Bad news for Burns Supper organisers as the Pound closes down against the Neep

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

It’s been a monetary wik in the village, with the welcome news that Scotland his finally got yokit and howked itsel oot of recession. The BBC’s Scottish economics mannie, Douglas Fraser, warned that growth figures of 0.6% in the last quarter were not much cause for much celebration, but then we’ve never needed much cause for celebration in Meikle Wartle, so we’ve been gien it laldy all wik.

But nae for the first time, the rest of the country lags behind us, because the green-shoots of recovery have been prominent here since the turn of the year, even if actual green shoots are still battling their wye through six inches of ground frost. It all kicked aff fan Feel Moira, the Milton Friedman of Formartine, took radical steps tae solve her ain financial troubles by creating a new currency. And noo the hale village has followed her lead, ditched the Pound and adopted the Neep.

And jist in time, as the great upswing in demand roon aboot Burns Nicht caused a significant strengthening of the Neep against baith the Dollar and the Yen. Pundits predict a gradual weakening over the summer against the Euro (the Neep is not fit ye would cry a ‘tourist currency’) but it ought to rally again come Halloween, despite growing pressure fae the Pumpkin.

Fit’s mair, Feel Moira is suddenly Meikle Wartle’s wealthiest citizen. Some say she bocht oot the Costcutters at Insch. That could be it, of course, but there’s also that Greengrocer in Inverurie with the great muckle hole in their wa’ . Cheerio!

JONATHAN M LEWIS, headmaster at Garioch Academy

I note, with interest, the concerns of parents at Garioch Academy regarding the threat of school closures, mergers and the re-drawing of catchment areas.  Many are worried that Aberdeenshire Council will follow Aberdeen City’s lead.

Once again I am truly envious of my urban colleagues.  They organise “Development” junkets to the illustrious Beach Ballroom, send internal mail that is delivered in under than a week and they don’t have to battle through four feet of snow just to close the school in winter.  Now, to top it all, they can redraw the boundary lines and cherry pick pupils to help improve their results!

If we at Garioch Academy had the opportunity to alter our catchment area, parents would expect me to be in, like Rattus Norvegicus up a drainpipe. But the fact is that I simply don’t have the power to either annex certain streets, packed with the well brought up progeny of University graduates; or to foist others, with their feral children and abandoned sofas,  onto our competit…onto a more suitable educational establishment .

But , of course, it’s not as simple as that, is it? There’s no such thing as a ‘good’ area or a ‘bad’ street. Looking at our current catchment, some parents might wish to redraw the boundaries to rid ourselves of the likes of Cedar Avenue. Yes, there is a  boy at number 37 – the one with his name shaved into his head – who failed a cooking exam the other day by literally battering a haddock. But should we give up on him, just because of where he lives? No, I say. That is not the Garioch way. And anyway, there’s a boy in the same street who can do equations that scare the Science Department. The Chess team call him ‘Geeky”.  I’m not losing him.  Come Exam time he’s going to raise us 4 or 5 places single-handed.

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

I couldn’t not take my eyes off of Sky Sports News last Thursday.  It was fastening watching that transfer deadline day, seeing who had managed to bag themselves a new club before the window smashed shut.  Celtic did well to keep hold of Gary Hooper. They turned down 4 bids from Norwich for their striker.  The lovely Melody was watching with me and she says to me, she says “Norwich must be keen as mustard, eh Kenny?” She was laughing and she tells me to write it in my column.  I done that even though I don’t know what is so funny.

The biggest story of the night though was old Becks himself moving to Paris St Geranium. At 37 years old he is in the Ottoman of his career, but he says he fancies one last challenge at a world famous club.  I think that wife of his, Old Spice, must have gotten him told where he was signing.  She likes all that fashion and oat-cuisine and Paris is a very sophistimicated place.

He’s even agreed to give his wages at his new club to a local children’s charity.  I think I know why he done that. I never knew how tough it was for a wee orphan in Paris until the lovely Melody took me along to see that film about it, Les Miserables. Honestly, the conditions there is dreadful. It’s like something out of the last century.

