Bellahouston, we have a problem

J. Fergus Lamont, Arts and Theatre Critic and author of ‘Chordless Wonder – The Guitar Wifie Story’

We continue to live in halcyon days for art. Last week, as I read a review of this very special event, I was sad indeed not to be amongst the lucky attendees of the Glasgow art installation staged by the popular beat combo ‘Green Day’ who advertised, and then cancelled, a concert.  At the appointed hour in Bellahouston Park, all was silence, all was darkness, the gates of the venue remained locked. This was, of course, a powerful metaphor for the barren artistic wasteland of modern music, and is quite the most thought provoking work that this particular band have undertaken.

Having missed this magnificent non-event, I resolved to stage my own in Aberdeen.  So, as the ‘Opera InThe Park’ performance of Verdi’s La Traviata commenced in Aberdeen’s Duthie Park, I spread out my travelling rug in Seaton Park, cracked open a bottle of Prosecco, and allowed the complete absence of music to wash over me.  By the time I imagined Act Three to be underway, I was three bottles down and on my feet, crying “Bravo” at some particularly intricate passages of silence.  It ended not with the death of the heroine, but with two junkies stealing my picnic basket and shoving me into a hedge. The gritty realism of contemporary art!

This week also saw the remarkable ‘vlog’ of one ‘Korean Billy’ and his guide to the demotic local Doric dialect. This stunning work has been quite the hit on social media in the last few days and has caused a mass outbreak of people shouting ‘Your breeks are fine’ to each other in slightly stilted accents. In response, I quickly recorded my own video in reply to Mr. Billy, thanking him for his efforts.  In order to properly do this, of course, I spoke only in the Hangul dialect of South Korea. I will concede, however, that my dialect may not have been 100% authentic, as ‘Korean Billy’ has since sent me a rather peeved reply, asking why I had told him to go stick his head in a fridge.

I wept.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Local politics having shut down for the Trades, I have been allowing myself the pleasure of following events in the USA.  With the release of emails detailing his Russian connections, Donald Trump Junior has proven himself to be something of a chip off the old blockhead.  Trump junior’s cover story has unravelled as quickly as a Primark jumper snagged on a bramble bush.  Previously it had been claimed that he had not met with any Russian representatives; then that he had, but not in a campaigning capacity; then that, OK, he had, but only to discuss a humanitarian scheme allowing Russian orphans to come and eat apple pie in the Good Old US of A.  Now the emails show the truth: he did meet Russians, in the hope that they would support his Dad by putting the boot into Hillary Clinton.  Still, he has decided to tough it out by claiming that he has done nothing wrong, a tactic strangely reminiscent of one used by my old classmate Big Hayzer after he was caught smoking behind the bike sheds.  Instead of accepting his punishment, Big Hayzer stuffed a lit fag into his trouser pocket and strenuously denied ever having smoked a cigarette in his life.  So convincing was he that the headmaster – and later the paramedics and firemen – all agreed that they might have believed  him, had his pants not actually caught fire.

Even in the modern political age, where the relationship between politicians and the truth is about as stable as a coupling on Love Island, Trump Junior’s behaviour represents a real low and demands serious sanction.  Surely there is only one punishment appropriate for someone who is so cluelessly and shamelessly willing to try to lie his way out of trouble.  He must come to Britain, and head up our Brexit negotiations.

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

Like most ordinary mums, I dread facing an ethical conundrum.  Like when I discovered Emmeline was lactose-intolerant, almost immediately after buying a state of the art milk expressing pump.  Well I couldn’t return it and I hate waste.  Hence the invention of my legendary breast milk panna cottas that have enlivened my dinner parties ever after!  But when Milo flew in from the Cayman Islands for a long weekend, I hadn’t realised that my moral compass would be so disoriented.

Milo’s business contacts offer him freebies all the time. Whilst I am opposed to bribery and inducements of any kind, I do think it’s only right that my husband’s efforts are rewarded beyond his paltry 7-figure tax-exempt salary. So when he arrived home with 2 tickets to see Radiohead at the TRNSMT festival in Glasgow, I felt it only right I should go with him.

Imagine my horror when I found some of my fellow Amnesty International members staging a protest outside! You see, Radiohead had gone and played a gig in Israel, which is considered as tacit approval of atrocities against Palestinians by my comrades. I was at a loss. Do I ditch my husband to join my activist sisters? Or do I enjoy corporate hospitality and my fave band? I shan’t confess which option I chose, but the canapes were to die for!

There’s no Magic Money Tree. Unless you plant your Magic Money Seeds in some Magic Money Mineer. 

