Not so much further education as back o’ beyond education at the University of Meikle Wartle.

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

Weel michty, it’s been an edumacational wik in the village. I wis amazed tae read that Aiberdeen University is noo harder tae get intae than Oxford. Amazed because jist ower the Easter hol’days Feel Moira managed tae brak in and nick a hale load stuff, nae bither at a’! It’ll come in real handy, because tae help oot the peer youngsters fa dinna hae the grades for Aiberdeen or RGU, we hiv established wir ain Varsity, here in the village. At the University of Meikle Wartle, feels, dafties, and gypes will be able to tak up a wide range o’ full and part-time courses in a number of different fields, (fields include Jim Barron’s pasture and Tam Young’s tattie park), and get practical, hands-on experience shovelling sharn fae the hinner end of a Charolais wi’ bloat.

As with ony sic institution, entrance can be tricky, especially in the winter months. But prospective students can be confident they’ll be able to get in thanks to wir unique clearing system – Tam’s Massie Ferguson wi’ the sna plough attachment.

Once admitted, undergraduates will find, here at the University of Meikle Wartle, a’thin that they require for academic life; substandard accommodation, dirt-cheap alcohol, and an average twa days work a wik.  But best of all, they winna hae ony complaints aboot the high prices of public transport here. ‘Cos there’s naen. Cheerio!

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

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions such as ‘Is light a wave or a particle?’ ‘Can renewable energies supplant fossil fuels?’ and ‘What are you looking at, speccy?’ But recently, people have been asking me about intercontinental ballistics. ‘Well’, I say, ‘while I’m not an expert in that particular field, I understand that it’s a type of dance that originated in the Italian Renaissance courts of the 15th century and the Bolshoi are still a highly regarded company world-wide.” And then we laugh. Albeit uncomfortably.

Tensions have been mounting in the Korean peninsula and many are concerned by talk of nuclear warheads, missile silos and enriched uranium.  These concerns are understandable, but if we consider the facts we will soon realise that there is nothing to worry about. 

It is true, of course, that North Korea may possess nuclear weapons.  The range of their missiles is limited, however, to 4,000km.  To put that in perspective, think of the Taepdong-1 missile as a dart hurled at an ordinary dartboard with the diameter of the Pacific Rim. It can only affect the area from the bull’s-eye (Pyongyang) out to the treble ring (Japan, central China and the really cold bits of Russia).  Luckily, Western Europe is double top, outwith the initial blast wave radius.  That said, intelligence on Kim Jong-Un’s nuclear arsenal is largely out of date guesswork and he may have much bigger, more technologically advanced tungsten-alloy darts in his top pocket. He might have a surprisingly strong throwing arm, and a level of accuracy one wouldn’t expect given his slightly comical appearance. We can’t exclude the possibility that Kim Jong-Un is Jocky Wilson on a global scale.

So, in the unthinkable event that a fanatical dictator with a family history of paranoid delusions of grandeur decides to deploy a nuclear arsenal we essentially know nothing about, what can we expect? Well, detonation of a device of this kind would result in what is known as ‘Nuclear Winter’; the sun would be blotted out, temperatures would be similar to the Arctic, the very soil would freeze and Spring would never come. For us, then, no discernable effect at all.

DODDIE ESSLEMONT, radical independence campaigner for the People’s Democratic Republic of 39G Seaton Drive

It was with some surprise that I received my letter from NATO stating that I would not, as a matter of automatic right, gain membership to that elite military alliance when finally 39G Seaton Drive throws off the imperialist yoke of oppression and takes its rightful place in the community of nations.  The letter does, however, advise that I will be accepted into the alliance in the event of a legally-recognised ‘yes’ vote (a caker) and upon receiving the unanimous agreement of all Member States.  It also expressed the hope that I will be feeling better soon, which was nice.

Unanimous acceptance of the People’s Democratic Republic of 39G Seaton Drive is a mere formality.  On strategic and military grounds, they cannot do without me.  My cludgie window offers an unrivalled position from which to defend any attack on the 6-hole course at the Beach Links – a prestigious leisure facility which would be high on the hit-list of any self-respecting terrorist.  And let us not forget that once, after drinking two and a half bottles of High Commissioner, I sunk my teeth into the calf of my downstairs neighbour, holding on until tazered by the rozzers. A dedication to the preservation of freedom (in that case, my freedom to play the Alexander Brothers greatest hits at the volume of my choice) that other nation states would struggle to surpass.  I’m looking at you, France.  Don’t you give me a Gallic shrug, unless you want to feel The Teeth of Freedom biting down on something a damned sight more tender than a baguette.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An excellent week to be a Millionaire. But then, aren’t they all?

LORD COSMO LUDOVIK FAWKES-HUNTE, 13TH EARL OF KINMUCK.

The other day I was asked if I support attacks on council house tenants.  “Indeed so!” I said.  “Attack them with sticks and harry them with beagles!  Drive them back down in the catacombs from whence they came so that their homes may be put to proper use, as stabling for horses!”  Now I learn the fellow actually said “a tax”, and that the general consensus is that it’s a bad thing.  Well butter my underbelly and roast me with parsnips, this country truly has gone to hell in a handcart.