 

 

 

A kick in the ribs, some bruising words and a case of third degree Burns

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

Football hut the headlights last week as wonderdogs Bradford and Swansea both beat the odds to reach the League Cup final – but they was overshadowed by a moment of madness.   If you ask me, it is agadoo about nothing. Back when I was playing it, football was a man’s game. You could give your opposite number a right snapping and the ref wouldn’t look twice.  These days the players can’t do nothing without someone whining about broken metal-tassles and ruptured linaments. That Swansea ballboy only has himself to blame.  He was time-wasting and the Chelsea player wanted the ball back so he did what any other professional would have done – he hoofed the lad in the ribs.

As my career total of 31 red cards will tell you, refs always had it in for me.  But my tally would be even massiver if you was getting red cards for little incidents like that.  I remember one game for Locos against Rothes when this boy runs on the pitch following one of my trademark “reducers” on their centre forward.  He was sprinting towards us with a face like thunder so for everyone’s safety I took matters into my own hands and lamped him.  Turned out it was their physio.  But he seen the funny side, when he eventually regained consciousness.

When I was in the skylight of my career I played at some intimate venues, and sometimes I got a little closer to the crowd than what I would have wanted to.  One time, during an ill-temperatured Longside v Mintlaw derby, some joker in the stand starts shouting at me.  “H’min Cordiner! Your time is up!”.  I may have been something of a veteranarian but I wrasn’t having some random telling me I was past it.  So I waits til I was making a clearance and smashed it off his coupon.  That time the joke was on me though, it turns out he was just trying to warn me that my money had run out in the parking meter.

STRUAN METCALFE, MSP

Once again I’m required to apologise unreservedly for remarks I may or may not have made (OK, fair cop, I did make them) on Twitter last week. The re-negotiation of Britain’s involvement in the EU is a delicate matter of international relations, and in no way was the following tweet intended to imply anything but the utmost respect for our European partners: “Super Dave, I salute you. About time we showed Johnny foreigner who’s boss. We’re out of here! Sayōnara, Merkel, and the rest of you euro-chumps!”

Dave’s speech last week was the most inspiring of his life. And I include in that his “Toast to the Fox” at the Bullingdon Old Boys Hunt of 1992. The namby-pamby liberal press “seem” to be implying that calling for a referendum to seek the views of the nation is somehow divisive, that his cherry-picking from the EU tree is wrong. I have just one thing to say to that. Bof! Surely we have the right to renegotiate our relationship with Europe? And isn’t it time to re-define the sordid Menage A Vingt-Sept in which we find ourselves? So I say it’s time to put Britain first. After all, what has all this hob-nobbing with the continentals ever got us?

Apologies made, I’m off. The BMW needs a service, and I have to pop into Lidls for some chorizo, half a pound of gouda and a bottle of Chateaux Neuf du Pape.

THE REVEREND EDMOND EVEREND, Minister of Holburn North North East

The annual church Burns supper took place on Friday.  I must confess to being about as agnostic about the Bard as he was about God. However, the Kirk Session rejected my offer of an illustrated presentation on the great Scottish missionary, James Chalmers, and so it came to pass that, in the interests of tradition, we celebrated the life and work of a drunken womaniser whose attitude to the church bore some relation to the relationship between a dog and a lamp-post.

As it turned out, the evening was not without it’s merits.  We were treated to excellent fare by Bunty, and her team in the kitchen and our speaker (a wine wholesaler to trade who, going by his complexion, can personally vouch for the quality of his wares), started his Immortal Memory well, his “A Man’s A Man For A’ That” drawing deserved applause.

But, as he progressed through both his speech and his second bottle of red, he embarked upon a performance of “Nine Inch Will Please A Lady” as spirited as it was ill-advised. A silence fell, broken by the thud of Betty Topp falling to the ground in a swoon, followed by the Session Clerk shouting “get him!”  As we bundled the fellow out into the night, thrashing, biting and screaming couplets from “Holy Wullie’s Prayer”, it occurred to me that this was perhaps the most authentic Burns Night that the Church had ever hosted.

It was a curious but in its own way invigorating experience, one for which I give thanks to God; and if anyone has any tips on how to get bloodstains off  a clerical collar, I would be very grateful.

I bought some burgers at the Meikle Wartle Country Fayre – and they’re off!