View from the midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

Weel it’s been a fiscally-challenged wik in the village; mony hours in the pub hiv been spent debating the hot topic of the public sector pay cap. Skittery Wullie wiz arguing that, as a mannie wi’ a baldie heid fit feels the caul in winter and gets burnt in summer, he thocht it wiz a very good idea. So we explained that it wizna an actual bunnet, gied oot free tae nurses, bobbies and the like but that some MPs are happy tae keep fire-fighters and teachers pay rises at 1%. (Indeed, their happy, cheering weel-fed faces were a’ over the news), files in real terms, wages for these vital jobs hiv fallen in the last siven years. In fairness, some agreed wi’ 50 year auld multi-millionaire retiree David Cameron that  folk in the public sector winting ony mair are ‘selfish’.

Mention of auld potted-heid face provoked strong feelings. Skittery Wullie in particular is nae a fan- he winna tell us fit wye, but I think it’s something tae dae wi’ his pigs.  Onywye, the general consensus wiz that it’s a double standard, fan nurses fit use food banks are being telt there isnae a ‘Magic Money Tree’, but then a billion quid appears for a massive bung tae keep the Government in power.

Oor revolutionary fervour rose in tandem wi’ inebriation levels, oor determination tae bring doon the ruling classes increasing alongside oor being ower foo tae dae anything aboot it. Then Feel Moira casually mentioned that she hid seen a Magic Money Tree growing oot beyond the village and the pub emptied as ab’dy staggered aff tae find it. I myself stayed behind wi’ ma sciatica and my pint, which is why I am able tae report that the rest of them wiz huckled by the bobbies trying tae tunnel intae Inverurie Garden Centre.  The policemen fa lifted them wiz heard tae mutter something aboot nae being peyed enough tae deal wi’ this kind of thing.  Which jist aboot says it a’. Cheerio!

Jonathan M Lewis-Local head teacher

The stereotype of we educators is that during the holidays we live the Life of Riley. Yet here I am, working away, in an attempt to dispel some malicious rumours about the Garioch Academy end-of-term staff do.

Mr Gibb’s retirement was a sad day for us all. Losing a teacher of such experience and calibre is always difficult, and it is only right that staff marked the end of his career with a meal and drinks at Thainstone House. Mr Gibb’s speech was both heartfelt and hysterically funny, but sadly, an element of his oration has been taken out of context and turned into a social media ‘meme’ comprising a list of pupils’ names, and an audio recording of Mr Gibb explaining that these were the “10 Worst Little Bams” he’d ever taught.

The remark was, of course, in jest. Those on the list were, in fact, Mr Gibb’s favourite pupils, and I am exasperated and disappointed that anyone would suggest otherwise. Who could forget the special bond forged between Mr Gibb and Dean Yeats, Andrew Thouless and Connor Graham after the three of them keyed his car and let down his tyres? As demonstrated in last year’s Staff v Pupils football match, when Mr Gibb treated the lads as equals in each and every bone-crunching tackle.

True, all the other pupils on the list were regularly suspended, and now boast impressive criminal records – but sometimes it’s the most challenging pupils that teachers find the most rewarding to teach. Especially for Mr Gibb, who was so rewarded when he recognised their faces on Crimewatch and turned them in to the police that he was able to take early retirement.
‘Cava’ Kenny Cordiner; the sports pundit who has definitely paid all his tax.

It’s been a shocker of a week for The Rangers. Not only did they lose their court case against HSBC, they also got punted out of Europe early doors by part-timers from Radio Luxembourg. The dons have their European tie next week, so I hope they don’t have to wear their new away strip. Call me old fashioned, but the Dons should not be wearing blue. Blue is The Rangers’ colour, so for the Dandies to be wearing it is sanctimonious.

I’ve been watching the egg chasing from down-upper and can’t wait for the last match against the Black Jacks on Saturday. The second test was a thriller with the Lions coming from behind to win. The Kiwi Fruits was a man down though, after one of their lads got his jotters for smashing into one of the Lions. I know how he must have feeled, because I’ve seen more than my fair share of red cards myself, and no-one never wants to leave his team in the larch like that. It was worse for me, though, because when the rugby boy went off his team still had 14 players on the pitch, whereas I left mines with only 10.

‘Rise like Lions after slumber, in unvanquishable number’. Not bad, but it’s no ‘Up Town Funk’.

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, ordinary mum

Please, somebody pinch me. I fear I’m actually enduring a living nightmare. Theresa May-Not-Be-PM-Much-Longer clings to power by forging an unholy alliance with the DUP. And so the dismantling of our society by creeping privatisation and the forces of globalisation is allowed to continue unabated. I am appalled by this, although I will admit that until this week I thought DUP were the people who delivered parcels for Amazon (I much prefer to shop locally, of course; we must all do our best to sustain nearby business, but it’s just so convenient, isn’t it?).