What we need at the moment is economic growth.  And the period of greatest economic growth was the 19^th Century – when paupers huddled 15 to a room while my ancestor, the 9th Earl, dined on caviar and black truffle butties.  People who do not succumb to mush-headed sentimentality will see that the bedroom tax is not a cynical attack upon the less fortunate but a long overdue first step to making Britain Great again. Lest anyone think it a bit rich for a man who lives in a 73-room mansion to begrudge a fellow his spare room, let me say this: not one of my rooms is unused.  We have 7 public rooms; Lady Antonia and I have a 5-room master suite; the offspring have one each for when they come up from the Varsity, their jobs in London, or, in young Ludo’s case, for when he’s ultimately released from that jail in Thailand (boys will be boys).  Once you consider the library, the guest rooms, the tack room, our ski storage room, the wine cellar, the boot room, the snug kept for three card brag, and the bricked up attic in which we keep our unfortunate first-born, we are so short of space that I don’t even have a dedicated room in which to commit adultery.  So my 5% tax cut is going straight into the pocket of my local builder.  Yet another example of the kind of job-creation by the super rich that so often goes unnoticed.  Hopefully by Lady Antonia, at any rate.

STRUAN METCALF, MSP FOR ABERDEENSHIRE NORTH (AND SURROUNDING NETHER REGIONS)

Gosh, aren’t we Conservatives unpopular at the moment? 2013 is turning into a right old Tory Horribilis Anus. What with Gorgeous George Osborne blaming the Welfare State for pretty much any and all crime and Super Dave getting it right up North Korean despot Kim Jong-un with his Trident, we’ve had a  lot of jolly bad press. I suppose my latest, rather regrettable, Tweet didn’t help much:

“IDS to survive a week on benefits? No chance. £53 wouldnt pay the subs for our club, Boodles, never-mind baldy’s weekly Krug quota.  LOL ”

Now Ian and I are great mates and clearly this was merely a gentle ribbing. We all know he doesn’t really spend his days quaffing Krug Champagne. He’s a Dom Pérignon man. But I deeply regret the way the press has tried to stoke up some kind of class war between us (Tories) and them (the poor).

Some of us know full well what it’s like to be on the bread-line. If it’s anything like the bun-queue at school, it’s pretty grim. I myself have been out of work a couple of times (though there’s nothing to gain from re-hashing all those sackings from the shadow front bench) and when the Gordonstoun rugger team had a novelty night out in Joanna’s nightclub in Elgin I had a pretty racy ‘pash’ with a girl from Buckie, so don’t tell me I can’t connect with the working class!

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRAT, Ordinary Mum

Those despots at Aberdeen City Council have gone too far this time.  Not content with cuts to services and their immoral self-administered pay hikes, they have sunk to a new low by installing 11 cameras around the city to catch innocent motorists in their so-called ‘bus lanes’!  I’m sorry, but since when have our Orwellian overlords had the right to deny us access to the highways of the realm?  I pay my road tax (I think I do, anyway – my husband looks after the paperwork, or at least his P.A. does, while he’s out of the country for tax purposes) but these fascists say I can’t drive in certain lanes at certain times?  I think you’ll find I can.  That’s the beauty of a Landrover Discovery.

The Mussolinis of Marschial College have afforded us a 2-week grace period during which, instead of a fine they send a warning letter.  Well I don’t mind admitting I’ve had 5 of them.  What would any ordinary mum do, when the alternative is sitting in traffic with Emmeline late for her dressage lesson?  Worse still are the lies spouted by the Town House propaganda machine.  They claim there was a month-long awareness campaign with signs all over the place, and that bus lanes are clearly signposted.  Well I didn’t see them.  Perhaps the authorities need to plan their visual stimuli to stand out for those of us who have oversized Prada sunglasses and an iPad dock on the dashboard!

Anyway, sometimes those buses only have about 3 people on them.  When I’m doing the school run, as well as Fidel and Emms I’ve sometimes got their friends Caspian and Isadora, as well as Snezahna, the Bulgarian au pair, scrounging a lift into town. If that’s not a public service vehicle, I don’t know what is.

 

Who wants to tee off while looking at a windmill? That’s Crazy Golf.

TIM BEE, the very conscientious objector

I was outraged that the Scottish government have consented to the development of the European Offshore Wind Deployment Centre (“EOWDC”) off the coast of Aberdeen. And I am not the only one, no less a figure than Donald Trump is also up in arms. Whilst I campaigned and objected vigorously against Trump’s development of the Menie estate and his selfish destruction of a local beauty spot, when it comes to turbines Donald and I are very much in the same camp. Most likely sharing a tent, possibly even a sleeping bag.

Yes; the development will reinforce Aberdeen’s place as the energy capital of Europe, but do we even want to be the energy capital of Europe? Nobody asked me, and if they had asked me, I would have objected. Very, very strongly. Let’s just examine a few facts, shall we?

1. Wind power is an unproven source of energy, with unknown, potentially disastrous, long-term effects. Much better to continue to rely on fossil fuels which have disastrous long-term effects we already know about and can choose to ignore.
2. Wind turbines kill birds. We can’t have gulls ending themselves in the blades of these monstrosities, splattering blood and guts everywhere. I object to seagulls in the city, but culling them is the responsibility of the City Council. As I regularly write to remind them.
3. The noise from wind turbines has been linked to health problems including stress and insomnia. That’s the last thing I need. I get no sleep as it is. I’m up every night writing strongly worded letters of objection and my blood-pressure is already through the roof!

