‘Tiger, tiger – shining bright’

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

Well it’s been a zoological wik in the village. There wiz much excitement in the air on Tuesday as we had a Police Scotland armed response unit clattering doon the high street. I thocht tae masel ‘Aye aye, Skittery Wullie’s been up tae his aul tricks again’ (he swears blind that he wizna the secret mastermind behind the Hatton Garden job, but we dinna believe him. He’s niver satisfactorily explained fit a pig fairmer wid need wi’ a Hilti DD350 industrial power drill; nor how come he stairted weering Prada dungers). But it turns oot it wisna him they wiz efter, they had jist got a bittie lost on the wye oot tae a farm near Hatton (easy done syne Feel Moira reversed the road signage at Tipperty in the hopes that a JCB fae the bypass might end up in the village by mistake. She’s ayewis winted een). They hid swung intae action because a nervous fairmer had stumbled upon fit appeared tae be a tiger lolling aboot in his cowshed, and so understandably perturbed, had pit the call oot tae Police Scotland. I say ‘appeared tae be’, but tae be honest, ye’d only hae thocht yon if yer idea o’ fit a tiger looks like came solely fae a box o’ Frosties. Needless tae say, it turned oot tae nae be a vicious man-eating beast o’ the jungle efter a’, but a great big cuddly toy.

Of course, in fairness, in this neck of the woods, tales of big cats roaming aboot are frequent, and hiv tae be taken seriously. Ye niver really ken if there’s a fierce predator escaped fae a wildlife park, or if there is some mair humdrum explanation. The Beast of Meikle Wartle has been sighted mony a time. Innocent revellers, stumbling hame efter a good skite, have reported suddenly coming face tae face wi’ a wild, hairy, slavering creature fit leaps oot fae the dark wi’ a terryifing roar. Of course, it’s Moira, efter she’s been chucked oot early fae the pub.

In mony wyes a Tiger wid be preferable. Cheerio!
Prof Hector Schlenk, Senior Researcher at the Bogton Insitute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist I am a frequent visitor to Aberdeen’s Science & Technology Park, where people are always asking me questions. Questions like; “Did you put these business cards on my windscreen?”, “Do you know this is private property?” and “Can you stay where you are please sir and keep your hands by your sides while I call Security?”. But this week, I was amazed, astounded, not to say relieved, to read the news that a chemical used in the preparation of McDonald’s French Fries has been found to cure baldness and even regrow hair. Being a man of science, my head is, of course, constantly full of full of hypothesis, formulae and equations; but not, sadly, much hair. Despite having cultivated a suitably professorial neatly trimmed beard on my chin, unkind children on the street still shout “Chromedome” at me, and when I retort that chromium is in fact a steel grey coloured alloy produced by silicothermic or aluminothermic reactions and consequently bears essentially no resemblance whatsoever to the epidermis which actually covers my cranium, they then shout “Baldy” at me. So this development is most welcome.

Apparently, Japanese scientists have mass produced hair follicle germs from a chemical used in McDonald’s fryers to prevent cooking oil from foaming, with which they have managed to regrow hair on nude mice.

Well, before you could say ‘dimethylpolysiloxane’, and pausing only to Google ‘nude mice’ and then to immediately delete my browser history, I embarked upon an experiment of my own devising designed to test this claim in laboratory conditions. Although by ‘laboratory’, in this case I mean, of course, ‘fast food restaurant’.

Since the news broke on Monday, I have been ensconced in my nearest McDonald’s, (located at the charming Ring Road Industrial Estate, Peterhead) in order to discover if the exclusive ingestion of chips might promote a reversal in my follicular fortunes. After several days I have to say results are inconclusive; as I am no longer able to fit through the door of the gents in order to inspect the top of my head in a mirror. However, scientific progress depends on the careful accumulation of experimental data, so I shall endeavor, in the interests of human advancement, to continue with my current diet until such time as either definitive evidence can be found, or they run out of barbecue dip.

See the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ at HMT Aberdeen from 26th – 30th June 2018

The Madness of Kingsford.

Once again, the good people of Aberdeen have been falling out with each other over a planning application. I suppose that’s what happens if you don’t have sectarianism. Here some of our regular contributors chuck their 2 pence worth of petrol on to the fire.

‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner, sports writer.

Stand Free, wherever you may be! After months of deliberating, conjugating and indigestion, the Council has gave the green light to Kingsford stadium!

As a former Don, I’m pleased, but my joy is tingled with sadness. Pittodrie will always be something of a spirit-gum home for me. It was where I got my first top-flight debut. And then, within 10 minutes, my first yellow card, my first red card and my first roasting from Fergie.

