The signs on Broad Street are right, it’s very much ‘business as usual’.

View From The Midden – rural affairs with MTv (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter Jock Alexander  

It’s been a constructive wik in the village. Noo that the temperature has taken it’s annual Autumnal plunge fae ‘nae bad’ tae ‘michty ‘at’s caul’! I hiv spent maist mornings tucked up in my jimjams, listening tae the radio ‘til the frost on my baffies his melted and I wis sorry tae hear aboot the city’s latest travails fae that aul’ buggerbear Road Works.

Aye, it’s the bane o’ a’ wir lives. Here, as in Aiberdeen, they only iver seem tae dig up the busiest roads at the maist inconvenient times. Of course we in the village suffer mair than maist as we only hiv the one road, and fan I say ‘they’ dig them up, I mean Feel Moira efter she’s ta’en a bucket files watching ‘DIY SOS’.

Therefore, I hiv ivery sympathy for the peer shopkeepers of UpperkIrkgate fa arenae chuffed that Broad Street will remain closed & dug up well past the hoped-for completion date fer Marischal Square.

Someone fae the council telt me it wiz ayewiz earmarked tae reopen in late summer; it’s jist naeb’dy wid admit it was late summer 2018.  And in fairness, officials in Marischal College may have some trouble working oot fan summer actually is, thanks tae being in permanent shadow. Onywye, workers hiv encountered “unexpected issues” fan digging the road up – unusual items such as concrete and drains hiv got in the wye. Fit begs the question – fit wis they expecting tae find, Narnia? So, aye, Broad Street and Upperkirkgate remain shut, but on the bright side it his given the hale area a quaint period feel for the tourists, although it is a peety that period is “The Night O’ the Big Blitz”.

Though as I say I’m nae an expert; the road in Meikle Wartle wisnae sae much built as evolved slowly ower time wi’ the slow accretion of the fossilised sharny dubs of mony centuries. It saves a fortune on tar, but ye dinna walk it barfit on a warm day. Weell, nae twice onywye.

But I digress. I hiv heard great things aboot Marischal Square. Fowk fae Aiberdeen spik aboot little else. Unless they bide near Kingsford, obviously. I’m told the hotel bittie is something tae behold. Apparently even after ye close yer eyes, ye canna unsee it.  And the development itself is set tae be nae jist the city’s premier outlet fer coffee, ice cream, and local news, I overheard someb’dy say it that in a very exciting and praiseworthy move it’s also gan tae be a sanctuary for white elephants.

Cheerio!

Education round–up with Jonathan M Lewis, local headteacher



Last week was another tremendously exciting one here at Garioch Academy, as our young learners continued to lead us into tomorrow, developing skills and capabilities to an exceptionally satisfactory standard. 

One of the most rewarding parts of being entrusted with the education of our future achievers is when an external body, for example the Scottish Government, gives us the opportunity to participate in a new initiative. We relish the chance to meet the challenge of modifying all our teaching plans on an enormous scale.

Parents will be familiar with “World Book Day”, when younger pupils come to school dressed as their favourite figure from world literature. I’m sure, like me, you are annually astonished by the depth of our young people’s cultural knowledge; they never fail to choose a character who appears not only in books, but also in film or on television.

Well, last week was devoted to matters mathematical. The inaugural ‘Maths Week Scotland’ saw pupils across Garioch take part in “Maths wi nae Borders”, a nationwide competition that celebrated both mathematical thinking and our linguistic heritage. 

Of course, the usual, ill informed but vocal minority amongst the parent body have responded, unfairly, with howls of derision and complaint about the sudden imposition of vast amounts of additional maths homework, but what better way to celebrate Mathematics and make it exciting for pupils than by making them think about nothing else for a week?

Unlike my detractors, I am always ready to see the glass half full. I know that the class lucky enough to have had a qualified Maths teacher during the current staff shortage thoroughly enjoyed the competition. For those that had the benefit of an ever changing cast of talented, if not specifically qualified, cover teachers during Maths Week, they now have a superb understanding of the concept of irony.

Don’t shoot! It’s Irma and Ruby.

Professor Hector J Schlenk, Senior lecturer in the Public Engagement With Science at the Bogton Institute

As a scientist, I am often asked searching questions like “Which of these three things is the least ‘offensive’? A big red banner in support of a planning development, a huge, empty concrete and glass office structure, or Aberdeen’s front line against Hearts?” But I try to avoid such questions as I am not an expert in the areas of Town Planning or Association Football; unlike, it would appear, everyone else in the North-East with a twitter account.