This DUP deal is despicable, even for the Conservatives, giving, as it does, a place at the table to the radical right. The DUP positions on the environment, reproductive rights and gay marriage are so regressive that Green Party leader Caroline Lucas branded them ‘dinosaurs’ which they hated. Because they don’t believe dinosaurs existed.

Worse still, we actually have to pay them for the privilege. They’re going to get a billion pounds of taxpayers’ money for Northern Ireland. At least now I know what the words “NI contributions” mean on Snezhana’s payslips! (She’s our au pair. She’s Bulgarian, but she’s marvellous. In fact she’s such a treasure, I’m going to have her registered so I can keep her after Brexit).

Someone else who got a massive windfall this week was HRH Queen Elizabeth, who is going to receive an 8% pay rise. Now, as all my friends and comrades in the ‘Kingswells Mums for Social Justice’ Facebook group (we’re anti-austerity, pro-prosecco) will know, I am no monarchist. To me the royal family symbolically perpetuate a medieval hegemony, which oppresses the many for the benefit of an undeserving elite, and I can never find any of Kate Middleton‘s gorge outfits in my size. So naturally, my initial response to the news that Liz is getting an extra £6 million, to pay for essential repairs to Buckingham palace was horror – what a massive waste of our precious resources. But on the other hand, we’ve just had some roofing work done on the stables and – let’s face it- specially imported premium Spanish roof slate doesn’t come cheap. But I was most taken by Her Majesty choosing to deliver the Queen’s Speech dressed as the flag of the European Union. That’ll teach them not to make her miss the first day of Ascot!

The only light on the horizon was seeing the reception Jeremy Corbyn received at Glastonbury at the weekend. The crowd went crazy. It was heartening to see the generations come together to listen to the words of a bearded man on the wrong side of 60. Though I must say, I never new he had such a good singing voice. His rendition of ‘Staying Alive’ was something else.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander

Weel, it’s been a sanitational wik in the village. I wiz reading that ‘optimism is growing’ in Aiberdeen, as the city’s Union Street is getting some specialist ‘deep cleaning’ tae remove the foliage noo growing oot of its mony neglected lums. Michty, fan you’re reeling fae the financially disastrous effects of an oil and gas downturn, it disnae tak ower muckle tae mak you feel better, dis it?

I’ve aye wiz thought it seeing betties of greenery sticking out a’wye gave Union Street a nice, green, foresty kind of a look; and had assumed it wis pairt of the city’s relentless campaign tae be crowned Britain In Bloom Ultimate Chumpions for Life. Of course, fowk here have decided that a deep clean of Meikle Wartle is also lang overdue. Indeed, even a shallow clean wid be fine. The village square is aboot twa meters higher above sea level than the Ordnance Survey boys ken aboot, thanks tae the longstanding build up of fossilized sharn. Aye, there’s been a pucklie decades of fowk tramping aff the fields wi’ it still clinging tae their beets, and so it has built up a bittie.

Ab’dy in the village agrees that the best wye tae boost wir ecomony is tae attract vees’tors, and that the wye tae dae that is to nae hae a village square fit is several feet deep in mineer. But it’s gan tae tak mair than a scoosh of het watter fae a special wand tae deal wi’ it, and so Moira his been rooting aboot in her shed for her flamethrower.  I’m nae sure that warming it up is the best plan; yes, it will be easier tae shift, but I’m nae convinced that we’ll get mony vees’tors efterwards. Cheerio!

‘Ken ‘is? Some nights there’s jist nithin’ on the Telly.’

J. Fergus Lamont – arts critic and author of ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil – Beechgrove Gothic’

The received wisdom is that we are currently enjoying a ‘Golden Age’ of television wherein the artistic merits of productions for the small screen are reaching previously unattained heights. I myself have never been persuaded that the form is worthy of much attention, and although I own a ‘set’, its cathode ray tubes have scarcely been called upon since the dystopian masterpiece ‘Triangle’ was on air. Nevertheless, this week I took the plunge into the realm of shirtless 19th century miner owners, heavily fictionalised monarchs and grumpy Scottish time travellers. However, it was on Tuesday that I discovered that the rumours are true – we are indeed in a televisual Golden Age, and the idiot box in the corner can still produce stunning work when one knows where to look!