Davinia Smythe-Barrett, ordinary mum

We shall overcome! As a resident of the once protected hinterland between Westhill and Kingswells, I’m devastated.

I actually think my public support of the anti-stadium campaign may have been the nail in the coffin. The council planners have it in for me ever since I unleashed my inner Pankhurst over our rejected application for a 4-story extension with a walk-in wine cellar, squash court and state-of-the-art yoga and tai-chi suite. Apparently it wasn’t “in keeping with the existing architecture” of the steading. And now they go and approve this monstrosity? If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s hypocrisy.

Professor Hector Schlenk, Scientist

As a scientist, I feel it’s my duty to explain some of the terminology being used in this matter. Firstly, there is ’Greenbelt Land’, which refers to an undeveloped green field on the boundary between settlements where development is usually precluded. This is not to be confused of course with a ‘Greenfield Site’, which refers to an undeveloped green field on the boundary between settlements where development is usually precluded until someone high up says ‘Ach, it’ll be fine’.

Jock Alexander, rural correspondent

It wis rare tae see the new stadium get the nod efter the Cooncil took on board views as to the suitability of the site fae an entirely representative cross-section of venture capitalists, AFC Board Members and fitba fans fed up o’ needing tae defrost themsels efter ivery game.

We dinna really follow fitba in the village – Feel Moira prefers rugby, because of the increased opportunities for personal violence, but we did used tae hae wir ain amateur side, the Wartle Wanderers, fa were famed for nil-nil draws against livestock. Unfortunately they eventually lived up to their name at half time in a match against Spartak Durno, fan they wandered intae the bog ahind Feel Moira’s and were niver seen again. Funnily enough, Moira hid pit a fiver on that at 500 tae one. Fit are the chunces?

Archie Fraser, gentleman of the road.

As long-time resident of the mean streets of the city centre – and by night the cardboard box mountain behind the of Kittybrewster retail park- I have to intimate my sadness at this decision. Without a car and finding public transport unaffordable, I will now be denied the match-day experience. I’m disappointed that no longer will I be able to pop into one of the hostelries around the ground to enjoy one or two drinks, left behind as kick-off approached. A stroll to the stadium itself at 5 would frequently gift me a hearty supper in the form of the remnants of a Pittodrie pie, and half a Bovril. On a very good day, I might even acquire a new red and white scarf, discarded in disgust at another 3-nil drubbing from The Hoops.

Struan Metcalfe, MP for Turriff and East Speyside

Well, pull my finger and brace for impact! They’ve only finally gone and done it. We haven’t seen this type of excitement since Len Ironside lost it in the Council Chambers and put Marie Boulton in a figure four leg-lock.

Clearly this decision has all sorts of ramifications. I wasn’t consulted of course but I do retain a keen interest in the old hometown, as does former Aberdonian Michael Gove, who came to my office to discuss it. He was bally confused as he thought Kingsford was ‘Upon Thames’ rather than a field behind the Four Mile Garage. That said, given the hoo and the hah emanating from the sticks, perhaps relocating the stadium to Greater London would have been easier to get through planning!

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ at His Majesty’s Theatre Aberdeen, June 26^th -30^th 2018

UKIP – It’s almost as if they’re just not very nice people.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

In politics, sometimes you just need to brazen it out.  Under pressure because you failed to adequately check who owns a wall before paying 6 figure sum for its renovation?  Batten down the hatches and ride it out.   Watching in growing horror as the Council’s magnificent and historic HQ is cast in permanent shade by the monstrosity being erected in front of it?  Say, “Well at least it’s not as bad as what used to be there” and run out of the press conference.  It is not pretty, but it is in the nature of the game we play.  But just occasionally, some rhinoceros-hided chancer takes the art of unabashed brass-neckery to such new heights that all one can do is stand and applaud.  So step forward please, Henry Bolton, the (soon to be ex-) leader of UKIP, who, after ditching his wife and infant child to take up with a glamour model half his age, then pretending to dump the model because of her racist views about a future member of the royal family, believes it to be appropriate to take a leaf from Donald Trump’s playbook by saying that he is going to stay on as party leader in order to “drain the swamp.”  More bare-faced effrontery could only be shown by an incontinent dog standing for office to better represent the interests of hard-working lamp-posts.  So, well played.  Well played, Mr Bolton.  But just in case you are under any doubt about the truth of the matter: you, Mr Bolton, are what would be found by dredging the very bottom of the swamp.  And our sides are sore from laughing at you.