 

RON CLUNY – Official Council Spokesman, on plans to replace the paving stones in the Adelphi

Never did I think that I, as Council spokesman for the Granite City, would have to defend my administration for plans to make use of the stone that made my hometown’s name.  But the usual weary wullies have lined up to lambast us for the “extravagance” of ripping up perfectly serviceable paving slabs and replacing them with granite setts.  They contend that the money would be better spent on renewing our crumbling road surfaces.  But potholes are not, as some would have it, a blatant dereliction of this administration’s duty under section 1 of the Roads (Scotland) Act to manage and maintain the thouroughfares within our locality.  They are a direct and targeted response to irresponsible driving.  Residents ask for traffic calming measures: we provide a near-lunar road surface so pitted that it can only be traversed either by a 4×4 in low gear or a pedestrian assisted by a sherpa.  You don’t get much calmer than that.

We will press on with the plans to use the granite setts.  They have, of course, already been used in the revitalisation of the Castlegate area, and who could now seriously deny the vibrancy of that great historic beating heart of the city? Ambition is not to be feared.  It is when we lack vision that we do this city down.  I warn you now: if we continue to provide an entry-level underfoot experience, we have no chance of attracting big spending tourists into the Poundland at the bottom of Union Street.

CAVA KENNY CORDINER – the football pundit who bites your ankles

Dons fans might have divided royalties when new gaffer Derek McInnes takes over from current suprendo, Craig Brown.  Degsy might face a downhill struggle because some folk in the stand will not forget that he was once a Rangers player.   I know all too well the trials and tributaries McInnes faces, as I also faced them as well. I played a lot of happy seasons for Longside – which did not go down too well when I had brief managerial stint at their fierce rivals, Mintlaw.  Amazingly, the first match after I took over was a cup game against my old Alma Cogan.  You could not have made it up.  As the goals rained in I was celebrating like mad on the touchline, but unfortunately I had gotten a bit confused, because Longside won 6-0. Still, I think it was harsh that my stint ended by mutual consent before the end of my first game in charge.

I see Paula Radcliffe might have run her last run.  Poor Paula has compilations with a foot injury and might have to retire.  I’ll always remember her for when she got caught short in a race and had to answer nature’s call at the side of the road.  It happens to the best of us – one time when I was playing for Culter against Banks O’Dee at Spain Park, the gaffer told us to make sure we was well hydrogenated before the game, so I downed 3 pints of lager.  20 minutes into the first half I was busting, so while the action was all up the other end, I went to the corner flag and spent a penny. Regressively, the linesman spotted me and the ref sent me off.  I was well miffed, but the gaffer was furious – Banks O’Dee scored whilst I was taking a leak, because I played their striker onside.

 

It was the ‘#Aspirationnation’ Budget – Aspiration, [noun]  a pronouncement accompanied by an expulsion of gas.

STRUAN METCALFE, MSP for Aberdeenshire North (and Surrounding Nether Regions)

Hoorah! The Chancellor of the Exchequer, my good pal Gorgeous George, has finally embraced Twitter. Poor bloke wasn’t necessarily welcomed with open arms, mind you. The reception he got in the Twitter-sphere was every bit as warm as the one he got at the Olympic Games. And it turns out you can say quite a lot more than ‘boo’ in a hundred and forty characters. That said, I for one, am following him. Nothing new there, I followed him at Oxford. And I don’t just mean I went there shortly after him. I to used mimic his speech and copy his attire. I would frequent his haunts – every coffee house, political gathering and gentlemen’s convenience he went into. And I only ever received the one written warning from the Rozzers. Result.

Sadly, his Twitter popularity contest with Ed Balls isn’t going too well. So far, The Great and Powerful Osborne has only racked up thirty-eight thousand followers, and Ballsy has twice that. In fact, Nana Metcalf has twice that, and she’s only ever tweeted once, to say ‘is that it on?’

To be fair to George, it must be impossible to address the complex question of the national deficit in less than 140 characters. After all, it’s impossible to type the national deficit in less than 140 characters.

His speech on Wednesday was a ground-breaking, inspiring, fracking Shale Gas amaze-balls of a fiscal statement. It was a Budget that favoured beer-drinking motorists, which makes a nice change. We’re usually being named and shamed.

OK, ok, so the growth forecasts have been halved to 0.6% (funnily enough my final grade in Higher Economics!), but, by Jingo, Giddy Gideon has had a whizzo of an idea this time.  A penny off the pint! Absolute genius. Now I’m off to down 300 pints in the Fife Arms. That way, I’ll eventually clawback a free one, courtesy of the Treasury. The financial recovery starts now, the hangover recovery starts tomorrow.  Cheers!

JONATHAN M LEWIS, Inspirational Headteacher of Garioch Academy

Last week saw an historic day.  Our local MSP and perennial School Board Meeting absentee, Alex Salmond, announced Thursday 18th September 2014 as the date of the Independence Referendum.

What makes this exciting is that with the voting age reduced to 16, pupils currently as young as third year will have a hand in the outcome. And let me reassure you that the 14 and 15 year olds who will be allowed to vote next September can, in fact, be trusted with the constitutional future of our nation. Even if they can’t be trusted not to sneak out to the bookies during a free period.  We at Garioch have been moulding these Young People for years to be responsible citizens and effective contributors. I cite the shining example of Andy Moir.  So proud of the civic responsibility newly bestowed upon him that he demonstrated it by drawing a large X in permanent marker on the forehead of each member of the Chess Club. Not only was this educational for the younger pupils, but Andy served as a positive role model, someone who knows the importance of practice before a big event.