Instead, this week, I have been closely following the terrifying progress of Hurricane Irma, which has now left nearly 7 million homes without power in the USA after causing untold devastation across the Caribbean. Hurricanes are naturally occurring storms that form when warm air rises over water, causing huge swirling storm clouds with the rotation of the earth. Think of it like the spin cycle of an un-balanced washing machine; the particularly noisy one that rattles the dishes two rooms away. In this analogy, the Hotpoint front loader is the planet Earth, and any buildings in the storm’s path are represented by a recently assembled Lego model of the Death Star, carelessly placed atop the machine by someone’s wife and which thanks to the violence of it’s environment, reduced once again to it’s constituent 3803 pieces.

In these contentious times, of course, debate is fierce as to whether man-made global warming is increasing the severity and frequency of such conditions. Well, perhaps ‘debate’ isn’t the right word. Given the over whelming scientific consensus, the argument most closely resembles the one between Widow Twanky and the audience of Aladdin in a very large theatre re. the wisdom of exchanging new lamps for old.

Certainly, it is true to say that a hotter atmosphere holds more moisture, as anyone who has staggered damply from the tropical bittie in the Winter Gardens will attest. With waters in the Gulf of Mexico now 1.5 degrees hotter than 10 years ago, the link to ever more powerful and deadlier hurricanes seems empirically confirmed. Sadly of course, the link to sensible thinking is not. In the wake of the USA’s decision to withdraw from the Paris climate change agreement, Americans have been taking the matter into their own hands and dealing with extreme weather in their own, unique manner. By shooting at it.

A combination of the social media event ‘Shoot at Hurricane Irma’ attracting 45 thousand people, and mischievous graphics purporting to show the ‘correct’ way to shoot bullets into a hurricane without them flying out again have lead the Florida police to the point where they felt the need to ask gun owners not to pop a cap in the weather. As if evidence of human intelligence wasn’t already scant, the police used the catchy, but scientifically implausible warning slogan “Bullets come back”.  One rather hopes that, eventually in America, common sense will too.
To distract myself from merciless nature’s uncaring ways, I have, of course, been highly excited by this week’s main scientific discovery. I speak of the Swiss boffins who have invented a brand new flavour of ‘Ruby’ chocolate. It’s the first new natural colour of chocolate in 80 years, which begs the 2 questions just how hard were they trying? And, are their any jobs going at that laboratory? This new pink delight is apparently ‘sweet, sour and fruity’. Which does sound rather like my wife, or ‘Rogue Leader’ as I now call her.

In a world of increasing international tension and extreme weather, there is much to be said for the soothing effects chocolate consumption. The link between cocoa bean flavonoids and the release of endorphins is well established, so to promote public engagement with science, and also general well being I have been attempting to synthesise my own ‘batch’ here at the Bogton Institute. Also, the real stuff won’t be on sale for months and if I’m quick I could get it flogged to Sainsbury’s first.  After a productive evening in with a large bowl of cooking chocolate and several sachets of strawberry flavour angel delight, I believe I have come up with something very close to it. I intend to take a sample of it on the bus to the Bridge of Dee, as if I cant interest the supermarkets, I think I might be able to persuade B&Q to stock it as loft insulation.

Offshore Europe, filling bus shelters with bamboozled visitors since 1973

Kevin Cash, moneysaving expert and king of the grips

Times is hard here in Aiberdeen, but if ye follow my advice, you can still manage tae stay afloat. Recently I’ve been trying my hand at the noble art o’ the independent taxi driver. Sort of like Uber, but a bittie less tied up wi’ a’ the unnecessary red tape of MOTs, insurance and driving licenses, ken? Conditions this wik hiv been ideal, thanks tae a combination of dreich weather, tons o’ road closures and the twin delights of baith Offshore Europe and Freshers Week.

First, get yer vehicle, and mak it stand oot fae the crowd. A black cab is good, but an auld ice-cream van stands oot mair. I customised my een by blacking out the picters of Noddy and Big Ears, scrawling “Kev’s Kool Kabs” on the side and installing a horn like the een fae the Dukes of Hazard. It’s also very important tae offer an inclusive service, so mak sure your taxi is wheelchair accessible. I have daen mines by making a handy ramp oot o’ a sheet of corrugated iron aff the roof o’ a garage in Gladstone place.

Next, choose yer fare. Freshers hiv potential, because they’re nae skint yet, they’ve nae idea far onything is and they’re usually plastered. But therein lies the doonside and I’m nae a fan o’ hosing boak oot o’ my footwells.

So this week I have been soley targeting bewildered visitors tae Offshore Europe. It’s nae hard tae spot those in need of transport, thanks to the tell-tale signs; the weel-pressed suit, (worn wi’ oot a tie, ‘cause they’re on a jolly) the luggage on wheels, and the look o’ total incomprehension files standing on Union Street trying to decipher the bus timetable. Weel daen tae FirstBus, by the way, for creating a public transport system far ye hiv tae ken the number, colour and noo also the name o’ the bus yer needing. I’ve bade here my hale life and I’ve got nae idea far ony o’ the buses ging onymair – so vistors hiv got nae chance! Suitably disoriented, they will be only too delighted to take refuge in yer van, especially if ye dae fit I dae and park in Back Wynd at a 90 degree angle so naen o’ the ither taxis can get past.