View from the Midden; rural affairs with Jock Alexander of MTv (Meiklewartle Television)

It has been a columbine wik in the village. While the wider world has been getting’ a’ het up over the latest political scandals and controversies, Aiberdeen has had some good news at last, wi a new service fit has taken aff in the face of cooncil cutbacks and oil and gas doonturns. I’m spikkin, of course, aboot Wiggy and Friends Animal Rescue, the voluntary pigeon ambulance service. So it’s nae a’ doom and gloom if yer a doo in Europe’s oil capital.

Noo pigeons normally hae a fairly cushy time of it in this neck of the woods. Glorying on, pooping awye, and, proverbially, aye pecking. So it is only fair that they gie something back. But is having them act as paramedics really practical? The only thing we use pigeons for here in the village is providing the filling of Feel Moira’s Game Pies. Although, as aayewis fan it comes tae Moira’s cooking – it’s always best tae consider the doos, and don’t. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who always checks his coupon

I know I sound like a token record, but Football is not the same game as what it was when I was playing it. And that was never more truer than when I was watching the Spanglish football at the weekend, when Real Madrid’s Goal-machine and pin-up boy Cristiano Ronaldo got booted in the puss and checked his injuries by using the physio’s iPhone.

I was watching the game round at my pal, Dunter Duncan’s house. I must admit, I never seen the kick happen live, as I was checking my accumulator. All of a sudden, Dunter says to me, he says “Ronaldo’s using a mobile to look at his coupon!” So I says to him, I says “Me too, I’m £40 up!”

Give Ronaldo his juice, his dial did look pretty rough. But I can just imagine the abuse I’d have got if I’d done something like that when I was playing. One time, when I was playing for Locos, they had to drag me off the pitch when my forehead split open but I wanted to carry on. Mind you, the injury had happened when I nutted the wee nyaff who’d nutmegged me and the ref had sent me off, so it wasn’t really up to me.

This week also finally seen an end to Alexis Sanchez-Vicario’s transfer saga. First he was going to Guardiola at Man City, then he was going to Conte at Chelsea, then he ended up with Mourinho at Old Trafford. Dunter says to me , he says, ‘That’s not just a saga – it’s a saga coach tour! Put that in your column’. So I has done. When I seen the wages Alexis is going to be getting, it made me wonder how he sleeps at night. And I reckon it’s on a very comfy bed surrounded by piles of money.

See the Flying Pigs live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ June 2018. Tickets available now.

Hail to the Great Muckle Sumph in Chief

View from the Midden; rural news with Jock Alexander from MTv (Meiklewartle Television)

Well it’s been a controversial wik in the village. Obviously as this is a femly paper I cannot quote directly fit the Great Muckle Sumph In Chief is alleged tae hiv said. (Even though they were a’ saying it oot loud on Channel 4 News at lunchtime the ither day – fit is the world coming tae? You would niver hiv hid that fae Kennedy Thomson.) However, fit scunnered me wis the response fae the Whitehoose; pleitering aboot over precisely fit coorse thing he did or didnae say, rather than daeing fit my mither wid hae deen tae me if I’d said the like – and gi’ed him a skelpit lug and taen awa his toys. And his twitter account. And his nuclear launch codes.

It fair minded me on the unfortunate wye that Feel Moira behaved at a recent meeting of the local W.I. Noo, I’ve nae mentioned her Presidency for a filie, but, lik ither despots, she is still somehow clinging on tae power; and she said some affa things aboot wifies fae ither villages that hid expressed an interest in coming inaboot tae jine. “Fit wye do we need fowk fae Durno and Mains o’ Glack?” she is reported tae hiv said, (though tae be fair, at wid be the langest sentence she’s iver uttered). My response to which, of course, wis; ‘If they wint tae tracchle a’ the wye oot here tae Meiklewartle tae bake fruit loaf and rinse oot cake tins for you, you should be grateful. So g’wa and bile yer heed, ye daft bisom.”   Noo, I didna say it oot loud, of course, but I thocht it. Weel, unlike some folk, Moira really is 6 foot 3 and 17 stane. And his hands like shovels. Cheerio!

Professor Hector J Schlenk; Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for the public engagement in Science

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions like, Will there ever be a manned base on Mars?”, “What’s the weather like on Venus?” and “Can I see Uranus with a telescope”. The answers to which are ‘Eventually’, ‘Infernal’ and ‘Drowned out by sniggering’. Recently though, they’ve mostly been asking about sternutation. That’s the scientific name for “sneezing” which hit the headlines this week after it emerged that a poor chap ruptured his throat after pinching his nose to hold in a particular forceful sneeze.