And then there’s Kyle Buchan, so passionately engaged by the issues at stake that he painted the flag of his preferred nation-state on the side of the new science block. It’s just a pity that flags of the world are no longer part of the geography syllabus, or we’d have known which one it was meant to be (I think it’s an attempt at the Saltire, but there’s a significant number in the staff room who swear it’s the flag of Jamaica).

Of course, the teaching staff at Garioch are renowned for their motivational dialogue with pupils.  I often overhear encouraging remarks like “Next year, when you’re flipping burgers…” or “I’ll still see you after you leave school, Tyler.  Every Thursday when the bin lorry comes.”  Naturally, the forthcoming referendum has served to galvanise our efforts at providing positive reinforcement.  Many pupils have already been bolstered by the phrase: “And they’re going to let you vote!”

I seldom need to be reminded why I responded to my calling to become an educator, but as I observe these decision-makers of tomorrow on my weekly tour of the school corridors it brings it into sharp focus.  Yes, currently they appear entirely preoccupied by Call of Duty, vampire fiction, love bites, and watching ‘Harlem Shake’ videos on YouTube, but we can be confident that when the time comes to exercise their democratic right to determine all our futures, the fate of our country is in safe hands.

‘CAVA KENNY CORDINER’ The football pundit who kicks back!

Football is a game of two halfs, as Gordon Strachan’s Scotland found out about on Friday night against Wales.

Obviously, halfing Gareth Bale early doors was good tic-tacs, but we should of halfed the boy Robson-Kanu as well.

Schoolboy stuff.

Shy and retiring 72 year old, young at heart. Enjoys sport, GSOH

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

Lots of people was surprised when Craig Brown announced last week that he is putting his self out to posture at the end of this season – but I wasn’t one of that people.  I’ve been in football long enough to be able to tell when someone’s lost their dojo.  When I seen him at Pittodrie lately there was not no hint of a sprig in his step, in fact he looked like he was an old man in his seventies.

The veteran gaffer has enjoyed a long career, which began as a part-timer with Clyde way back in 1977. When he wasn’t on the training ground he was in the playground, as he was working as a Primary School Heidie, simulationally. Of course he is best remembered for managing the Scotland squad, and for me, he was the architectural Scotland boss. Nobody never qualified for more big tournaments than Craig. He come to the Dons in late 2010, where he has cemented the club’s position as the ninth best team in Scotland.

Of course, I myself have had to make the difficult decision to retire, and not just the once.   As both a player and a manager, I’ve heard the writing on the wall and realised it was time to hang up my chips.  I played for many clubs in my 25 year career, so it was a tough decision to throw in the trowel, but I remember the match when I knew fair enough was fair enough.  I was playing for Longside against Turriff United.  This young loon called John Duncan was trying to make me look like a right plug with his fancy flicks and nutmegs and stop-overs. As a more mature and experienced player I decided to learn him the harsh realities of the senior game, and half him the next chance I got. I spent 45 minutes chasing the wee radge, but I couldn’t get near him. For the whole first half he skinned me like a rice-pudding, and I had to be subbed at half time.  The next morning I handed in my notice.  I knew that without the ability to hospitalise more skilful opponents, my contribution to the Beautiful Game was over.

Unlike Craig Brown, my managerial career was short lived.  I had an eventful 4 game spell in charge of Locos a few years back, but not all the team responded to my philosophy of the game. Our first 3 matches was abandoned after massive punch-ups broke out.  Then, in the final game of my denture, the player’s revolted, and said they just wanted to play football instead. I realised then that I would have to pack it up, as it was obvious that I had lost the dressing gown.

Later today the House of Commons will vote on which of the proposed Royal Charters will less toothlessly protect the victims of press intrusion. But whatever the outcome, if baseless speculation about celebrities is no longer considered fit to print, a certain kind of writer is going to find the column inches hard to fill. Here’s this week’s piece by our showbiz correspondent –

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

As you know, I have loads of great celeb pals, but OMG, Canadian pop sensation Justin Bieber is not one of them anymore!  I was in London last week taking my little niece to see him perform. What a rip-off! (Unless you had a press pass. LOL) The 19-year-old singer was a little over 2 hours late going on stage. My spies tell me he was in his dressing room playing Call of Halo on his X-Wii! Wee Shania had been so excited to start with, but by 10pm she was screaming and crying her eyes out.  I knew how she felt, I hadn’t had a drink since the cheeky Prosecco I managed to knock back in the hostility suite, and the gig wouldn’t finish ’til after closing time (there is after-hours places in London, of course, but they are murder to get into with a 9 year old). Before he finally came on stage, most of his fans had gave up and left, not happy. Then Justin collapsed with “exhaustion”. Well, no wonder, a young loon like him needs to get to his bed, but his photo was never out of the papers all week. Close pals say he enjoyed the London nightlife a bittie too much, and most nights he was as exhausted as a newt.  If that’s the case, I’m impressed by how many shows he managed with a hangover the size of the Shard!

I wouldn’t say Justin and me were close, not now that everyone’s gone off him, but I did bump into him outside the Park Lane hotel last Friday. He was just getting into his limo and I just happened to be standing right in front of the door of his limo. I’ll never forget what he said to me:

“I’m never coming back “.

Wise words, from a great big kid.

And here it is again, after the new Press Standards body have had their way-

Canadian pop sensation Justin Bieber was in London last week to perform.  The 19-year-old singer was a little late on stage, but screaming fans left happy.  He enjoyed London’s nightlife and was impressed the size of the Shard!  Justin said, “I’m…coming back!” Wise words, from a great kid.