I sat agog in my living room as the BBC News at 10 presented me with an audacious televisual treat. Huw Edwards looked stern but remained mute amidst random picture montages and no less than 11 swift, stuttering appearances of the ‘Breaking News’ logo, as seconds turned to minutes and nothing happened, I realised that this was a daring a live performance of John Cage’s seminal work 4’ 33’, at the climax of which Edwards wished us all a ‘good evening’ – a stunning moment of deconstructionist TV the likes of which we have not seen since Dennis Potter naughtily plied his trade back in the 1980s. The whole production was a powerful commentary on the unpleasant reality of today’s news; whereby to be silent is the only sane response. I applauded hugely and attempted to contact the BBC to offer my congratulations, but apparently there was a technical hitch and I couldn’t get through.

No matter! I simply switched channels and found myself enjoying another stunning piece of TV. Entitled ‘Love Island’, this was a superbly bleak post-apocalyptic drama where the only humans left on a deserted island paradise must work out which coupling of these dregs of the gene pool might best continue the species. If I have a criticism its that the dialogue was so banal and the characters so 2 dimensional that they couldn’t be truly convincing, but that minor niggle apart, a triumph!

By now it was well after midnight, but still the treasure trove of multichannel TV kept on delivering – an eternally-open shop floor offering incredible value consumer goods to those viewer who interacted with the weirdly hypnotic hosts. Gamely ,I entered into the spirit and rung in.

Several hours later, I found myself utterly spent, and inexplicably the owner of a hurricane spin power scrubber and several sets of ladies’ Brazil Knit Wellness trousers, with pockets.

I wept.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who goes in hard

In Derek we trust! The Dandies got a boost last week when gaffer Derek McInnes sailed his colours to the mast by turning down Sunderland’s overtones. I was worried that Degsy would be on his way South to the North East sending the Dons’ chances West, but he is here to stay and the Red Army will be well chuffed with that turnip for the books.

McInnes’s loyalty is a rare thing in the doggy-dog world of football. Back when I was playing no-one never turned down no big-money moves and I’ll admit that even old Kenny had his forehead turned.

When I was released by the Dons and wound up at Brechin City my agent (my Da’) got a phone call from Dundee United chicken-supremo Jim McLean. Big Jim says to my Da’, he says “I’m wanting Kenny to sign for us so he can provide a bit of steel in midfield”. But my Da’ says to Jim, he says “Kenny canna dae that, he jist gings roon halfin folk.” It turns out that that was exactly what Big Jim was meaning, so he made me an offer I could not defuse. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have played for him, but driving the Jag to Brechin every day for training had made my petrol bill astrological enough as it was, so I did defuse it after all.

Degsy McInnes found out the possible identity of the Dons’ first opponents this season. We’ll either be sticking Ordabasy of Kazakhstan or Bosnian outfit Siroki Brijeg. I mind when the biggest question about the European draw was “How do we play them?” Now the biggest question is “How do we say them?” Mental.

As strong and stable as a new-born calfie in a sharny field.

View From the Midden with Jock Alexander

Weel it’s been a democratic wik in the village, specifically last Thursday nicht, during which we watched agog as cast-iron certainties of life were overturned and the natural order reverted tae the 70s. At’s richt, Skittery Wullie stood his hand in the pub. Incredible. But then oor attention strayed tae the TV abeen the bar chunterin’ on and on aboot the Election. We dinna usually involve wirsels much wi’ matters political, aside fae throwin’ things at the screen fan Michael Gove comes on, but we watched amazed as events unfolded, and Theresa May’s grip on the nation turned oot tae be as strong and stable as a new-born calfie in a sharny field.

Of course, the spectacle of a soor-faced bissom refusing tae admit defeat is nithin’ new tae us. Feel Moira is still in cherge of the local W.R.I., though efter a motion of nae confidence in her bannocks, Moira is only clinging tae power wi’ the support of yon swivelly-eyed wifie fae Tocher fa disna believe in eggs.

Though mony of us felt it served Mrs May richt efter her cavalier admission that as a youth she engaged in crop destruction. Nae a laughing metter in the village. She widnae get awa wi’ running through wheat fields here. Maistly because Wullie has his crops strewn wi mantraps. It’s an affa trachle come the hairst, but he winna be telt. Cheerio!

Struan Metcalfe, newly elected MP for Turriff and East Speyside (Whoop!)

Dear reader, it won’t have escaped your attention that there has been a significant and possibly welcome hiatus in my endless litany of gaffes, blunders and sincere apologies. In truth, I have been behaving myself impeccably, having been unanimously selected to contest the SNP stronghold of Turiff & East Speyside by the local party faithful, and with the Chairman’s fulsome endorsement ringing in my ears; ‘You’re a tattie, Mr Metcalf, but beggar’s canna be choosers’; I have been on the campaign trail, and on best behaviour.