Sneezing is as natural a process as belching and flatulence, though it nestles comfortably below those bodily expulsions on the Gumble Scale of Social Unacceptability; which means it’s the one you can do on a first date without fear of ostracism (prejudice against large flightless birds).

The purpose of a sneeze is to expel foreign particles and irritants from the nasal cavity, which is a bit like when your grandmother used to beat her duster at the scullery door, except with more noise and mucus. Although, as my grandmother suffered chronic emphysema, in her case the similarity was palpable.

There are many possible causes for sneezing, including dust, germs and pollen. Some studies suggest that staring at bright light, like the sun can also bring on a sneezing fit – though there is a lack of empirical evidence to support this theory, and little chance of obtaining any in the North-East of Scotland. There is even some research to suggest that a state of sexual arousal may bring on a bout, though Mrs Schlenk has advised that I stick to more conventional methods of communicating my ardor, such as paying her some actual attention for once.

Current advice provides us all with something of a nasal dilemma. Holding in or stifling a sneeze can cause serious physiological harm, so when our nostrils tickle we should give it both barrels and let it all out. Yet the bacterial contents of a sneeze can travel up to 8 metres and remain airborne for up to 4 minutes, potentially spreading disease. The traditional method of catching one’s germs, the cotton handkerchief, has been shown to act as an incubator for contagions, meaning my parents’ generation essentially walked around with a top pocket full of tuberculosis, or whooping cough tucked into their sleeve. So what is one to do when a sneeze is impending? Personally, I carry with me an empty Pringles tube. When nature calls, I remove the lid, carefully blast my airborne pathogens within and then seal it up for safe keeping. This keeps me germ-free in polite company – though perhaps something of a health hazard at an informal buffet.

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ at HMT Aberdeen June 26^th-30^th 2018

‘I’ve grown 4 inches’ – and other tall tales.

Hector Schlenk, Senior Research Fellow, Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions; lately, I’ve mainly been asked about changes that one’s body undergoes when outwith the confines of Terra Firma.

They’re referencing, of course, the news that a Japanese astronaut had grown a staggering 9cm during his 3 weeks on the International Space Station.  This caused panic at Mission Control as that would have made him too tall for the journey home. People grow in space because in zero gravity, there’s less pressure on their vertebrae, and the spine elongates accordingly, but even so, 9cm was unheard of.

Of course, the poor old fellow had just made a mistake and had in fact only grown a much more manageable 2cm. It just shows how far the human race has evolved, when a man can reach such stratospheric heights whilst being unable to successfully operate a tape measure.

View From the Midden – rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter JOCK ALEXANDER

It has been an innovative wik in the village thanks tae the shiny new laptop computer fit I got as a Christmas gift fae Feel Moira. At last I am een o’ yon ‘silver surfers’, experiencing a new world of electronic content thanks tae the interweb. Oh it’s magic stuff; partly news, partly videos of wee furry craiturs, but maistly ither videos of consenting adults daein’ things I didnae even ken were things ye could dae.

Michty, I’m fair tricket wi’ my McBook. Nae be confused wi a “MacBook” which is an entirely different thing fit costs an airm and a leg. Nah nah, the “McBook” is a one-of-a-kind device specially soldered thegither by Moira, fae the remains of twa toasters, and some spare blades aff a combine harvester. Mind you, mak sure ye dinna leave it running ower lang, or the combine blades stairt spinning and it it micht jist cost ye an airm and a leg efter a’.

But it’s fair kept me occupied. I’ve been enjoying the mony ‘webcams’ that ye can look at, particularly the een situated on Aiberdeen’s Broad Street, showing a team of mannies in florescent vests howkin’ awa at the road surface and pulling it a’ oot, scant wiks after they pit it doon in the first place. Noo I’m nae an expert, so I couldnae say if it was worth the 25 thoosand quid it cost, but it did gie me a richt good laugh.

Noo I’ve got masel a’ high-teched up, I’ve also been checking oot the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas. They hid a wee robot fae Korea cried Cloi that wiz meant tae be able tae work a’ yer kitchen appliances, but instead of telling ye fan the washing wis ready, or fit wis for tea, it jist sat there and stared blankly at the mannie in the expensive suit that wiz spiering it questions. I wiz affa impressed. They’ve actually invented a robot that can dae a’thing aroon the hoose that yer kids dae. Cheerio!