 

Mission 37? More like Mission Impossible!

TANYA SOUTER – lifestyle advice with a local flavour.

I da ken aboot yous, but it wis nae surprise tae me tae hear that the average oil worker his pit on mair than 3 stone in the last 10 years. My pal Natasha wis telling me that her new man, Gary, works aff-shore, as a roundabout. I says ‘No Natasha, you mean a roustabout’. She says ‘You hinna seen the size of him’.

Apparently oil bosses are fed up laying on extra helicopter flights tae winch these Billy Bunters oot tae the rigs, so they’ve set up “Mission 37” tae try and keep ab’dys waistline’s nae bigger than 37 inches.  Tae pit that intae perspective, it’s somewye atween Vanessa Feltz and Eamnon Holmes. That target sounds like a right cop out.  I ken plenty of fat lads fa squeeze themsels intae 36 inch waist skinny-fit troosers. You ken fit I’m spikkin aboot, they’re trying tae look like Russell Brand, but they end up looking like a pack of Hall’s sausages. But if you’re such a greedy-guts that ye canna even manage tae dae up the fly of a thinner man’s breeks, here’s Tanya’s top diet tip tae help ye shed enough pounds tae mak sure you get a seat on that chopper.

Fowk often say that breakfast is the maist important meal of the day, and they’re richt. So ditch the bacon, eggs and fried bread in favour of a morning meal of all-bran followed by prunes soaked in syrup o’ figs.  It’s jist common sense – ye canna pit on weight if your breakfast gings through ye like a BMW through Tilyldrone!

J. FERGUS LAMONT, arts critic and author of ‘Blethering Awa!: A post-Brechtian analysis of the Life and Work of Art Sutter’, attended His Majesty’s Theatre.

Few will be aware of the theatrical triumph I attended a last week at Aberdeen’s foremost avant garde performance space, HMT. It was a radical reworking of ‘The Mousetrap’ by the venerable crime writer and 99p store magnate Agatha Christie. I had my doubts that this hoary old chestnut would prove its worth in the modern arena, but I was stunned by what I saw. The complex power of this astonishing work can not be over stated. You may never have heard of it, it has received little, if any, publicity, but I can assure you this is the finest theatrical thriller I have seen since the Singing Kettle’s towering ‘Inspector Parrot and the Big Green Planet’.

This searing production transplanted the action to the time period of the 1980s, all legwarmers and vulgarity, and in a stunning symbolic coup de theatre, the entire cast of ‘The Mousetrap’ are dressed as cats. They open proceedings by gyrating wildy around the auditorium whilst wearing elaborate feline make-up and skin-tight lycra, clearly symbolising the breakdown of moral order in Thatcher’s Britain, as represented by the murder-ravaged Monkswell Manor.

The story is radically deconstructed. Frequently, the cast break into song; crimes against persons brilliantly evoked as crimes against the ear.  Who did it? That would be telling! Especially as in this production he was known only as ‘Rumpleteazer’.

I wept.

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

It’s been a revitalising wik in the village! I wiz maist interested tae see that, in the big city, a 10 point plan has been unveiled tae save Aiberdeen City Centre. Amongst its recommendations I spotted several that are already in effect here in Meikle Wartle. Encourage residential use of the main thoroughfare? We achieve that here by the simple expedient of only having the one street. Create a world class public facility that celebrates the ile? We celebrate that every October fan Tam Young’s Massie Ferguson leaks a great load of  Castrol GTX on the A920 and the toonsers ging skiting aff intae his tattie park. Oh fit a laugh we hae, at their expense; and fit an expense they hae, peying Tam tae tow them oot! And, of course, it saves Tam the bother of howking his tatties.

I was very interested tae see the proposal that trams should be brought back a mere 55 years efter crowds of Aiberdonians were pictured, jubilant, as the last lot were burnt tae ash in a great muckle bonfire at the beach. Of course, we’ve hid an ecologically sound public transport infrastructure here in the village for mony a day. ‘Shanks’s Pony’ we cry it. Because it’s a pony, and it belongs tae Davie Shanks.

But Aiberdeen could dae worse than to look to Miekle Wartle – we dinna hae ony unsightly bookies, pawnbrokers or pound shops in the village square! We dinna hae onything noo, nae efter Feel Moira got a bit over zealous wi the firelighters at last wik’s village barbecue.  So – raze Union Street tae the ground! It’s certainly done wonders here tae encourage a closer community. We’ve nae choice, really, as we’ve got tae huddle thegither for warmth.

They may take our pies, but they’ll never take our freedom!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who kicks back.

Some people says, they says “football is not the game what it once was”.  They couldn’t have been righter last Tuesday night at Pittodrie.  The Dons lost one-nil to Ross County and I don’t think I’ve ever left a football stadium with such a feeling of emptiness.  I never had my tea before going to the game and they wasn’t selling no Pittodrie Pies because of all this horsemeat scandal. They did have chicken pies, but vegetarian food is no use to a meat-eating carnival like me.

It got me thinking though, football certainly has changed a lot.  Some things has changed it for the better, like stadium safety and Sky Sports News– but some things has made it a pale limitation of the beautiful game I played.

These days, football is almost a non-contact sport.  Where I used to fly into challenges studs up, modren players is scared to get their foots dirty.  Back when I was playing, it was perfectly receptacle to give the opponents’ most skilful player a ‘reducer’ in the first 5 minutes.  Now you’d be getting booked or maybe even your marking orders.  Players with disciplinary records like mines (173 yellows and 31 reds) is unheard of. I seen that Ryan Giggs will be making his 1000th first team appearance this week at Man United. There’s no way anyone would have managed a career of that longitude in my day. Not if I’d had anything to do with it, anyway.

