The return of Fox-Hunting or British Rail. What is this, an election, or a Time Machine?

Cosmo Ludovic Fawkes-Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

“What days!”  “What days!”, I thought to myself this morning, as I stopped to pull a salmon from the river.  I wasn’t fishing, I’d simply dropped it on my way back from the fishmonger.  As I surveyed the lands of Kinmuck, I felt good.  The Tories ascendant, Labour in disarray, and Dear Theresa, the Mother of our Nation proposes the return of fox hunting.  Certainly, it will be lovely to be able to participate in the old sport again without having to go through the elaborate pretence that all the dogs and equestrians in red coats accompanying me across the fields are only there to help me locate a lost corned beef sandwich. If only dear old Grandpappy, the 11th Earl, were still alive to see it.  He and his great friend Mr. Mosely would love Dear Theresa’s vision for us.  Britain reborn: a rose, aloof from the garlic-tinged overtures of the Continental seducers.

All that stands between us and glory is a Labour party led by a man who wants to renationalise the railways.  Public ownership: a vile prospect. Makes the lower orders feel they might have a stake in the running of the country, and encourages them to expect wages and the like.  Still, Corbyn may as well pledge to provide everyone with a pot of gold for all the public cares, for the papers are full of the news that his chancellor might be a Marxist; and nothing repels the electorate like a politician who might be guided by some kind of underlying philosophy.  Fortunately, being a nasty, sadistic brute with no regard for your fellow man is not a philosophy, but a personality defect; and the voting public seem perfectly relaxed about leaders with those.
Jonathan M Lewis, local Headteacher

Earlier this week a delegation of staff members came to me to vent their frustration about the problem with “finger spinners”.  Initially, I was forced to agree that the England Cricket team have never found a satisfactory replacement for Graeme Swann, but

It turned out that their beef was not with the MCC board of selectors, but with the latest classroom craze.  The offending articles are small contraptions resembling the bits which were left over after I tried to repair our washing machine. Apparently, the pupils hold them in their hands and, using Newtonian principles, they spin rapidly.  The packaging for these items suggests that they enhance concentration, which has at least some truth to it, as I’ve never seen the entirety of S3 so transfixed.  Albeit not, sadly, on their schoolwork.

My colleagues asked me to “ban” the finger spinners, which prompted me to unlock and the strongbox in my office where I store confiscated items. There’s all sorts in there!  A veritable time capsule for the tools of the troublemaker!  There’s yo-yos, laser pens, finger skateboards, pogs, furbies, catapults, trolls, whoopie cushions, Chinese finger traps, tamagotchi’s and a copy of ‘Cannibal Holocaust’ on Betamax.

The angry mob of teachers began to reminisce about the good old days and before long the pogs were flying, the tamagotchis were beeping and Miss Ellis proved a dab hand with the catapult, catching Mr Prentice on the posterior with a well-aimed lump of Blu-Tac!  I realised then that when it comes to toys designed solely to infuriate the teaching profession, they just don’t make them like they used to!

Fergus Lamont – arts correspondent

I was moved and delighted this week to see that an abandoned pineapple left on a table at RGU’s ‘Look Again’ exhibition was rightly adopted as an art installation and deemed worthy of being displayed under glass. I was particularly heartened to see that the young rapscallion who left the mysterious knobbly fruit behind did so “in the hope it would be mistaken for an art piece”. What even he failed to see, of course, is that the pineapple was not mistaken for art – it IS art.

Appearing as it did, in the wake of last week’s local elections, the piece is clearly a deft and staggeringly perceptive metaphor for the Aberdeen City Council. Consider the pineapple: like any vaunted elected position, difficult to gain access to, but rewarding once inside; like our divided, but SNP dominated chamber, a bit sticky and mostly, but not entirely, yellow; like Marischal College, it is encased within an ornate exterior which both looks impressive, and acts as a protective carapace, a cocoon against the outside world; it’s little sticker reads ‘best kept in a cool dark place’, again, just like Marischal College now that it’s in the permanent shade; and finally, like former finance convenor Willie Young, the pineapple is prone to getting canned.

 

 

Fa’s wa’ wis it? Wis it Willies wa’? Nah, it wisna Willies’s wa’, it wis Willie’s da’s wa’.