Shelley Shingles, showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

Totes excites! The highlight of any showbiz correspondents’ year is on the horizon! Awards season!!! That’s when folk like me get to hang around the red carpet interviewing folk like Baldrick Cummerbund about arty films that we haven’t seen, and actual news about things gets pushed deep into the paper by photos of celebs in fancy frocks!

This year might be a bit different, because loads of female stars are mounting a protest against the sexism that is rife within the entertainment industry, by only wearing black to the ceremonies. I’m totes behind my sisters in this, and nothing gets that message across better than something sheer in ‘midnight jet’ with a plunging neckline and a thigh-high split! Go girls!!!

The best news though was that my old pal Joanna Lumley has been picked to host the BAFTAs! I’m so chuffed for her, and I know she’s been keen to raise her profile so she’s not just remembered as the posh wifie who made slippers out of her bra. Of course, me and Jo go way back. I first became aware of her in the late 70’s when she was at the height of her New Avengers fame and funnily enough I saw her recently at the luggage carousel at Aberdeen Airport, whereI was acting as a spokesmodel for Keillor’s Travel Sweets. ‘Purdy’ I shouted to her as she sailed past. ‘You’re not so bad yourself, darling’ she replied. Wise words from a great lady.

See the Flying Pigs live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ June 2018. Tickets available now.

 

A ‘pious Vegan’  – Someb’dy fa eats nae animal products. Nae even a pie.

Tanya Souter, local lifestyle guru

It’s hisna been a good couple o’ wiks tae be a chef. Nick Nairn took a bunch of fives to the fizzog files oot and aboot in Aiberdeen and found himself sharpening his nose on the kerb-stone. Peer Nick, he’s my favourite o’ a’ the celeb chefs and I hope he’s daein’ better soon. A mannie wis lifted for the attack the next day. It’s an embarrassment tae the city that something lik ’at could happen on Union Street. Fan I wis a quine, hidings wis dished oot doon Jack’s Brae or at the Green, far there’s nae Cctv.

Anither chef in a bittie bother is the een doon in Shropshire fa his hid to close her restaurant due to the protests efter she posted on Facebook that she had “spiked” the meal of a “pious vegan”. (I hid tae look up baith that words, but it means somebody fa disna eat ony animal products, nae even a pie.) Her excuse was that “she had not fully realised the consequences of what it meant”. Had not fully realised the consequences of nae checking her privacy settings, mair like!

My pal, Big Sonya, gings oot wi a top chef. He works in a kebab shop on Bridge Street. He’s only been there six weeks and a’ready he’s been promoted fae being the boy that bags up the sweaty side-salads for the chicken pakoras to chief poppadum turner, so basically the sky’s the limit. I says to him, “Is it ever OK to lee to folk aboot fit’s in their denner?” He got very serious and he says to me, “Tanya – a chef’s reputation can tak years to build and seconds to destroy. The bond atween a chef and the customer is one of absolute trust. Nae matter how abusive or rude the customer his been, you must never, ever – let on to onybody fit you hiv done to get yer ain back.” I held in at him. He wizna giving much awa, but he did say that sometimes a chef will ask ye in a funcy wye if ye’d like something extra, and if you say yes, then that’s his excuse to get back at ye. So if you’ve iver been makin’ a nuisance o’ yersel in the late night queue, be careful if the boy ahind the counter asks if ye’d like yer chips and cheese served “a la salive”.

J Fergus Lamont, arts correspondent and author of “From Who’s Wa’? to PoohBah!-The Willie Young Story”

In the dying days of the year just gone, I was privileged to stumble upon not one, but two astonishing cultural delights.

First of all, I was astounded by what I witnessed at a live concert at His Majesty’s Theatre by Little Jimmy Osmond; the child-prodigy auteur of such pieces as the haunting ‘I’m Going To Knock On Your Door’ or the proto gender-fluidity anthem ‘Long haired Lover From Liverpool’. Expecting a gentle evening of virtuoso performance and comfortable retrospection, I was instead assailed by a mind-blowing prog-rock spectacular; a significant departure from his earlier stylistic choices. In this new material Little Jimmy appears as his own evil alter ego (“Abanazar”) in a daring conceptual tour de force involving a dragon, a flying carpet, and a complex narrative involving some terrifying cross dressing middle-aged men and a magic lamp which recalled both Yes and King Crimson, all performed over the continuous white noise of children’s screams. Incredible.