A crack team of councillors cannot agree on who should receive the Freedom of the City of Aberdeen. As a result, no one is to receive the honour. So we asked some of our regular contributors who they would nominate for the Freedom of the City

Tim Bee, the Conscientious Objector

Whilst I strongly object to aggrandising awards being dished out to a select few, I object even more to the lack of vision and indecision of the committee in charge. It is perfectly clear that the Freedom of the City should be awarded to someone who stands for something, someone principled, with a clear – yet humble – understanding of the importance of their own personal opinion, someone who does not kowtow to ‘prevailing public opinion’ or the tyranny of ‘due process’.

That person is William Walton of  ‘Road Sense.’ I have vociferously objected to every single proposed development in the city since I was old enough to pick up a pen and compose a vitriolic letter to the paper, but even I can’t claim to have single-handedly stalled the AWPR for 15 years. For me, that kind of dedication puts him up there on the same podium as Nelson Mandela.

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence Campaigner

I am not interested in the Freedom of the City.  I want Freedom from the City, with long-overdue official recognition of the People’s Republic of 39G Seaton Drive.    Persuasion and diplomacy (in the form of a letter writing campaign to the Provost, the First Minister and the Sunday Post) have so far availed me naught.  My patience is not limitless. If my demands are not met I shall have no alternative but to move into a phase of direct action against a target of symbolic importance.  I have purchased a spud gun, and the Herald & Post delivery loon had better look oot.

The Reverned Edmund Everend, Minister of Holburn North North East

My suggestion for the Freedom of the City is our Lord, Jesus Christ.  What better way to restate our faith and bring ourselves closer to God than to intimate his son is free to move within our city – and indeed our hearts – without let or hindrance?  I mentioned this to a councillor at a civic event recently.  He laughed in my face, calling it a ‘stupid’ idea.  I had not realised that the secularisation of society had come so far, and said as much.  I also asked him to consider what it might be like to live in a society where the teachings of Christ were consigned to the past. To assist him in those imaginings, I head-butted him on the bridge of the nose.  As the blood flowed down his startled, porkish face, strong hands seized me and a policeman turned me to face him.  He looked at me solemnly and said that he had witnessed my actions. He told me that the councillor was known to him, as a member of the police board.  And he asked me why the hell I had not hit him harder, shook my hand and sent me off into the cold, clear night.  Truly, the Lord moves in mysterious ways.

Struan Metcalfe, MSP – Aberdeenshire North by North West and Surrounding Nether Regions

So, ACC can’t decide on who gets Freedom of the City. Three words: up, brewery, and something that rhymes with hiss. My suggestion? – Me!  I’ve spent years propping up the local economy, especially pubs, hotels and off-licences. I’ve invested heavily in North-East real estate (principally cheap brown-field land in Kingswells and Inverurie. Amazing how the value went through the roof when those developments I knew nothing about got the green light!). And I am a great Champion of the Doric. My Banffshire pile is much improved by the faux Greek columns either side of my new front door. It looks like the Music Hall! But without the riff-raff squatting on the steps.

George Osborne’s credit rating has been downgraded. Well, times have been tough since Sharon got the boot from the X-factor

Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips, KEVIN CASH

Oh the shame. Oor national credit worthiness his been impuned by Moody’s. They’re Moody? Foo dae they think we feel? I’m usually a loan wolf, fiscally spikking, mair used tae sticking it tae The Man than helping him oot. But fan the hale country’s considered a bad risk, emergency measures is needed. Luckily, I am available tae offer George Osborne some advice. There’s nithin I dinna ken aboot swicking credit, just cry me the Chuncer of the Exchequer. We’ve all been there. One minute yer imagining how smart that sofa wid look in yer living room – the next some plooky loon is telling you that your finance application his been refused. It’s exactly the same for governments. Except the sofa is an aircraft carrier and the plooky loon is fae BOAC instaed of DFS.

So fit’s the answer? First of all, you’ve tae be gye careful with your name. Een of the first things they check is whether or not your on the electrical roll. If you’re sensible like me, you’re nae. Cos that’s how they nobble you for cooncil tax and jury duty. My advice is tae choose een o’ your neighbours. I eyewiz ging by the name of Elsie Patterson fan I’m oot shopping. I dae get some funny looks, but if I mind and shave properly, pit on a heid-scarf and sook a pan-drop, I can usually pull it aff. Once you’ve conned them intae thinkin’ you’re a 70 year auld wifie fae Sheddocksley, yer next job is tae convince them you’ve got plenty cash. They’ll ask fit your salary is and aboot your monthly expenses. Funnily enough, fit will give your application the ring of truth is a couple of unlikely bits of information. The kind of thing naebdy would mak up. Fan I got ma new telly Elsie’s job wis “Ship’s Captain”, and her monthly outgoings included a donation tae the Scottish Conservatives.

So the wye forward for the government is to mak on we’re nae the debt-ridden double-dip recession UK, but een of the ither countries still hudding on to their AAA credit rating. In short, we’re going tae have tae steal anither country’s identity. Finland and Lichtenstein would be a stretch, but I reckon we could pass ourselves off as Australia. Thanks to being drip fed Home & Away and Neighbours as bairns we can all dae the accent, and if we share it oot evenly, there’s enough fake tan tae dae the hale country staggering doon Union Street on a Setterday nicht.