I ken it sounds boring, but Offshore Europe itsel’ is weel worth a visit. At the entrance, you’ll get past security if ye fashion a lanyard fae the shiny side o’ an fag packet and a Tesco’s Strawberry Lace. Once in, grab as mony freebies and goodie bags as ye can stagger oot wi’. They’ve got a’ sorts o’ swag there, ye ken. Pens, mints, that dongle thingies fit attach tae a laptop, and if, you’re lucky enough to spy een unattended, a laptop. If onyb’dy questions ye, simply respond “Ostali su otišli na zahod!” fit is Croatian for “Ab’dy else has jist nipped tae the lavvie”.

Then its time to take your precious cargo back intae toon (having left the meter running a’day, of course). But da be feel and ging straight there; these peer fowk are exhausted efter a hard day’s schmoozing, so help them tae relax by taking them by ‘scenic’ route fae the Exhibition Centre to Union Street; via Bucksburn.

Shelley Shingles, showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1985

OMG! I couldn’t believe it when I seen that Scotland has been voted the most beautiful country on the planet by the Rough Guide. I was fair chuffed until I realised it was talking about the countryside and not us lovely lassies! Still, it’s a great accolade, although, speaking as someone who has travelled the length and breadth of the country as a spokes-model for the House of Bruar, I think that we have to count ourselves lucky that whoever judged it was obviously a midgie enthusiast with a sun allergy and a fetish for waterproof clothing who went to Skye on one of the three days of the year when the Cuillins weren’t obscured by mist who’s never seen twa drunk mannies fight a seagull for a dropped fish supper on the top deck of the St Nicholas Centre.

But still, it’s true what they say – familiarity breeds contempt. I think we often forget just how bonny Scotland really is, and it’s only when you see visitors gawping aboot, eyes wide wi’ wonder, that you mind to tak in the majesty o’ wir surroundings. Aye, after you’ve sworn at them for getting in your road!

After the Great Aberdeen Run; the Great Muckle Meikle Wartle Hurple.

View from the midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It has been an active wik in the village.  Like mony folk I wis amazed tae see the great turn-oot for the Great Aiberdeen Run, in which eight thoosand feel-gypes could think of nithin better to dae on a sunny Sunday morning than knacker themsels racing o’er 13 miles that wiz maistly uphill.

Weel, I must say that we in the village were affa impressed at the commitment shown by the runners, at the organisation of the event, but maistly at the opportunities for relieving a’ the mony fowk linin’ the road of their cash.

So of course, we wasted nae time in hauding oor ain inaugural Great Muckle Meikle Wartle Hurple, jist the ither day.  Noo, we hiv hid Great Runs in the village afore, usually efter something unseemly has got into the water supply but this een wiz an athegither healthier affair. Modelling the event closely on the Aiberdeen version, Feel Moira wiz on hand tae ensure we got maximum traffic disruption. The course ran roon’ the entire village, requiring a’ roads – weel, baith roads – tae be closed aff. Selecting wir route presented it’s ain challenges, as we dinna hae 13 mile of roadway within the village itsel’ and there’s only so mony times runners can ging roon Skittery Willie’s piggery afore they get giddy, and nae jist fae the fumes. So, instead we sent competitors 13.1 miles north, crossing several dungy fields, and richt across baith the A920 and the A947, fit fairly thinned doon the field a bittie, afore feenishing up wi a thrilling final sprint through the dinning ha’ of Turriff Academy. Much to the surprise of the Dinner wifies, fa coped admirably wi’ the unexpected spike in demand for chilled water and ginger sponge wi’ custard.

Noo as a prominent member of the community fa is ayewis up for a challenge, it’ll come as nae surprise that I took pert in the race mysel. I likes a Half Marathon, (though I prefers a hale Crunchie) and I am nae a stranger tae physical exertions, as you would ken if you’d ever heard the soonds I mak fan trying tae cut my toenails. However, I’m nae a fan of the credo ‘No Pain, No Gain’ and so, tae ensure I would feel no pain at a’, I took the precaution of getting completely steaming jist afore we stairted the race. Thus inured against agony, I wiz able tae mak good if rubbery-limbed progress. Regrettably though, it seems nae in the same direction as a’bdy else. So I look forward to receiving a special medal as the ‘last finisher’ of the Great Meikle Wartle Hurple, just as soon as I get back far fariver the hell I am. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who isn’t wet behind the ears

Football has changed a lot since I hanged up my boots. Most of the changes has been good for the game, like the passback rule, TV money and the smoking ban, but sometimes you can’t not help but feel a bit neuralgic about things that the professional era has gotten rid of. Like the good old fashioned footballer’s hijink.