Naturally, on departure, I thought that that would be my cultural highlight for the festive season but fortuitously, still disorientated and suffering from a temporary deafness, I boarded the wrong bus parked at the rear of the theatre and was deposited, not at my home in Kincorth Circle, but in Stonehaven, where I found myself caught up in a second stunning coup-de-théâtre. Eccentrically dressed local yeomen, some in kilts, some in shirt and tie, others still in boiler suits, swung large spherical orbs of flame around their heads, to whoops of encouragement from onlookers. Clearly I had stumbled upon a rare open-air performance of the Greek playwright Euripides’ lost work ‘Phaeton’, in which the titular hero discovers his real father is the Sun God, Helios.

Compelled to join in, and passing a wire rubbish basket, I set it alight and swung it around my head. However in my excitement I lost my balance and fell, tearing the knees from my mustard cords and inadvertently launching my basket in the direction of an open window. Suddenly, a kilted gentlemen forcefully helped me to my feet, and noticed my damaged trousers. “What do you think your doing?’ he enquired,“Euripides!” I replied! ‘No I never’ he declaimed ‘you ripped them yourself!’

I wept.

See the Flying Pigs live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ June 2018. Tickets available now.

Not exactly the Christmas skite we were hoping for.

Hector Schlenk, Senior Researcher at the Bogton Insitute for Public Engagement with Science

This past week, I have been attempting to resolve the greatest scientific challenge of our day; how to get safely down my driveway and round to the post-office without sliding away on the ice in a straight line and at a constant speed. It may be a satisfying demonstration of Newton’s first law, but it won’t get your Christmas Cards sent.

In common with many others, I have found my local roads and pavements somewhat treacherous, but I’m not one to lambast the local authorities who I recognise have a very difficult job to do in ensuring the paths and streets are cleared and sanded. In fact, I’m particularly impressed as this winter they appear to have deployed the very latest in gritting technology; machines able to move through the streets so quickly and silently that no one has yet managed to see one at work. This led me to ponder the concept of Schrödinger’s Gritter – simultaneously both working tirelessly to make our roadways safe, and sitting unused at the depot at Kittybrewster – and it was whilst contemplating this quantum paradox that I slipped on black ice, badly bruising my Gluteus Maximus.

And so, I have set to work on a range of specialised footwear, and I’m particularly satisfied with my invention of ‘Self–salting Galoshes’, which distribute a pre-determined quantity of Sodium Chloride in front of the wearer as they perambulate. The prototype is, admittedly, two bottles of Saxo superglued to a pair of Dr Martens, but the principle is sound.
For those who prefer a non-chemical approach, I also have designed some ‘Hot Clogs’ which melt the snow and ice as you go. The prototype is cumbersome and would be more aesthetically pleasing if the two immersion heaters I’ve strapped to each foot were the same colour, and indeed height. Additionally, I feel their commercial viability might be enhanced were I able to create a wireless version. But still, early days.

In fact, the whole situation with the roads and pavements can be so treacherous that its probably best to avoid the ground altogether, and so I have been beavering away to perfect the ultimate solution – ‘Rocket Boots!’ Imagine being able to avoid all slippery hazards by simply hovering in midair, melting any underfoot ice or snow as you float along (as well as any road markings, and possibly the tar itself). Unfortunately you’ll have to keep imaging for the moment as I have yet to perfect the thrust to weight ratio. The secret lies in ensuring that the amount of propulsion is sufficient to enable hovering and forward movement, but not so great that the user simply blasts 200 feet straight up in the air and gets tangled up in the town’s Christmas tree; prompting the local children to ask why, instead of wings and a wand, this year’s fairy has a lab coat and a strong smell of petrol.

Tanya Soutar – local lifestyle guru

I was jist shocked to see that a heap of jobs is under threat at Toys R Us, and there’s going to be store closures nationwide.  I jist hope the Aiberdeen braches is nae affected.  Thanks tae it’s massive range, it’s a godsend for a harassed mum fa’s wee darling his their heart set on something they’ve seen advertised on the telly. As my pal, Big Sonia, says, ‘if that place shuts, far aboots am I going to be able to shoplift my Kieran’s Power Rangers fae?’  These big companies, they never think about the knock-on effects for the local communities, div they?

Mind you, I do feel a bittie sorry for these High Street companies, hiving to pay rent and rates and getting undercut by the big online multinationals fa base themselves in remote locations to avoid peying tax.  Never mind Amazon – apparently there’s one outfit that’s registered in a tax haven at the North Pole, maks toys using labour that disnae even get peyed minimum wage and will deliver stuff onywye in the world for free if you jist shove a letter up yer lum.  Talk aboot an abuse o’ a dominant commercial position – I dinna see how ony toy shop in the world can compete wi that!  Hang yet heid in shame, Sunty Claus!