View From The Midden – rural news with Jock Alexander

It’s been a parterial wik in the village. I’m sure I’m nae the only een fit has been totally gripped by the great political story of the day. There his been obfustication, confusion and mystery a’wye. And I dinna mean The Prime Minister’s secret disagreements wi’ Mr Junker at their Brussels dinner (I mysel am nae a fan o’ sprouts, so I wid niver hae them for my denner. They disagree wi’ me. It a wye fit it is impossible tae keep a secret.) No! I’m spikkin aboot the swirling mystery and intrigue surrounding Willie Young’s wa’.

Yes, Wa’ Gate. It’s like Water Gate only less so. It’s aye dangerous tae ower simplify ony complex political situation, but I’ll dae my best: ‘Fa’s wa’ wis it? Wis it Willies wa? If it wisna Willies’s wa wis it Willie’s da’s wa?’ Noo some folk hiv been quick tae single oot certain individuals for criticism and suggestions o’ impropriety. Ithers are upset that it is emblematic o’ a culture in which preferential treatment is received by elected representatives or their fem’lies withoot proper approval or scrutiny.

We in the village of course hiv been mair ootraged wi the thocht of £200,000 of Sustrans cash jist sitting there daein’ nithin. files we hiv a fair few dry-steen dykes in Meiklewartle in sair need o’ repair. So we hiv already stairted the process to ensure that Meiklewartle village cycle paths get access to this currently un-used funding, afore some ither bunch o’ chancers try tae get their haunds on it. A slight problem is that we dinna actually hae ony village cycle paths, but we do hae a village psychopath.

Feel Moira has been busy a’ wik creating a brand new Meiklewartle cycle-way by the simple process of driving her Massey Ferguson up and doon, flattening the bitties at the edge of a’ the fields that contain oor dodgiest looking dry-steen dykes.  Noo, for a direct route fae Dess tae Aboyne, it is a bittie twisty-twosty, but a’ we hiv tae dae tae get the dosh is get it included in the national Cycle Network and then Bingo! Willie’s da’s your uncle! Cheerio!

Davinia Smythe-Barrett, Ordinary Mum

What a May Day weekend we had. Fidel & Emmeline had been invited to their friend Tansy’s birthday party out near Banchory. They were going to be creating some artisan pottery before enjoying a private concert from Ed Sheeran (available at a fee, it transpires, if you were at St Andrew’s with his agent). Tansy’s mum is, like me, something of an eco-warrior so the invitations had been sent out in the form of a chia seed flatbreads, which we very much enjoyed with some hummus (Luckily, my husband Milo is currently in Egypt for tax reasons, so could have some air lifted to us during the recent crisis. I did try the kids on a vegan quiona alternative, but, predictably, all hell broke loose)

I do have a lot on at the moment, what with recycling all the election leaflets and commenting on social media posts about Donald Trump (to save time, I simply put ‘The Mango Mussolini!’ irrespective of what the post is about. It’s very empowering to be part of the resistance.) so after consuming the invites, I realised I’d forgotten where the party was to be held. A quick bit of Googling revealed a children’s party at Crathes Village Hall. So I watched as Snezanna (Our au pair. Bulgarian, but marvellous) bundled my little-ones into the Discovery and we headed way out west. 

Imagine my horror when, on arrival, I discovered that this “children’s party”, was actually a deeply weird, tiny, stage-managed rally for our inglorious PM. It was absolutely rammed with doddery proto-fascists, rabid Brexiteers and a couple of girls I hadn’t seen since we were at St Megs together. Really lovely catch-up. Anyway, we stayed for a while to listen to May’s speech, in which she revealed that she is both ‘strong’ and ‘stable’. Snezanna didn’t seem particularly impressed. ‘Those are good qualities’ she said ‘in a stepladder’.

Fidel and Emmeline, were, of course, devastated. They can take or leave Ed Sheeran but they were really looking forward to the pot-throwing, and clearly, whatever it was, this was not a children’s party. Although, as Fidel pointed out, at least there was a clown and absolutely loads of balloons.