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

What a night I had last Wednesday! The Brit Awards at the O2 – OMG! It really was a swanky do with fancy lights and a red carpet. I wasn’t in London, like, I was round at my pal Natasha’s flat on the Hardgate. She’s just had it re-done after her pipes burst at Christmas time. It looks fabulous. Though it does still smell a bit like Swarfega. But what a night! We had too much too drink and just chatted away to each other during the bits when James Cordon Bleu was talking, so it was exactly like being there!

How cute are One Direction?! Or, as show business insiders call them, R2 D2. They’ve had such an amazing year, that I wasn’t at all surprised when they picked up the award for ‘Global Success’. It could have been invented especially for them! Apparently they got it for breaking into the American market. That’s obviously not as bad as breaking into the Aberdeen Market. My cousin Stevie Shingles got caught doing that and they never gave him a Brit! They gave him 3 months.

I’m so proud of all my showbiz chums who won awards. I can still mind the boys from Mumford and Sons running round the studios when their dad was in ‘Rentaghost’ (I made my TV acting debut in that show, as the back end of Dobbin), and I know from my days standing behind the presenters on ‘Top of The Pops’ that Frank Ocean’s dad, Billy, will be dead chuffed at his success.

But we should all be proudest our own local starlet, Emeli Sande. The Alford quine has the world at her feet just now and as one of her oldest friends I can tell you that nobody deserves it more. I can actually lay claim to being one of the co-creators of her unmistakable look. Me and Emeli go way back. I met her when she was a student with a Summer job at the Alford Transport Museum; it was the day of the Grampian Motorcycle Convention, I was there as a spokes-model for Muck-off degreaser and she was taking part in Moped Madness. When she came off the back of her Kawasaki, her hair was all sticking straight up in the air, exactly like a vanilla cone from the Inversnecky. I’ll never forget what she said to me: “Excuse me, do you have a hairbrush I could borrow?”. But I didn’t, and the rest is history.

Asteroid 2012 DA14 was capable of destroying a city the size of London. Lucky for us we don’t live anywhere as big as that.

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

As a scientist, I’m always being asked questions such as ‘Is there intelligent life in space?’, ‘Will gene therapies erradicate all diseases?’ and ‘Do you know what speed you were doing there, sir?’ But recently, people have been asking me what I think about asteroids. “Well” I advise them “Substance abuse aimed at enhancing one’s physical performance is ethically dubious and often has serious side effects both physiological and psychological.” And then we laugh. Or at least I do.

With the devastation caused by the meteorite strike in Russia and the recent near-miss of asteroid 2012 DA14, people are increasingly worried about the risks posed by celestial bodies colliding with the Earth. While these concerns are understandable, they can be allayed by full possession of the facts. On Thursday a 10 tonne meteor the size of a double decker bus entered our atmosphere, and fragmented. To help envisage this, imagine a child’s toy bus, (typically, these are constructed at 1:24 scale) smashing into a spherical object approximately the size of Latvia. The majority of the injuries and damage to property were caused by broken glass, as many windows were shattered by a ‘sonic boom’ – the sort of noise you get when the front and back doors are both left open in the house and the wind slams one of them shut. Only louder. Imagine a front door three times the size of Mount Everest, and you’re getting close to the decibel level involved.

Asteroid 2012 DA14 passed by majestically on Friday. I heard it described on the news as ‘an object the size of an olympic sized swimming pool’. This is unhelpful, conjuring up, as it does, images of watery softness and Rebbecca Addlington. A much more apposite description would be ‘an object the size of all the rock and earth you’d have to excavate to create an olympic size swimming pool’, which is  scientifically accurate, if not particularly snappy. The closest it got to Earth was 27,000 km. That sounds like a lot to the uneducated, but when you casually mention that it’s nearer than the satellite that beams Sky Sports into their front room, the uneducated drop their jaffa cakes in their tea. However, I wouldn’t worry about one coming any closer. I’ve seen both Deep Impact and Armageddon and most of the Earth’s population came out of them unscathed. Apart from Bruce Willis and the woman off of Jurassic Park 3.

 

 

RON CLUNY, council spokesman, defends the administration following the Sheriff Principal’s finding that proceedings in the licensing board “breached rules of natural justice.”

Once again, the council’s antagonists have been quick to use a so-called setback as a means to pursue their ongoing vendetta against the administration. I cannot permit their latest set of barbs to pass by without comment. Let me be absolutely clear. The council recognises that the courts do an excellent job (when they’re banging up neds without getting unduly excited about questions of due process and the rule of law) and obviously, we accept unquestioningly the court’s judgment. But I cannot stand by and let misunderstandings of the type made by the Sheriff Principal go unchallenged. He says that justice must not only be done, but must be seen to be done, and that decisions must be made on firm evidence. Well that’s all well and good in the lofty environs of the Sheriff Court, but this is Aberdeen licensing board. We haven’t based a decision on evidence since 1973, when the strain of attempting to consider high-fallutin ideas llike ‘legal merit’ put the chairman into a catatonic state. A policy based around the twin pillars of capriciousness and sanctimonious pomposity was then embarked upon which has served the city well ever since. The Sheriff Principal states that councillor Jaffrey should have disqualified herself from voting as she had fallen asleep and missed some of the evidence. But has he never heard of multitasking? Furthmore, councillors have demonstrated over and over again that some of the most important descisions in our City’s history can be, and often are, made by those who have no idea what’s going on around them.