KEVIN CASH, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips, on the collapse of HMV and OneUp

It’s nae often that I, haggler supreme, man of short airms and long pockets and champion of the customer’s inalienable right to complain, tak the side of big business.  Jist this eence, though, I am hairt sorry for the humble trader and fizzing mad at the consumer.   The unholy alliance of the supermairkets and the “tax efficient” online retailers hiv daen their worst. We’ve a’ready said ‘so long, farewell’ to Bruce Millers, Woolies, and Zavvi (although they kind of deserved it for having the silliest name created since Bob Geldolf split up fae Paula Yates).   Noo it’s ‘auf wiedersehen, adieu and tatties ower the side’ for HMV and OneUp.  So, all because you lazy lot of galumphs couldna be bothered to lift yoursels off your backsides and support local businesses, we end up with another gaping hole in Union Street. Worse still, future generations will niver ken the pleasure of sending their Ma doon toon at Christmas to ask the plooky loon ahin the counter far she can find “Bleach” by Nirvana. And finally, one burning question: far the hell am I supposed to shoplift my CDs fae noo? Eh? Hang your heid in shame, Aiberdeen.  Hang your heid in shame.

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

What a belter of a week for Scottish football. The tartan army have gotten themselves a new suprendo in the titchy wee shape of my old pal Gordon Strachan. When I first arrived at Pittodrie, Gogsy already had gotten his self quite a repetition for being a particle joker. This one time he nearly caught me bonny! He says to me, he says, “Kenny, do you realise that there’s more training after lunch? We’re all still here when you slope off to the bookies! You’d better wisen up or the Gaffer will give you your jotters.” Well, I don’t mind telling youse, I nearly almost fell for it! But ‘Cava’ Kenny didn’t come down the Dee on a bandana boat, and he never got another chance to trick me, seeing as my Pittodrie playing days came to an end very soon afterwards. He was a rare player though, was Strach. He was as fast as Freddie Mercury and had heaps of skill. Ball control is very important in the game, and Gordo’s was amongst the best controlled balls I ever seen. I remember once in training when he had to dribble past me and I had to not let him. Fergie says to me, he says “That’s it Cava, don’t let him turn ye!” Gogs, the wee rascal says, he says “Aye, I seen a barge in the harbour turn quicker than him, gaffer!” So I makes a challenge, and I took the whole lot. “Good thing I can take a joke”, I says to him, as I was helping him up. He missed the rest of that season through injury. I’m sure he’ll do a great job as Scotland boss. And I cant help noticing that after my old pal Alex Mcleish he’s the second ginger ex-Don to sit in the National team hot-tub. They say things come in threes, so I wonder who’ll be next? I’m off to the bookies to stick a tenner on Ilyan Kiriakov.

View From the Midden with Mtv (Meikle Wartle Television) Personality JOCK ALEXANDER

Weel michty, its been a gastronomic wik in the village. Fit a stramash there’s been in the news aboot supermairket burgers contaminated with horsemeat! I think I spik for all right-thinking fowk fan I say: fit a fuss aboot nithing!  As my auld Grunny used tae say, ‘ye’ve tae eat a pick o’ dirt afore ye die!’ and sure enough, she did baith, in that order. Here in the village you’d be fine pleased if your burger had a smattering of the stable yard aboot it. It wid mak a fine change from bits of Jim the butcher’s falsers, efter he sneezed them intae the mincer last month fan he come doon with a bout of the norovirus Unsurprisingly, he disnnae sell a lot of burgers. At the Meikle Wartle Country Fayre; still proudly held ivery second Seterday in January ahind the sewage works (y’ken, the flat bit of grun far nithing grows, and the air has a yellowish tinge?) The food on sale is, proudly and defiantly, Scottish in flavor. And fit a flavor it is! Feel Moira dis the bulk of the catering for the Fayre, and her culinary offerings are famed, though not necessarily for the richt reasons. She taks a ‘Ronseal’ approach to food labeling, fit is fine as lang as ye ken tae expect. The basic rule of thumb is, fit it’s cried is exactly fit ye get. So, for example, her meatballs are at their freshest fan the Vet’s been daeing a gelding. That particular dish is considered a delicacy by fowk fae all aroon the world. We can only assume that neen of them have iver tasted Feel Moira’s version…and lived tae tell the tale. Uniquely, her Cullen Skink contains real Skink, her Clootie Dumplings feature actual cloots, and as you can probably guess, her Scotch Broth is a great favourite.   Mind you, the less said aboot her Crappit Heid the better. Cheerio!

‘Walking in a Winter Wonderland’. Well, it fairly beats driving on un-treated roads.