TBH, I thought I had about as much chance of scoring as a toonser at a Cuminestown Young Farmers’ shindig, but when I came to after Thursday night’s somewhat lubricated count, it was to discover that I’m now an M.P.! As, I am told, I said in my acceptance speech, ‘Cripes!’. That result exceeded my wildest dreams, and trust me, I have had some wild, wild dreams. Particularly that one about Amber Rudd I had after I drank the worm from a bottle of Tequila in The Saltoun Inn.

Now there are a lot of reasons for my triumph, not just the fact I ‘anonymously’ deposited a bottle of Krug at the end of every farm lane between Barthol Chapel and Fochabers. I was assisted by the threat from Wee Nicola Krankie of IndyRef2, an SNP incumbent who was seen in the constituency about as often as Halley’s Comet and Labour putting up an like Ed Sheeran look-a-like fresh out of Mintlaw Academy.
So, here’s to the next 5 years. Or next 5 months. Who knows? Not I. But at this crucial time for our nation, we need certainty. And I pledge to devote myself to representing my constituents in what I know with certainty will be the very finest hostelries, eateries and places of grown-up entertainment London has to offer. Wahey!

Davinia Smythe-Barratt, Ordinary Mum

I give up. Just when the Labour renaissance in England gives us the chance to oust the ghastly Tories at last, my fellow Scots have gone blue. 13 Scottish Tory MPs? It’s harder to stomach than my chum Cressida’s pumpkin, chia and flax seed granola.

So what next? Well, some of my fellow activists in our social justice collective (It’s mostly a Face Book group, but we sometimes meet for cocktails. Great fun!) are salivating at the prospect of Mother Theresa getting the heave-ho, but Tory PMs are like weeds – remove one and another grows in its place. Unless you spray them with chemicals (which our legal team has advised us against. Spineless). But not me, I’m not prepared to sit around and wait while the Tory-DUP coalition of chaos, fund oppressive regimes, undermine our education system and remove essential worker’s rights.

So I’m going to join Milo in Saudi, (he’s now permanently resident there, for tax reasons) Fidel will go to boarding school and Emmeline is going to have a gap year in Switzerland making artisan goat’s cheese at a mountain retreat. Of course, the upshot of this is that our au pair, Snezanha, (she’s Bulgarian, but she’s marvellous) will lose both her job and her home. Another tragic victim of this heartless government.

We’ll be back at Hs Majesty’s Theatre, Aberdeen, for a stott doon memory lane in a show packed full of our best sketches in June 2018! Noo, fit’ll we cry it?

If you’ve got a good idea for a title to follow ‘Desperate Fishwives’, ‘How To Look Good Glaikit’ and ‘Dreich Encounter’, don’t post it here, send it to: jiggerypokery@flyingpigproductions.co.uk

There’s a pair of first night tickets, plus a pre-theatre dinner for two in HMT’s excellent 1906 restaurant, for whoever comes up with an idea we use. But be quick; entries close on Friday 16th June.

We’ll announce the title next month. Good luck!

Trumper’s Rule: If you cant say something nice, tweet Sadiq Khan.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

Truly, I am fed up with people who say that Aberdeen City Council has become a laughing stock since Labour ejected the members who chose to form a coalition with the Tories and the Lib Dems. I say this because it is a distraction from the great front-line work that is being done by our hard-working Council officials; because it fails to take account of the nuances of the local political scene; but mainly, because when people point out the obvious truth, my job becomes much more difficult.

Or so I used to think, until I started to scrutinise the methods of other regimes with maverick leaders, like North Korea, Russia, and the USA. I have to say it was something of a revelation. When you are willing to leave considerations of truth and decency outside in the rain, how much easier life becomes. President Trump, in particular, continues to be an inspiration. Without his tutelage, I would never have thought to deflect attention away from my beleaguered administration by mounting ludicrous attacks upon the mayor of a friendly city that has just suffered from a tragedy. So to those of you who say that Aberdeen deserves better, I say this: Andy Burnham eats dolphins for breakfast, and Sadiq Khan is a werewolf.

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

As a scientist, I am continually asked important questions like “Does the discovery of a planet with a surface temperature of 4,000 degrees prove Global Warming exists?” “Can we send Katie Hopkins there?” and “Can we go there for a heat too, it’s supposed to be flaming June?” However, my main concern of late has been the sorry state of British Airways, as I was one of many to have been affected by the recent catastrophic power outage which caused chaos for 75,000 air travellers. I wasn’t on a plane myself, but I was in the Aberdeen Airport car park, offering stranded passengers reduced fare passage on my own patented ‘flying car’. However, I was chased away by a consortium of angry cab drivers and airport staff who claimed I hadn’t paid the drop-off fee and that simply tying lots of helium balloons to my D-reg Datsun Cherry was not a method approved by the British Aviation Authority. Confounded red tape, stifling British scientific invention again! It’s almost as bad as the time they stopped me from creating the self-peeling vegetable by sewing razor blades into a tattie.