 

Derek offering me a helping hand that time I got lost on the way to the corporate hostility suite at Celtic Park. Melody won’t let me wear that coat no more. She says it makes me look like I’m in a Beatles tribute.

Dons legend praises McInnes’s ‘Total concomitant’ to the club.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s got the right mentality for punditing football.

What a turnip for the books! Like all Dons fans, I was delighted with the gaffer deciding to turn down the The Rangers advances, show his total concomitant to the club and remain in the Pittodrie Hotpoint. I’d already assigned myself to the fact that he was on his way to Ibrox, but I could not be happier that he is not not happier here than how happy he would of been there.

After Sunderland in the summer, it’s the second time that Degsy‘s manageriatric skills has attracted the attention of the big boys. And while we all want Derek to stay, we have to take the interest in him as a compliment, because let’s face it, not every Don has been as lucky as what I was, to spend my entire Aberdeen career under the seaward ship of Fergie (1 start, 3 appearances from the bench: 2 reds and a yellow). I don’t remember no big clubs making a swoop for Ian Portaloo.

The Gers board never took the news too well though. They put out a statement that they are glad McInnes turned his nose up despite their faces. They reckon that if he didn’t bite their foots off, it means that he wouldn’t have been no good at the job. But that doesn’t make no sense to me at all. There’s plenty of people who are the dogs Botox at doing things they don’t want to do. Look at Ally McCoist. He doesn’t want to be a gardener but he must be the top one in Scotland by now.

View from the midden; rural affairs with Jock Alexander of MTV (Meiklewartle Television)

It has been an intumescent wik in the village. Wi’ big cities like Aiberdeen subject tae the unfortunate effects of a penny-pinching local authority, it is up tae those of us in the ‘Shire (wi’ nae authority, local or itherwise) tae keep cultural activities ga’an. (Actually, here in the village the phrase ‘local authority’ is verra much synonymous wi’ Feel Moira telling the rest o’ us fit tae dae files folding her ham-like fore-airms aneth her gargantuan bosoms.)

So we in Meiklewartle are determined tae ensure that visitors to the area find good reasons tae visit, stay and spend a’ their cash oot here; which means keeping them interested, entertained, and maist importantly, moving aboot a lot so they dinna freeze solid. For it is a truth lang kent in Meiklewartle that stranger winna open his wallet efter frostbite has set in.  With this in mind, we were affa excited tae read aboot the inflatable bouncy castle style assault course fit is gan tae be held at Castle Fraser. We were even mair excited fan we realised, despite the story being a’ o’er the local press and social media last wik, they’re nae actually ha’eing the thing until next September.  That of course gi’es us a rare opportunity tae strike files the sharn is hot, nick the idea and pit on oor ain version.

Not I ken fit year thinking, how did we in Meiklewartle get access tae the required vast amounts of inflatable material? Well, all I can say is that a’ the tractors in the village are currently up on bricks, Skittery Wullie’s extensive collection of auld pig bladders has finally been pit to good use, and if ye pop intae Lilly Grant’s chemist shop for something for the wikend, ye’ve nae chunce. I tell ye, stitching a’ that lot thegither was nae a fun job. But onywye, the hale thing is noo up and shoogling aboot a’ roon the village square, and will be open tae anybody that fancies an inflatable ninja warrior- style assault course that smells a bittie lik past its date bacon. And it’s a’ready proving verra popular. Certainly, ab’dy that stotts on tae it fan they tummle oot of the village pub canna get round it quick enough.

Though I hiv tae say blawing it up wis a sair fecht. It wid nae doot hiv been easier in the summer time, fan yer breath widna hiv immediately frozen on contact wi’ the air. However, I am a man of rare ingenuity, and solved the issue by utilising the natural talents of my ain coos. They blew up the entire structure in nae time, wi’ plenty hot air of their ain. I winna detail the precise methodolgy used for commercial reasons – I widna wint tae pit folk aff, but suffice tae say we will need tae tak great care tae avoid punctures.  Cheerio!

See the Flying Pigs live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ June 2018. Tickets available now.

What a turnip for the books! Like all Dons fans, I was delighted with the gaffer deciding to turn down the The Rangers advances, show his total concomitant to the club and remain in the Pittodrie hotpoint. I’d already assigned myself to the fact that he was on his way to Ibrox, but I could not be happier that he is not not happier here than how happy he would of been there. 

