveness of his lessons on Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot, given the extraordinary lengths to which his pupils went to re-enact the events leading up to 5 November 1605.  I was as impressed as I was surprised to discover that they had filled the cupboard below my office with firewood, coal and high-explosives.  Indeed, when the janitor heard the faint cries of the first year boy they had locked in there, I was taken aback at the level of detail they had put into their efforts; the young person’s name was Kai Fox! Some parents have claimed, hysterically, that their children’s lives were somehow in danger.  Yes, on one view, the materials did present something of a fire risk.  And yes, young Kai’s absence was not picked up by any of his teachers, on either of the days he was locked in the cupboard.  And yes, the school finances could do without footing the bill for the attendance of the army bomb disposal unit. But there was never any real risk to our safety.  Given that this was obviously a factually accurate historical re-enactment, it was clearly intended to be discovered at the eleventh hour. Not withstanding the subsequent discovery in the fifth year common room of cigarette lighters and 200 feet of fuse wire.Some parents have asked further questions regarding my decision to allow Remembrance poppies with actual pins in the school.  The usual Health and Safety nonsense spewed f orth but as ever our pupils showed maturity and creativity that belies their tender years.  The physics department were most impressed with the pupils’ ability to adapt them into perfect aerodynamic projectiles.  Whilst none of them broke the sound barrier, more than a handful broke the glass of the Chemistry lab’s fume cupboard.  I maintain that the cost of a specialist glazier is as nothing compared to the value of a diverse learning experience. The poppies were put to medicinal use too.  Kevin “Cold Sore” Corsar was treated to an extensive acupuncture session by his classmate, Scott “Psycho” Garvie.  Their, entirely voluntary, exploration of alternative medicine resulted in Kevin being pinned from head to toe in poppies in the PE changing rooms.  Though Kevin’s parents phoned the council to complain, they couldn’t deny that for the first time in this academic session, he wasn’t complaining about his cold sores!

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Finzean in the Rain’ at HMT all this week until Saturday the 16^th November. 

 

Halloween can be really scary – especially when the doorbell rings and you realize you haven’t got any sweeties.

The Rev Edmond Redmond, Minister of Holburn North North East

My normal Thursday routine was enlivened this week by the arrival, in the hours of darkness, of a diminutive ghost ,a power-ranger and a young lady dressed in something that I am given to understand is known as a “tiger-suit onesie”!  Yes, the 31st of October was upon us again, and I bade the little group of guisers to come hither, into the Manse to receive a sweet treat to celebrate Halloween.

While I was having a rummage in the press to see what I could find by way confectionary, I took the opportunity to quiz my companions on whether they knew that Halloween is a contraction of All Hallows Eve, the day which both precedes the feast of All Hallows and initiates the triduum of Hallowmas.  They did not, the power-ranger instead offering the opinion that Halloween is just “an ace way to get people to give us sweets before we throw their rubbish bags about their gardens.”  Neither did they know what either “All Hallows” or a “triduum” was.  I carefully explained all these things, as well outlining the importance of the festival in the liturgical calendar and, having finally located a curly-wurly and a packet of slightly elderly pan drops, I turned around to present them to my guests, only to find the drawing-room empty.  Spookily, my young visitors had vanished into the night, barely taking the time to knock over my wheelie-bin.

On reflection, it occurred to me that they may have found the revelation that they were inadvertently participating in a religious festival more alarming than any of the goings on in ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’.  And it also occurred to me that their visit, short as it was, was the first time that anyone under the age of 30 has set foot in the manse for over a decade.  That, I suppose, is the most frightening thing of all.

 

View from the Midden – Rural affairs with MTV (Meiklewartle Television) presenter Jock Alexander

It hiz been a crepuscular wik in the village. The nichts are fair drawing in, the cauld wind rattles the doors, and auld Hallows eve has been and gone. Withoot incident here, I am gled tae say. A temperature of minus 10 does dae an afa good job of keepin the young quinies in sexy witch ootfits aff the streets. Though, of course, in the auld days, the village played host tae the real thing, and there hiv been rumours, as there ayewis will be in rural areas, aboot the strangest looking, maist idiosyncratic wifie in the village. And files the competition is stiff, the clear winner of that particular race is Feel Moira. True, she diz mak up a foul-smelling brew fit singes aff the eyebrows of the unwary, but that’s jist ‘Aul Foosty’, her hame-brewed dandelion and neep brandy. True, she has been seen in the graveyard, efter midnight, spikkin tae a cat, but she was actually asking it to show her the wye tae ging hame, efter a substantial bucket in the pub. And to those fa whisper ahind the haunds that she hiz a hideous warty growth on her face – that’s her neb.

But niver fear, there’s nae sic a thing as witches onymair. The Aiberdeen Tolbooth Museum is currently hosting an exhibition aboot it. In the auld days, damn near 600 peer aul wifies wis burnt at the stake for witchcraft in the North-East But the Aiberdeen city faithers hiv nae deliberately set fire tae onyone or onything since the 1590s. Apart fae the trams, of course.  And if they come back again, that really wid be scary. Cheerio!

 

 

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken aboot youse but I LOVE Halloween!  Somebody telt me that it wisnae safe tae send kids under 12 years old oot in the dark knocking at strangers’ doors, so reluctantly I went with them.  And I’m so glad I did!  My 3 didnae hae a clue fit wye tae maximise their takings!  So here’s some tips tae help mak next Halloween a bumper harvest!

The unwritten rule is ye should only ging tae folks’ doors if they’ve got a pumpkin lantern outside their hoose.  Fit rot!  True, those folk are expecting visitors and they’ll hae plenty o’ sweeties for the bairns, but the best haul ayewiz comes fae the folk that are nae expecting’ ye.  If they’re nae concentrating, they’ll answer the door.  Then ye pounce.  Wee Beyonce-Shanice’s did weel roon at number 73.  The only sweeties they hid wiz a box o’ funcy Belgian chocolates decorated wi’ gold leaf!  Fit fine!  Number 82 wiz priceless, they hid literally nithin, so little Kenzie pit on his best shakky bottom lip and the wifie caved and got her purse.  She only hid a tenner.  Score!

But the richest picking’s come fan folk are nae there at all. That’s fit happened along at Number 61.  My Jayden’s still under the age of criminal responsibility, so I got tae shin ower their gate roon tae the backie.  The owners had kindly left a Halloween treat for ony passing guisers; a kids’ scooter, twa bikes an’ a patio heater! Cheers!

See the Flying Pigs Live at HMT in ‘Finzean in the Rain’ from Thursday 7^th (aye, this Thursday) to Saturday 16^th November