So step forward, Gary Mackay-Steven. Celebrating a 4-3 victory over the mighty Patrick Thistle at the weekend, GMS raised the bar for his fellow sportsmen with some world class timfoolery that seen him getting pulled out of in the river Kelvin and wind up in hospital with hypnotherapy. To be fair to the lad, he had spent most of the evening propping up the bar so it’s not much wonder he raised it!

My pal Davie, who would like to remain nameless, works at Pittodrie and he seen the whole thing. A couple of the other players comes up to him in the nightclub and says to him, they says “MacKay-Steven’s out of his depth!”, and he says to them, he says “give the lad a bit of time to gel with his new team mates”. Then they says “he took a dive!” but Davie says “well, so long as the ref doesn’t catch him”. Then they says “the fire brigade are fishing him out of the river!” at which point Davie realised something was up.

I heard that GMS got the hairdryer treatment from Derek McInnes when he got back to Pittodrie. But what does that say about the state of our National Health Service – surely they should have dried the poor lad’s hair in the hospital? Mental.

“I don’t know what to do and I’m always in the dark, I’m living in a powder keg and giving off sparks”

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

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions. Questions like; ‘Are Saudi Arabia’s decency laws compatible with a rationalist approach to human evolution? Should dancing the Macarena be banned in this country too? And if not, could we at least do something about the Slosh, please?”

But this week I have no time to ponder these earth-bound conundrums, as I have been on a whistle-stop trip to the USA to witness the most talked about phenomena of recent times.  Even on this side of the Atlantic it has been impossible to avoid the media coverage and in particular the startling images of a huge orange mass of combustible matter and life-threatening incandescent gases looking directly at the sun during the recent eclipse.

President Trump is, of course, no stranger to ignoring the accepted science in relation to matters meteorological. And in this case it is probably too much to hope that the corneal sunburn he will have suffered might serve as some kind of lesson. Certainly, the symptoms he is likely to have experienced – the feeling that he has rubbed his eyes with fine grit sandpaper – might go some way to explaining his sense of victimisation when speaking at yesterday’s rally.

I had travelled to the Land of the Free, of course, in my professional capacity, in an attempt to assist the citizens of the US to comprehend the science behind the amazing celestial event they were about to witness – the first total solar eclipse to be visible across America in a century. And I must say, I was sorely needed.

A recent survey revealed that, in America, a staggering 26% of the population do not believe that the Earth orbits the Sun. (Co-incidentally, and acknowledging that it is an important tenet of the scientific method that correlation is not causation, that is the precise percentage of the electorate who voted for the President.)

For over a quarter of the population to lack a grasp of basic science is alarming. It’s not even as bad as that in Huntly.

Allow me then, to share with you the explanation of the phenomena which I provided to our transatlantic friends: A total solar eclipse occurs when the moon passes between the sun and the earth, and the relative distances are such that the area of umbra, or shadow, exactly allows one celestial body to obscure the diameter of the other. This is only possible because, while the moon is 400 times smaller than the sun, the sun is 400 times further away, and so they appear to us to be the same size in the sky.

Interestingly, among all of the 3000 or so planets so far observed by astronomers both inside and outside our solar system, this phenomenon is unique to the Earth – prompting some theistic observers to claim it as evidence of intelligent design.

Initially, that idea may seem attractive, but it is fundamentally flawed. What intelligent designer worth the name would have arranged the Earth, Moon and Sun in these exact ratios and positions and then given the power to destroy the first to a man who is so wired to the second that he doesn’t have the sense not to stare at the third?

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports columnist who’s always Rrrrrready to Rrrrrumble.

I seen that the build up to the Mcgregor / Mayweather fight is building up nicely. This match has had it’s knockers, and a lot of citrics is saying say that boxing and other sports don’t mix. As someone who was quite happy to deck my marker with a juicy left hook whenever the ref wasn’t looking – and sometimes when he was – I am happy to stick my head above the parakeet and say that I disagree.

Some folks is saying that it’s a total mishmash, and the mixed marital aids champion Mcgregor hasn’t not got no chance against Mayweather, the unbeaten exfolliant of the noble art. But I is not so sure, he might not have much experience of the Marquee of Queensferry’s rules, but McGregor is no mug and must have fought his way out of twice as many corners as his opponent has, bearing in mind that in MMA they do their fighting in a octagon.