So with my vehicle now impounded, I have ended up, like so many others, a blameless victim of the BA affair. I read unconfirmed reports that the BA system had crashed because someone had switched the plug off by mistake. This seems all too plausible. Too often the view underneath my own computer desk is a mass of tangled wires, and it is no wonder that sometimes the wrong one is yanked out midway through very important activity. Why, only last week, my wife accidentally unplugged the Sky box during the Britain’s Got Talent final. Imagine my horror – when she was able to locate the correct one and plug it back in straight away.

Plugs and wires can be a source of great trouble in our modern electronic society, and we must never underestimate the chaos that can ensue. I have therefore taken steps to upgrade my home and solve the problem of multiple wires and sockets. I have clearly labelled every mains lead in the house with a yellow post-it note and have solved the problem of the wrong plug being pulled out by ensuring that every single cable goes to the same socket – 30 wires, one plug. What could be simpler? I shall be contacting British Airways to offer them first dibs on this foolproof upgrade, just as soon as I’ve got my car back, and once I locate the source of the faint burning smell in my house.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports pundit who puts the boot in

This weekend sees Gordon Strachan’s Scotland team take on the Auld Enema at Hampden. The lovely Melody turned around the other day and asked me, “Kenny, is there a gulf in class?” I turns around to her and I says, “Darlin’, I don’t know about that, but they is definitely better than what we is.” I don’t mean to be unpancreatic, but I is worried we might get a right doing. Like the one Real Madrid gave Juventus in last week’s Champion’s league final.

That was the first match what I’ve ever watched on YouTube. Before then, “YouTube” was just something fans used to shout at me after I trod on the ball and let the other side’s forward through on goal. But now it’s a thing on the interweb, and I think I could get into it. It was hard to get used to the smaller screen, but it was handy to have the bookie’s website open at the same time. Real looked irresponsible as they swept aside their Italianate opponents 4-1. I think 3-2 would have been a fairer result – especially since I had twenty notes on it.

In a political pickle? Try some jam!

Barney Eunson, Official Labour Party Spokesman

They say that politics is a marathon not a sprint and as we head into the final week of campaigning I am beginning to wonder if they may be right.  Theresa May, the front-runner for so long, is slipping backwards in the polls, the public having finally realised that endlessly repeating the phrase “strong and stable” like a demented Furby does not, in fact, constitute leadership.  Meanwhile, Jeremy Corbyn – dear old stubborn Jeremy – has combed the lentil-loaf crumbs out of his beard, rolled up the sleeves of his geography teacher’s shirt, and is finishing the stronger of the two.

How strange is the life of the political strategist.  There I was, trying to persuade him that he needed to get out on the stump and persuade the nation with plausible, fully-costed policies.  It turns out that all he had to do was turn up on the One Show with a pot of home-made jam.  Needless to say, party HQ is currently awash with berries, sugar and pectin.  Never mind election literature: we are going to hit every key marginal constituency with a consignment of Jezza’s Bramble jeelly.

I have to say, I’ve not felt this confident about Labour’s chances since I cracked John McDonnell over the head with a copy of Das Kapital and locked him in Jeremy’s potting shed.  Now , if only I can get Diane Abbot to work a calculator. Or go on holiday for a fortnight.

View From The Midden – rural news with Jock Alexander

It’s been an analogue wik in the village. I wiz affa excited tae read aboot bent-nosed brainbox Stephen Fry’s his recent appearance at the Hay festival. Imagine my excitement at hearing aboot that. I niver even kent there wis sic a thing as a Hay Festival. Ye can keep yer Glastonbury and yer T in the Park, that wid be the wikend of hedonism for me! Though I couldnae see mony bails in evidence in the photies. Nae doot they were stacked up ahind a’ the books.

But onywye, big Stephen wiz hudding forth at considerable length aboot the dangers o’ oor reliance on digital systems and how a cataclysmic cyber-attack could bring on a “digital winter for humankind”

Weel, Stephen ma loon, spik for yersel. I hiv in the past extolled the virtues of living as we do in a rural idyll, or ‘ black-spot’, as we like tae cry it; far Satnavs fear tae tread, TV cannot reach and a’ mobile technology proudly displays the phrase “no signal”. Elon Musk wid hiv an affa job gettin’ his automatic self-driving car through the village, I can tell ye.  Twa minties amongst the twisty-twosty lanes o’ MeikleWartle wid hae him begging for a push-bike.