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRAT – Ordinary Mum

When Last week’s cold snap hit, like any ordinary Mum, I immediately phoned the council to check when the snowplough was coming to clear our driveway. Shockingly, I was told that the major roads have ‘priority’! When I went to grab a bottle of Lanson for supper, the path to the wine cellar (it’s not really a cellar, of course, we’re not that posh! It’s part of the stables) was a death trap, so I had no choice but to summon Snezhana, the au pair (she’s from Bulgaria, but the kids adore her) who trundled, on the sit-on mower, to liberate some gritting salt from the big box outside the local primary school. The school run is fraught enough, but Wednesday morning was something else! You could barely move for struggling vehicles. Especially near the local primary school – their car park was like a skating rink! Incredibly, they’d run out of grit! Then it took us 2 hours to get to Queen’s Road where I dropped Emmeline and Fidel and dashed to my own important appointment – a wine tasting and spa day with some other ordinary mums. By the time we came out of Malmaison even the Landrover was struggling in the snow. I had no choice but to abandon it and summon Snezhana on the mower again. The next morning one of Fidel’s chums had video-called him to say the traffic was even worse! Apparently some idiot had left their Landrover in the middle of Queen’s Road! I wondered why it is that the French handle snow so much better than us, so I’ve booked an impromptu skiing trip to Chamonix to find out. Swoosh!

 

Seasonal advice from DONNA BARNEY, our intense Agony Aunt

In the words of Noddy Holder, “IT’S CHRISTMAS!” And fit diz that mean? It means office parties. You ken the cute loon fae Legal you’ve had your eye on? Weel this is the perfect opportunity to ask if you could hae a rummage through his briefs. It also means steering clear of the Head of IT, fa’s got hands like an octopus and breath that could stun a futret. I hiv had many letters this year asking about the social etiquette o’ the works do – I canna be bothered answering them so here’s a list of Do’s and Don’ts tae keep ye right. ‘Bring a Party to a Party’ – DO join your work-mates at an organised shindig at a hotel far John McRuvie is doing the disco. DO NOT tak the Kincorth definition of a “party” (a Half bottle voddie, a quart bottlie of Mount Gay Rum and a Hooch) in your handbag, down it all in the lavvies and attempt a dunce routine, ending with the splits, fan they play onything by Tina Turner. ‘Fashion’ – DO wear something tasteful and classy. (But nae the same dress you wore to last year’s do. The snooty mare on reception will mind. Dinna give her the satisfaction). – DO NOT ging for a ‘Christmas ‘ outfit. Tinsel in your hair and a wee ‘sexy elf’ minidress might look fun, but fit if all that highly flammable material gets too near a cundle? You want to look hot like Rhianna, nae hot like the Wicker Man. And finally… Know when the night is over. DO spy when the lad ye fancy is getting his jaicket on, slip yer arm through his and then ask if he wints tae share a taxi. DO NOT join the lads fae Engineering for a final drink, ging tae a strip club, hae a shottie at pole dancing and boak all ower your Jimmy Choos.

 

PC BOBBY CONSTABLE – Community Policeman

The local solicitors hiv been on strike complaining that proposed changes to legal aid are going to interfere with access to justice.  I hope they’re right.  Fae the police perspective, justice is nithin but a pain in the back-side.  Fan I think back to the good old days, fan we wiz able to get on with wir job withoot unnecessary complications like the presumption of innocence, foo simple life wiz.  You’d pick up your ned, stick him in the mortuary fridge ’til he said he done it, and you’d hae the rest of the day to yersel.  But noo, with a’ this paperwork and human rights and faff, it’s hard to be sae efficient. My conviction rates hiv plummeted since we hid to start giving cautions and recording all official interviews I hinna even hid time to confiscate Mrs. Constable’s Christmas presents fae an unlicensed street trader yet!

 

RON CLUNY – spokesman for the City Council’s ruling administration

Once again, the council’s critics have lined up to attack us with poorly considered gusto, this time in relation to our winter response planning.  As usual, our antagonists are wide of the mark.  Let us deal in hard statistical facts.  In Scotland, in winter, there is a mere 90% chance of snow.  The Council cannot be expected to foresee such remote contingencies.  And the demands of the public are like the whining of a petulant child – self-absorbed and often contradictory.  You demand that an artificial ice rink be provided at great expense in Union Terrace Gardens; we provide a natural one, entirely free of charge, on the pavement of Great Western Road and receive nothing but abuse.