How to avoid day-light robbery in the night-time economy

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips
So, I see Aiberdeen has appointed its very ain “night-life economy manager”. Fit better job than promoting Aiberdeen’s distinctive night-life for someb’dy wi’ several years experience in the French hospitality and skiiing industry? She will, of course, be used tae gan ‘aff piste’, in contrast tae the majority o’ oor city center revelers, fa are maistly daeing the exact opposite.
Of course, the city is right to appoint a night-time business guru. Things is different fan the sun gings doon and the drink gings in. Foodstuffs that would have seemed inedible fan sober become irresistible – fit is why my pal Emre, fa rins a kebab shop, drives a spleet new beemer. The scaffying trade and suppliers of high strength industrial cleaners also hiv much tae thank the night time economy for, as has my pal, Mick the Pill (sound lad, honest as the day is short), fa’s unremunerative daytime newsagent becomes a gold-mine at night. And nae jist because his Mars Bars ging up tae £1.20. Fa wid hiv kent that night-time revellers wid hiv hid so much need for “plant food”? Or develop such a funny wink fan asking for it?
But of course, an experienced businesswoman helping the city’s after hours establishments tae increase their revenue could be a devastating blow for me and my fellow value-seekers, so I’d better impart a’ my ‘efter- dark’ tips and tricks afore it’s too late.
A night oot in toon is primarily aboot booze, but drinks in trendy nightspots can be expensive. Sure, there’s eyewiz happy hour tae cash in on, but that’s Highland League. To join the SPL big boys, you need tae work as a team. Yer wingman gings intae een o’ Belmont Street’s bars an sets aff the fire alarm. Meanwhile, you shin up the drain pipes by the Denburn underpass, clamber intae the terrace and scoof abdy’s unattended tipples. Fan it comes time tae mak yer escape, I’ve found that their patio umbrellas can be semi-successfully deployed as a parachute, though it’s best tae plan ahead and leave a mattress at ground level tae cushion yer landing. Dump it on the Thursday morning, it’ll lie for a fortnicht afore the scaffies collect it.
Of course, nae nicht oot wid be complete wi’oot some gentleman’s entertainment. Bridge Street plays host tae some o’ Aiberdeen’s premier venues for the appreciation o’ exotic dancing, but twa songs for £20 can mean yer enjoyment is short lived. Again – teamwork. Send in your accomplice tae request these twa tracks fae the DJ – ‘Stairway Tae Heaven’ followed by ‘American Pie’ . As soon as you hear the first twangs o’ Jimmy Page’s spidery guitar intro, hand over yer twenty notes and enjoy 15+ minutes o’ terpsichorean bliss. That’s the value.

 

Prof Hector J. Schlenk, Senior Researcher at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, people often asking me questions like? “If Big Ben can be turned off for 4 years, why can’t Parliament?” How will we know when News at Ten has started?’ and could the job be done by the animatronic clock that plays the theme from the Magic Roundabout from Outside Bruce Millers?
Fascinating questions, yes, but what I have been principally excited by this week is the news that a fruit cake belonging to Captain Scott has been unearthed, still edible, after 106 years. I am a great aficionado of Fruit Cake, so much so that it became my nickname as a child; one which has followed me into later life and has gained such currency that it is often shouted at me by complete strangers.
It is indeed comforting to note that not withstanding the effects of global warming and the recent breaking off of a significant part of the Antarctic ice-field, elderly cakes, meat, fish and some “rather nice-looking” jams have all been preserved in one of the continent’s first buildings. One particular cake is believed to have been brought over in 1910 during the Terra Nova expedition. Wrapped in paper and housed in a tin, the extreme Antarctic cold has contributed to it’s preservation, of course, but it’s remarkable resilience is also due to it being extremely dense, stodgy, and a throwback to an earlier time. Think of it, if you will, as a baked and currant-encrusted right-wing populism. Though it may look palatable enough to some – it leaves a rather unpleasant taste in the mouth.

Can you have a ‘right to be forgotten?’ Well, it seems to have worked for Barry from Eastenders.

Struan Metcalfe, MP for Turriff and East Speyside

Your tireless public servant is on his holibobs, enjoying some well deserved time away from Westminster and taking in the best of all that is Scotland in summer – the weather, the Festivals and, of course, the lingering undercurrent of seasonal disappointment.

But I like to keep up with what number 10 is planning ahead of our return to strong and stable government, and, by Gove, I was bally delighted to read that we’re considering the ‘Right to be Forgotten’ -new legislation which allows the Social-media-savvy more control over the data we post on-line.

This is completely brilliant because I have been known to get extra-pectoral on Bollinger then tweet like Trump on steroids. So the more of my internet footprint I can delete the day after the night before, the better.

My highly-qualified new researcher, Tiffany, tells me this legislation is aimed at helping young people not to ruin their whole lives by making an indelible on-line error of judgement; offering protection to, for example, teenagers who make the mistake of sending pictures of their unmentionables to their school-mates.

I just wish we’d had that when I was a Gordounstoun! I could have used a bit of protection the time I tried to use the Photography Club’s Polaroid One Step to make romantic overtures to head boy Tristam Ticklefeather in the gymnasium. It’s a tricky shot to get without a selfie–mode, and due to my contortions I fell off the vaulting horse and broke my clavicle. But it wasn’t at total wash-out. I won the school prize in photography for my still life ‘The Bruised Nectarine’.