So I am nae gaan tae get o’er worried aboot these dire predictions o’ a cyber apocalypse, I doot here in the village we’d notice the difference. We dinna hae online trolls, chatrooms, and live streaming. We’re happy wi’ Skittery Willie, Auld Jessie’s tearoom and paddling in the burn o’ wartle. Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who presses high up the park.

Old Kenny has just about recovered from the heartbreak hotel of Saturday’s Cup final defeat.  For Aberdeen this whole season was a case of “always the teasmade, never the bride”.  The gaffer Degsy McInnes says, he says, “there’s no shame in finishing second to Celtic”.  He might be right, but judging by the sombrero atmosphere at full time at Hampden, there’s not much pleasure in it neither.

Since we lost the final, the vultures is circling round Pittodrie ready to snap up our precious commodes. Jack, McGinn, Taylor and Pawlett are all heading off and now Sunderland look like they is wanting to tap up Deek as their new gaffer.  I don’t know if I the fans could cope with McInnes leaving too, after all the emotional topsoil they’ve been through.

Anyway, now that the football season is finished I get to keep my ear to the ground by getting my nose into some other sports.  And the first one that caught my eye was golf, when I seen that Tiger Woods had been accused of driving under the confluence.  Now, Old Kenny is no expert, but even I know that trying to drive after a few drinks is a canapè for disaster.  I mind one Locos outing at Kemnay golf club, when Dunter Duncan got torn in at the bar after the morning round.  When we went back out in the afternoon, the boy couldn’t even putt, let alone drive!

It’s not everyday you see the Cooncil get a right good Kirking.

Tanya Souter, lifestyle correspondent

I da ken aboot yous, but I’m sick tae the back teeth wi’ folk fa dae wir city doon. I hear folk moaning that nithin iver happens here, that it’s shabby and rife wi’ criminality. But like I wiz saying tae my pal Big Sonya as we smuggled a load of fags and vodka oot o’ Morrisons, that’s nae fair, is it? Aiberdeen his grand events too, the problem is persuading folk tae get involved. We hid NuArt, the street art graffiti festival, fit allowed me tae skite stuff up on wa’s aboot my ex-boyfriend Jason’s new quine wi’oot gettin’ lifted. We’ve hid that Spectra festival thing wi the funcy coloured lichts in St Nicholas kirkyard that made me think I wis aff my face fan I wiznae, (hear me, I fair thocht some’dy hid spiked my Malibu in Ma Camerons) and jist last wikend we had a’ the pomp and ceremony of Aiberdeen’s ‘Kirking of the Cooncil’ doon Union Street.

It’s a ceremony fit dates back hunners of years the new cooncillors parade doon the middle o’ Union Street tae the Mither Kirk tae officially begin the new Cooncil Session. I did wonder fit wye they didnae jist walk on the pavement. Then I minded fit a hassle it is tae dodge past the bus queues, pushchairs and charity muggers, so fair play tae them. Noo, I dinna ken fit it wiz a’ aboot, but it wiz affa impressive tae watch. I wiz maist impressed by the devotion tae duty of wir ex-Labour cooncillors who, despite being kicked oot of their pairty, had still managed tae cheer up lang enough tae raid the Toon Hoose funcy dress box.   The last time I seen velvet robes, tricorn hats and furry shoulders like that I wis watching ‘Wolf Hall’ on the telly. And I hid nae idea fit a’ that wis aboot either. Fit made it really special this time wis the public protests, fit hiv niver happened afore. So say fit ye like aboot the new council, at least they’re encouraging folk tae get involved!

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz Correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1994

OM actual G.  As if we weren’t all heartbroken enough this week, Roger Moore goes and passes away.  I was totes emosh when I heard.  I know he’s not most peoples’ favourite Bond, but for me, he was definitely in the top five, just behind Paddington creator Michael, ex-BBC royal Correspondent Jennie and Russ Abbott’s Basildon. And, of course, he was an absolute gentleman.  I met him once at a big charity dinner he was hosting in London.  Now before you start, I know what you’re going to say!  “Shelley!”  You’re thinking, “I knew you were a big wheel in the local celebrity scene, with the annual gig of lead the winning bull round the Turriff show ring and a’thing, but I never knew you’d made it to London!”  Well yes, as a younger (but not that much younger!) lady I went down to try my luck in the big smoke and attended all the glitzy parties – thanks to my contacts, my agent and getting a job as a function waitress at the Waldorf Hotel. It was files I was passing Roger with a tray of a goats’ cheese croutons that I got speaking to him.  I says, “It’s really good of you to host this big event for kids, but why is it being sponsored by a big glue company?”