 

CAVA KENNY CORDINER, the football pundit who kicks back.

I thought I seen just about everything during my career, but last week I caught something in the news that really took the brisket. Frank Lampard, Chelsea’s midfield clinch-pin, has decided to write children’s books. It is tough for a player to plan a career after retiring from the beautiful game, and I’m not knocking him for wanting turn his hand to the painted word. But not everyone has what it takes to make the move from footballer to literally giant. I myself attracted some howls of division from my footballing buddies when I told them I was going to be writing for the P&J. ‘You’ve never even read a newspaper’ they says to me, they says. And they was right. But, over time, I shown them that there is more than one sting to my bow, with the good way what I write this very column yous is all reading of now.

Why is Valentine’s Day so expensive? I’m trying to fire off Cupid’s dart, not launch a Trident missile.

TANYA SOUTER, lifestyle guru

Valentine’s day is a cracking idea, is it?  It’s great a chunce tae express your admiration, affection and lust for someb’dy anonymously. That wye they need never ken your true identity and your ither half need niver ken you’re fantasizing aboot that hottie fa bides across i’ street.  It must be like Christmas for all you stalkers oot there!  You ken fa you are! Even if your victims dinnae.

But fit a rip off the prices in the shops is! So here’s some tips for an affordable Valentine’s Day, withoot looking like a minker. Ken fit I mean?

First is the Valentine’s caird itsel.  Hame made is obviously the maist heartfelt, but it’s nae eese if your trying tae remain a “secret” admirer.  Cos yer fingerprints and DNA and athin will get awye.  Fit I prefer tae dae is tae ging intae a branch of ony high-street newsagent fit used tae be cried John Menzies.  Fan naeb’dy’s lookin’ jist slip a pucklie cairds in yer bag and waltz oot wi’ yer heid held high.  I’ve niver seen a security tag on a caird yet. And it’s nae shoplifting; it’s a protest against the homogenization of wir toon centres.

Let’s face it, quines like a bonny bunch o’ floors.  Mind oot though lads, if ye ging tae ony of that funcy florists you’ll get fleeced!  Fit my ex, Dykers, used tae dae wis tak a detour through the Duthie Park with his stanley knife.  I got some right bonny stuff; roses, orchids, and this one time a massive cactus!

Chocolates is the shortcut to ony girl’s hairt but even the titchiest poke of Belgian soft-centres will set ye back the guts of a tenner.  My solution lies in the generosity of your local supermarket.  They’ll knock money aff onything that’s damaged, so just pick up a big box o’ Black Magic, run your trolley ower it and get haggling!

View from the Midden with MTv (Meikle Wartle Television) personality JOCK ALEXANDER

It’s been a serendipitous wik in the village. There wiz an affa stramash fan mony fowk failed tae secure tickets for Emeli Sandé’s Hamecoming gig at the Music Hall in Aiberdeen. It selt oot in 70 minutes, and the Box Office couldnae doonsize their interwebs fast enough. The upshot wiz that a hale load of music fans got redirected tae wir local ticketing ootlet here in Meikle Wartle. And it went doon. Or, tae be mair accurate, fell asleep. Weel, Feel Moira canna sit in front of that Zx Spectrum for mair nor twinty mintees afore she tries to load her aul copy of Jet Set Willie, and then she gets lulled to sleep by the hum of the cassette deck. Onywye, the practical upshot wiz that a hale load of fowk that thocht they were buying tickets for Alford’s ain international singing sensation, Emili Sandé hiv in fact bought tickets for Meikle Wartle’s worst bothy-balladeer, Sandy Emslie.

He’s been singing the auld Scots sangs unaccompanied through his nose for 40 year, and has attracted quite a following, particularly among the hearing impaired. Sandy is an artist fa can fill a room in record time, provided it’s immediately adjacent tae the one in which he’s performing.  In ony event, we’re all very much looking forward to his gig on the 19th of April, though it will be a bit of challenge getting siven thoosand folk intae the Village Hall. Cheerio!

DODDIE ESSLEMONT, Radical Independence Campaigner

Other lesser Kingdoms lying to the south may, in recent times, have confirmed a humphy-backed archaeological find of minor importance: but it is here, in the People’s Democratic Republic of 39G Seaton Drive, where has been made the discovery of the age.

Two months ago, an interested member of the public (me) made a startling discovery whilst combing through his neighbours’ bins. It’s amazing fit some folk throw oot.  There, carefully scribed in purple crayon, was a document confirming that Robert the Bruce had been buried “in the North, not far from a Branch of Ross’s, 50 paces seawards from the bookies and curry-house.”  The Principal of the University of 39G Seaton Drive (myself) gave permission for a team led by and comprising the professor of Ologies (me again) to excavate the enclosed area of open space which most clearly fitted the ancient description (my backie).

The results were beyond my wildest imaginings.  Not only was Robert the Bruce buried aneth my azaleas, so too were William Wallace, and Kenneth MacAlpin, King of the Picts.

This find can only strengthen 39G Seaton Drive’s claims for both sovereign independence and UNESCO World Heritage status (apparently having an original Cooncil fireplace from the 1950s “does not, in and of itself” coont).

And that’s not the half of it. History books will have to be rewritten.  The most remarkable aspect of it all is that Scotland’s greatest heroes achieved all that they did while labouring under the disability of being a dog, a hamster and two legs of lamb.