J Fergus Lamont, arts correspondent and author of ‘Writing on the Wall – the Willie Young Story’

Aberdeen continues to be a mecca for the finest events. Glasgow may have held the tittle of European City of Culture, Edinburgh may play host to the largest celebration of the performing arts in the world and Dundee may have a branch of the V&A, but only Aberdeen can boast the Granite City Beard and Moustache Festival. How ground breaking, how inspired, to bring attention to the great artists whose facial hair was intrinsic to their work. I was very much looking forward to exploring the art of Salvador Dali, the theatre of George Bernard Shaw and the music of ZZ Top.

I myself have no beard, or moustache, or indeed much hair of any description save the few wisps atop my head, which I have been told give me the air of an octogenarian Art Garfunkel. But inclusiveness is all in the world of the arts, and so, I drew on a small, Chaplinesque moustache in felt tip, and let me tell you, my appearance attracted many wide eyed glances of admiration on the number 18 bus from Kincorth.

On arrival at Aberdeen’s fashionable Parkway Bar and Lounge, I was amazed to see upwards of 200 young people engaged in a far more hedonistic display than I had anticipated. There was quite a cacophony; so, in attempt to alert the organisers to my arrival I raised my arm aloft and shouted “Hi!” This worked well, as all eyes turned upon me and the room fell silent. Regrettably, it seems the event was oversubscribed as I was asked to leave immediately, and upon being marched to the door by one of stewards in a warm and welcoming headlock, I inadvertently got some of his beard unguent in my eyes.

I wept.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports pundit who sets his stall out early doors.

There is an famous saying that says, it says “a lightning bolt never strikes in the same place more than the one time”. I was looking forward to that theory getting disapproved on Saturday night when Usain “lightning” Bolt run in the 100m final. But he never run fast enough, and never won for the first time.

Contraverbially, the boy what won the race has a bit of a repudiation as a drugs cheat. Justin Gatlin was an unpopular winner and got a chorus of booze when he took the title.

Of course, old Kenny is no stranger to receiving a hostel welcome. Back when I was running the Brechin midfield I once got an undeserved red card against Montrose. After that, the crowd singled me out for rough treatment, I was jeered every time the ball come anywhere near me, and I don’t mind saying they made me feel like a total piranha. Needless to say, like the true professional what I am, I rised above the abuse and kept my cool for the full 90 minutes. Then, as the final whistle sounded, I coolly and calmly walked back towards the dressing room, louped the hoarding and clouted as many of the radges as I could get my hands on.

See us live at HMT in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ – 20 years of Flying Pig. June 2018

It’s all our glaikit hits!

Welcome to Meikle Wartle, the Las Vegas of West Garioch

View From The Midden – Rural affairs with Jock Alexander

It’s been an illuminating wik in the village. Wi’ summer here at last, oor community elders hiv been pitting their heids thegither tae come up wi’ wyes of increasing the tourist footfall.  Maistly this has involved altering the roadsigns on the A93 so that onyb’dy heading for Braemar finds themselves making an unavoidable detour through the village. As they invariably run oot of petrol on arrival, we are on hand tae sell them oor ain special crude oil. And it disnae come cruder than Skittery Willie’s sharn-based alternative fuel. ‘Broon diesel’ he cries it. Fit wi’ petrol being phased oot by 2040, we will be ideally placed tae cash-in, by exporting sharn-power aroon the world,  but until that happy day, we in the village hiv tae mak money in the short term, and Feel Moira seen jist the thing this wik on her twitface social media doofer.

An enterprising Aiberdeen Kebab Hoose his installed a great muckle animated LED sign. Noo I’ve niver staggered doon Aiberdeen’s fashionable Chapel Street efter a nicht oot masel, so I hinna ken fit gings in a kebab, but fitiver it is, the animated sign informs ab’dy that it’s AUTHENTIC in big fiery letters, guaranteed to catch the eye files yer driving past, and then presumably intae the back of the car in front.

The spoilsports in the city council hiv ordered the sign tae be taen doon, but luckily their jurisdiction disnae extend oot here. Such a thing is just fit we need tae get the tourists in, and Feel Moira has fashioned her own version of a great muckle LED sign, atop the village hall, proclaiming in huge glowing letters WELCOME TAE MEIKLE WARTLE – THE LAS VEGAS OF WEST GARIOCH.