The Gers board never took the news too well though. They put out a statement  that they are glad McInnes turned his nose up despite their faces. They reckon that if he didn’t bite their foots off, it means that he wouldn’t have been no good at the job. But that doesn’t make no sense to me at all. There’s plenty of people who are the dogs botox at doing things they don’t want to do. Look at Ally McCoist. He doesn’t want to be a gardener but he’s probably the top one in Scotland by now.

Derek offering me a helping hand that time I got lost on the way to the corporate hostility suite at Celtic Park. My wife Melody won’t let me wear that coat no more. She says it makes me look like I’m in a Beatles tribute act.

Read more from the football writer who goes in two-footed in the Flying Pigs’ Press & Journal column every Thursday. Weel, maist Thursdays. 

See the Flying Pigs live at HMT Aberdeen in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!‘ June 2018. Tickets available now.

Crouching Leopard, White Elephant

J Fergus Lamont, arts critic and author of ‘Fit Like, Cinders?? a post Chekovian analysis of the Inverurie Panto’

As the year draws to a close, I think we can all agree that Aberdeen has recently excelled itself in terms of important cultural events. In recent weeks especially there has been a plethora of praise–worthy and innovative performance art in the city, mostly thanks to the local Dadaist collective who go by the mysterious sobriquet “The Council’.

We have been privileged to see these enfants terrible at their most mischeviously provocative; announcing the end of Youth Festival Funding in the middle of a Scottish Festivals conference (‘Stunning’- Evening Express); simultaneously closing the Art Gallery and Music Hall for the duration of the year in which Aberdeen bid to be a ‘City of Culture’ (‘Delicious’ –The Press & Journal). They’ve shown a tongue in cheek genius for ironic situationist installations the like of which has not been seen since the KLF burned 1 million pounds in a bothy on Jura.
Most recently, as temperatures plunged, fresh warnings of snow and ice coincided with the opening of an ice cream parlour in Marischal Square. Heralding that, far from the commercial white elephant predicted by some pundits, the entire edifice is a glorious temple to the avant-garde. With this first installation open, I seized the chance to explore in detail, and found myself applauding the uncompromising boldness of its brutalist architecture, its many highly evocative empty rooms, and the powerful way it had been built hard up against a 16th century listed building. Above all, I appreciated Andy Scott’s magnificent sculpture, ‘Poised’ – a steel leopard, perched atop a 50 foot pole. This was a stunning piece, though surprisingly figurative in the midst of so much abstraction. In an effort to join it, contextually, to it’s surroundings I used it in a tribute to the Belgian performance artist Mikes Poppe, who, as you will know, recently had to be cut free after spending 19 days chained to a marble block which he claimed was symbolic of “The Burden of History”.  Thus, I have manacled myself to the Marischal Square leopard in a devised piece of contemporary performance art which I have entitled ‘The burden of local government’. In this work, the leopard now becomes a powerful metaphor for our public authority:  far from the reach of the ordinary people, precariously balanced, and above all, hollow.

After 12 hours in the manacles, my foot having gone purple, I wept.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who never rejects an approach

It looks like the writing is on the ball at Pittodrie, with the end of an earring in sight. The vouchers have been circling for a while, and after weeks of speculuming, it looks like the gaffer is on his way to The Rangers after they found theirselves without no one who can manage.

Whether Degsy goes or doesn’t go, the whole affair has more than a whiff of Dysyntery about it, or some other soup opera like that. It reminds me of when I was at Kincorth Academy, and my pal Dunter Duncan fancied the pants off Tracy Fowlie. Everybody knew it, but because she was going with Spud Matheson, Dunter never done nothing about it for months. Eventually, he plucked up the courage to ask Spud if he could muscle in on his bird.

I’ll never forget what happened next, which is a lot more than Dunter can say, thanks to the concussion what Spud gived him. Anyway, Tracy felt so sorry for poor dunted Dunter that she, tendered to his wounds and they ended up together. At least until she left school and gave Dunter the dunt after meeting that trainee solicitor with the Golf Gti in Oscars.

And that’s exactly what will happen with McInnes. Either he leaves us now for The Rangers, or he stays for a while and then he leaves us later for some big club down south, like Aston Villa. Say what you like about loyalty and commitment, but it’s unenviable, as sure as death and taxis.

What Dons fans should be really concerned about isnt that McInnes may go, but that he’s the first manager that we’d be sad to lose since Fergie. Will it be another 30 odd years before the Dandies get someone else decent to sit in the managerial hot tub?

See the best of the Flying Pigs live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick!’ At HMT June 2018. Tickets available now. A rare Christmas present for onyb’dy ye like. Or even onyb’dy ye dinna like.