He smiled, raised a signature eyebrow and said, “It’s not Unibond, my dear. It’s UNICEF. But do stick around so you can learn about the support they provide to children all over the world.”

Wise words from a true gent.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who lets you know he’s there

It’s always sad when a player what has been a loyal servant to a club moves on to pasteurise new.  Chelsea fans bid farewell to their idle John Terry at Stamford Bridge on Sunday, and even the tough-tackling, no-nonsense JT was choked with emulsion when he got subbed off on 26 minutes with a garden of honour.

It’s so sad that this hand-warming jester has come under fire from certain people in the medium.  They is saying that it is bang out of order to agree a substitution before the match has even kicked off and there’s even talk of an inquiry into people placing large bets on the timing of Terry getting subbed.  When I heard that some people had exploited John Terry’s farewell to make a few quid over it made me very angry.  Angry that I never stuck a tenner on it myself.

If you can’t beat ’em, join the folk who can’t beat ‘em either.

Ron Cluny, Official Council Spokesman

The transition from one regime to another is always a difficult time for a public official – go to the dole office in Washington DC and there is a fair chance that you will rub shoulders with an Obama appointee who has just been given the bum’s rush by Donald Trump.  So it was with some trepidation that I awaited the results of the local Council elections.  With the SNP returning the largest single bloc of Councillors I feared that – for me, just as for Willie Young – the writing was on the wall.

You see, spending the last 5 years as spin doctor for the incumbent Labour group, has basically involved decrying the SNP’s “narrow nationalist agenda”, so I was not confident that my services would be required by the new administration.  Still, I had worked out the argument I was going to use to persuade them to retain my well-remunerated services.  It was brilliant in its simplicity: “Please!  Please! For God’s sake have pity, I’ve got twa kids at Albyn!” But then, as it turned out, the SNP did not have quite enough Councillors to form a majority and no-one else was willing to work them: not even the Lib Dems, who I had always thought were about as fussy about their coalition partners as Snuffy Ivy.  So it is to be a Lab-Con-Independent administration.  God, and the electoral system, works in mysterious ways.

You might think this is a bit of rum do.   However, as it has been confirmed to me that my contract and emoluments are going to continue as before, I am here to tell you that you are wrong.  Democracy is about diversity and supporting the minority position: so what could be more democratic than a diverse coalition of the unpopular?  Let not the expression “unelected rabble” be upon your lips.

So another day, another dawn; the world goes on much as before, except I find the words “strong” and “stable” higher up in my lexicon, and the man in the mirror looks slightly older, slightly sadder, and a good deal more weary.

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

As a scientist I am most interested in the astonishing achievement in communications technology that is the Eurovision Song Contest. So I have recently been asking questions like “Can someone really yodel like that live?”, and “Couldn’t wardrobe have found that Portuguese man a suit in his size?”. To which the answer given was “The store is closed sir, please step out of our window display and go and watch it at home.”

But Saturday’s festivities were merely a brief respite from a very worrying week – I speak of course of the massive worldwide Cyberattack. When I heard about this I was absolutely terrified; only calming down when I realised it didn’t involve actual Cybermen. In fact, multiple countries had been hit by a computer virus which infected 200,000 Windows PCs across the world, caused huge chaos in the NHS, brought Russia’s Interior Ministry to a standstill and made a lot of Apple Mac users even more smug than usual.

Perhaps the most troubling thing about the attack is how incomprehensible it is; a baffling story of Bitcoins, virtual worms and ransomware apps. So allow me to clarify. What is Ransomware?  Well, it’s not to be confused with the 1970s dresses seen on TVs ‘That’s Life’, as that’s Rantzen-ware. Ramsomware is, simply, a means of encrypting someone else’s computer files and refusing to give the owner access unless they pay an extortionate amount of money. It’s a terrifying experience where mysterious shadowy figures refuse to hand anything over before you’ve gone through a convoluted process and paid through the nose  – think of it like trying to ‘click and collect’ from Argos. Ransomeware is a vexatious menace and the bane of the modern computerised world.  It is also easy to avoid, if, like me, you poo-poo the hegemony of the Windows Operating System, and indeed, that of the Apple Mac. Instead, I carry out all my computing activities on my trusty Spectrum 128K plus 2. This is of course the Rolls-Royce of the line, with plastic keys and a built-in tape deck, and remarkably user-friendly, apart from when the cassette of ‘Daley Thomson’s Decathlon’ gets stuck and you have to use a pencil to unspool it.  I strongly recommend that the NHS upgrade their IT system to this one as, unlike the exsisting system In particular,  it is totally impregnable viral attack by cybercriminals, as it can’t actually connect to the internet.