Fan she switched it, fit a sicht! It could be seen for miles, thanks to the absence of light pollution fan ab’dy else’s electricity cut oot for siven mile roon.  Sadly, efter shining brightly for twa glorious minties, it exploded. But Moira has already made plans for Mark 2. This time, files we attempt tae get the power back on, she’s building it oot of timmer and then ensuring we get the maximum fiery glow effect by dousing the hale thing in broon diesel. We are confident this will result in plenty folk rushing tae the village fae miles aroon, if only in fire engines. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner – the football pundit who’s still in Europe

Arriva-dutchie! Sorry for going a bit multi-pringle there, but old Kenny has became a bit of a set-jetter lately, with all these glamorous trips to see the Dons in Europe. It’s Cyprus this week to watch the Dandies stuff Apollo Plimsole. They done the business last time and I’m confident that tonight they can rise to the occlusion.

When they done the draw and we got a team from Cyprus, I got straight in touch with my old mucker “general” Geoff Greavey, who germinated there when he retired. Geoff was the veterinary midfield enforcer at Culter when I first signed up, and it’s fair to say he taught me everything I know that I never knowed already in the first place. We started 60 matches together in the heart of that midfield, but the refereeing viennetta against us meant we only finished 6 of them with us both still on the park.

Anyway, I got in touch with Geoff to see if he had a spare bed for old Kenny for the match. He says to me, he says “yes”. So I’ve been here since Monday, sitting by the pool, soaking up the sun,and looking out on his 3 acre vineyard. It is unbelievable here. You can’t get hold of Aitken’s rolls for love nor money.  Tragic

Ron Cluny – official council spokesman.  

As spin-doctor for Aberdeen City Council, I could only watch in professional awe as self proclaimed ‘front-stabber’ Antony Scaramucci got the dunt from his job as White House Communications Officer almost before he got his coat off.  The President declared the day of Scaramucci’s departure after little more than a week of chaos “another great day in the White House”, which leaves one wondering what a bad one would look like. The Mooch’s principle skill; the expletive-filled tirade evoking obscene and physiologically unlikely images of senior colleagues, was not taught on the Scotvec in Communications that I took at Aberdeen College.  But there are some days I look around Marischal College and think it might have been quite useful.

See us live at HMT in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ – 20 years of Flying Pig. June 2018

It’s all our glaikit hits!

Terry’s Chocolate Satsuma? That’s shrinkflation!

Tanya Souter, Lifestyle Correspondent

This wik, I wiz shocked tae read a report by the Office o’National Statistics aboot ‘shrinkflation’. That is, reducing the size of a product files keeping the price the same, so the unsuapecting consumer gets less for their money.

Apparently mair than twa and a half thoosand household items has been affected by this, as a result of a deliberate strategy by manufacturers, or as they ought tae be cried fae noo on, sneaky bandits.   Noo, I dinna ken aboot youse, but I hid ayewiz suspected this was gan on, ever since I found masel smoking 40 Regal King size a day instead o’20. Back fan I wis a youngster, fags lasted langer and looked bigger. Mind you, I wis in Primary Siven. But onywye, it turns oot shrinkflation is happening a’ o’er tae a’ manner of household goods. Tubes of toothpaste, cartons of orange juice, even lavvie rolls hiv been getting smaller. Mr Andrex admitted this wiz true but claimed that although their rolls hiv gone doon fae 240 to 221 sheets, they were noo “better quality”.  Big deal, efter a chicken madras and 5 pints o’ Lambrini it’s nae the quality I’m worried aboot, ken fit I’m saying? Fan I’m 20 sheets tae the wind I shouldnae hae tae deal wi the fact that my toilet roll is an’ a’.   And then, of course, there’s chocolate.  Ab’dy kens that sweeties is nae as big as they wis fan we wis kiddies, and noo we hiv the proof!  Maltesers hiv shrunk by 15%, Toblerone is mair troughs than peaks and Terry’s Chocolate Orange is noo barely the size o’ a Satsuma.  It’s shocking. Mind you, my pal Big Sonya is delighted, as if jist the portions getting smaller, that means she’s nae been quite as much of a guts as she thocht.  And there are ither benefits too, as smaller packets could lead to reductions in obesity, prevent the need for price increases and are easier tae stuff up yer jumper fan choring them fae Morrisons.

Cosmo Ludovic Fawkes Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

So the desperate Remoaners are now complaining that Britain’s glorious departure from the EU and embrace of a trade deal with the US will open us all up to dreadful consequences, including exposure to chlorinated chicken.  When first I heard this, I said, “Well, truly they’ve taken leave of their bally senses now.  Chicken with apricots in a light curry mayonnaise has been freely available in this country for decades!”  But it transpires that that is in fact, Coronation chicken, and quite different from poultry that has been washed in chemical disinfectant to extend its shelf-life, (though not that different, given the way Mumsie made it).