It’s that rarest of things, a Rugby score at Pittodrie

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRAT – Ordinary Mum

I can’t be the only ordinary mum who thinks Christmas decorations have got out of hand.  Love, peace and goodwill aren’t truly represented by 2 miles of dazzling LEDs covering the house and outbuildings.  So as December approaches, I have decided to bow out gracefully from the annual battle with the neighbours over who has the most lavish display.  Also, there was that incident last year when EasyJet flight 107 from Gatwick mistook our drive for the runway at Dyce. So the banning order obtained by the Civil Aviation Authority has played a part. Honestly, they’re such fascists; it’s Health and Safety gone mad.

Rampant consumerism is, of course, the blight which is corrupting Christmas, so this year we’re having an eco-friendly, fairly-traded festive season.  Our tree came from a sustainable forest near Flekkefjord.  What a struggle to get it here – some guff from HM Customs about protecting our ecosystem from airborne fungal tree diseases – but we were ultimately able to smuggle it in from Norway via Sommerset.

Best of all, our two angels, Emmeline and Fidel, have reluctantly allowed us to ship the ponies off to livery so we could convert our stables into a full scale Nativity scene.  We found a very nice chap at Thainstone who sold us an absolutely fabulous antique manger in authentic galvanised steel, some free range sheep, a cattle (lowing, naturally) and of course, a little donkey. I said to the man that I thought it looked a lot like a goat, but I couldn’t understand his reply. Most importantly though, judging by the smell of the fellow, I know we have really ‘made a difference’ there.

So, it’s a totally consumerist free Christmas for the Smythe-Barrats. Well, all except my husband. He’s spending the festive season in Baharain. It’s a shame, of course, but he needs 26 weeks a year out of the UK to qualify as non-domiciled so we don’t pay any income tax. How else can I keep getting the child benefit?

 

Thought for the Day: THE REV. EDMOND EVEREND, Minister of Holburn North North East

After yesterday’s service, a parishioner asked me where I stood on the ordination of female bishops.  “Right in front of them”, I said, “that way you can see right down their cassocks.”  Just a little ecclesiastical joke, there. I firmly believe that a sense of humour is one of God’s greatest gifts to humanity, and I look forward to having the opportunity to develop that argument more fully when I appear in front of the Kirk Session to answer the official complaint.

Mindful of the controversy which attended my tweet after the Egyptian Coptic Church selected their new Patriach (“So the Coptics got a blindfolded altar boy to pick their Pope.  Did they get him to pin the tail on a donkey while he was up there!?”); I will restrict myself to two observations only.  I wonder what I would think, were I a woman worshipping within a denomination that was happy for me to lend my pleasing soprano to the choir, happy for me to bake for church coffee mornings but unhappy to ordain me so that I could serve to the fullest extent the God that I love?  It is hard to answer a hypothetical question with complete certainty, but after much prayer and reflection, I rather suspect that I would think “Stuff that for a caper”.  And while it is true that, as traditionalists contend, Timothy 1:2 says “a man is not to receive instruction from a woman”;  equally, Mark 16:17 says, “These signs shall follow them that believe: They shall take up serpents”.  If one is for biblical tradition, one can not be selective. So I will happily surrender my support for the ordination of female bishops on the day that snake-handling makes its way into the Anglican service.

 

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

They say that football has changed in recent times and that the game is almost unrecognisable from the one what I used to play. Well, after what I seen at Pittodrie on Saturday I would wholeheartedly confer.

First of all, I have never been all that clever with numbers, but it looked like there was more than 11 aside.  Thirdly, the ball they was using looked like it had been laid by an ostrich. It took some crazy bounces, no wonder no-one tried to do no dribbling with it. Then I seen that the Dons was playing with a running goalie. Some folk say Craig Brown’s tic-tacs is a bit old fashioned, but that is Primary School stuff. Laterally! And the ref had a total shocker.  He was letting all sorts of challenges go and I lost count of how many handballs he missed.  Some of them was drywall penalties too! I’ll say this though, the new fitness coach is worth his weight in salt. I’ve not seen footballers built like that since Doug Rougvie hung up his boots.

Most confusing of all though was the crowd. They wasn’t the caliper of fan what normally graces the Dick Donald. Most of them was booing the Reds!  They was playing a blinder too.  I asked the boy next to me what the score was and he says to me, he says “21-15.”  I says “How did I miss all that goals? Every shot I seen got skied over the bar!”