There has been a great deal of talk about ‘standards’ and ‘food safety’ as apparently the do-gooders think that swapping sanitary living conditions for livestock for a for a simple, cost effective, anti-bacterial carcass bath is in some way undesirable.   Well cover me in streaky bacon and baste me periodically, but I beg to differ.  I’ll wager a bet that none of these protestors would care to swallow a mouthful of water from a swimming pool that had not been cholorinated – especially if my old classmate, Jobbie McConnachie, had been in first.  My wife assures me that we sterilised our dear son St John’s bottle in a chlorine solution every night and that did him no harm; it is the fact that my wife and I are first-cousins that left him a drooling simpleton.  So three cheers for cheap meat produced in conditions so filthy that it needs to be decontaminated before it can be eaten!  It is perfectly fit for human consumption – by plebs like you, while I feast on home-reared grouse and guinea fowl.

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, ordinary mum

Like any ordinary mum, I’m deeply concerned about how environmental issues impact on my children, so I was very interested in the Government’s announcement that no new petrol or diesel cars are going to be sold after 2040. This is an issue very close to my heart, and I drive many thousands of miles a year to I can lend my support to campaigns against unnecessary car journeys. I invariably take Snezhana, the au pair, along with me (she’s Bulgarian – but she’s marvellous, and a dab hand with a megaphone). Banners and placards are good, but I find nothing makes the statement quite like hearing the words ‘Get Out Of The Car “ blaring out of a blacked out Discovery in an Eastern European accent.

A wifie Dr Who? It’s about time!

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

As a scientist, I am often asked important questions like ‘What is that strange orange orb in the sky? Why am I so hot? and When will this painful red colour vanish?’ but this week I have been mostly concerned by the cross-over between Sci-fi and the real world. Readers will be astonished to learn that I am a colossal Star Trek fan, and give pride of place in the lab to a photo of me in full Klingon regalia laughing with Casualty staff during my trip to Foresterhill last Halloween when the Cornish Pasty I had glued to my forehead wouldn’t come off. So I was of course highly excited by the news that, for the first time ever, a group of Chinese scientists have managed to teleport something into space; a real world example of the famous ‘transporter’. That something was a photon, the elementary particle of visible light and the carrier of electromagnetic radiation. Something which has absolutely no mass, weight or electric charge – think of it as the quantum equivalent of ‘Love Island’.
Elsewhere in the world of Science Fiction there was uproar over the news that Doctor Who was to become a lady. Like many, I’m convinced that a male Time-lord can’t become a female one, despite the fact that the Doctor is a fictional alien with two hearts, a respiratory bypass system and regenerative capabilities. However, such a gender transformation is not unheard of in nature. Interestingly, the clownfish is a species in which a change of sex from male to female is a normal biological process, (a fact which makes me both marvel at the wonders of zoology and very much look forward to the future Finding Nemo sequel when his Dad turns into his Mum). However, for highly developed complex organisms, like humanoids, such a process is quite categorically scientifically impossible.
Right, must dash – I’ve got tickets for the Ladyboys of Bangkok.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s away goals count double

Come on you reds! The Dandies is playing their Euro away leg against Sikorsky Birds-Egg tonight, hoping that conceding last week’s cruciate away goal hasn’t not left their selves too much to do in Bosnia and Herzegovina (though I still cant get my head around how the Dons can be at the kick off at both them places at once. Mental). Last week I was thinking about making the trip to cheer them on, so I tried googling ‘Bosnia Herzigova’ to find out about flights. What come up was a load of pictures of a blonde lassie called Eva. I think she must run the club shop. The lovely Melody wasn’t best pleased, even though I swored blind it was completely insolent. It was just like the time I was making pancakes but couldn’t remember the right name for Maple Syrup and ended up googling ‘Sweet American Honey’.

It’s great to see former Don Kari Arnason returning to Pittodrie for a second spell at the club. The only tip I’ve got for Kari is to remember what strip he now plays in. Back when I was playing I re-signed for Locos after a spell at Rothes, who play in orange and black. My first game back was a friendly against Dundee United and my first touch was a square ball to someone in the familiar tangerine. Except Locos play in red and black and I’d just gifted the Terrors their opener. You can imagine my embezzlement! But 10 minutes later I done it again when I absolutely halfed our winger. Ever since the first mistake he had been looking at me funny, so he had it coming.

Doddie Esslemont, Radical Independence campaigner

As the world’s most prominent – and indeed only – campaigner for the recognition of 39G Seaton Drive, Aberdeen as a sovereign state, I know just how tiring and isolating fighting for independence can be. I was therefore delighted to hear that Jenny Gilruth, the SNP MSP for Mid Fife and Glenrothes, has found love with the leader of the Scottish Labour Party. There is much to find encouraging about in this relationship. It may bring some much-needed civility back to Scottish politics, or perhaps add a frisson of domestic disagreement to parliamentary proceedings. I am looking forward to hearing the question, “How can the people of Scotland be expected to trust the honourable member on matters of health and education when she cant even bee relied upon to unload the dishwasher and put the bins out?”