 

 

Taking a Hardy line with criminals

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

It’s been a custodial wik in the village.  There’s been a lot o’ winsome sighing gan on fae, iver since the local womenfowk seen the news aboot the citizen’s arrest o’ some vratch fa twis trying tae nick a moped in London Toon made by a certain Tom Hardy. I thocht he wiz Buff’s loon, but it turns oot he’s an internationally kent Hollywood hunk. You may hiv seen him on BBC1’s ‘Taboo’ swanning aboot in a stovepipe hat; playing baith the Kray twins, or haein respiratory problems as a Batman baddie. Weel, as in art, so in life, for witnesses tell that Tom sprinted lik a superhero o’er gairdens and through building sites, afore collaring the thief and frisking him for weapons. Mony questions spring tae mind fan readin’ aboot this, sic as ‘Fit wye did the wee scrote nae jist get back on the moped?” But fan asked fit happened, the star simply telt onlookers that he had caught the thief, files describing him language fit I winna repeat, but fit can be found immediately efter the phrase ‘Trump Is A…’ on the nuart-inspired mural skited up on the side o’ Skittery Wullie’s piggery.

But I digress. Noo some fowk here in the village have been grumbling aboot how much Tom Hardy is noo being swooned o’er. Mainly the husbands of aa the wifies daein the swoonin’. Even wir local community bobby was heard moaning. Efter aa, he’s caught loads of thieves in his time, and he disnae hae ony wifies drooling over him aboot it.  Which I have tae say is understandable, fan ye look at wir community bobby next tae Tom Hardy. He’s nae sae much  ‘hairt-throb’ as ‘hairt-burn’. However, files mony of the mair pleiter-esque mannies o’ the village hiv felt a bittie pit oot by the comparison, ither locals hiv been inspired by Tom’s heroism. Inevitably, Tom’s biggest fan is also the maist masculine individual in Meiklewartle – I speak of course of Feel Moira, who has got her auld combat fatigues oot again and has been relentlessly pursuing ony wee kiddies foolish enough tae drap litter with Terminator-like relentlessness. The trouble is, Moira isnae satisfied wi’ a citizen’s arrest. She’s ower keen tae proceed tae the citizen’s trial, citizen’s conviction and citizen’s sentence of twa wiks hard labour mucking oot her byre!  Cheerio!

Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I’ve teen much mair o’ an interest in politics since they cried this snap generational election. A lot o’ fowk is spikken aboot ‘voter apathy’, but I’m nae feeling that at aa. In fact, this time, I’m thinking I micht even ging and vote. I’ve registered and a’thing. It wis dead easy. I did it online during a boring bittie in River City.
I’m nae a fan o’ Theresa May. Faniver I see her I get the feeling that she’s totally furious aboot something but she’s nae gaan tae tell us fit it is – we’re gaan tae hiv tae work hiv it oot for wirsels, and the langer it taks the angrier she’s gaan tae be. She looks like she’s hard work, ken fit I mean?

I quite like ‘at Tim Fallon fae the illiterate Democrats. He seems nice, but it’s nae easy tae find oot his policies fan aa folk iver ask him is if he thinks things are sinful, or nae sinful. It’s like they’ve mixed him up wi’ the Archbishop o’ Canterbury.

My favourite een, though, is Jeremy Corbyn. I used tae hae a Geography teacher cried Mr. Spiers fa wis jist his double. ‘The Mannie Spiers the Beardy Weardy’ we cried him. ‘Til he went off on long term sick leave wi’ his nerves.

Een o’ Labour’s policy proposals fit really caught my eye is the idea o’ haein 4 mair bank holidays ivry year. It’s a good idea in principle but they hinna fully thought it through. I mean a day off for St Patrick’s day I can jist about understand, but een fer St George’s day? In Scotland? Wise the heid, min!

Instead of pinning things tae lang-deid saints or notions o’ patriotism, fit Jezza needs tae dae is gie us 4 additional bank holidays that can be taen wi’oot notice, like fan ye’ve popped oot for a quiet een on a Sunday nicht fit has accidentally ended up wi’ a limbo contest in Cheerz Bar. Nae fuss, nae fanfare, nae films on the telly, jist the freedom tae bide at hame aa day drinking Irn Bru and eating Quavers in yer punts. That’s fit’ll get this economy moving in the right direction!

An election? Great! We’re bound to get one right eventually.

Barney Eunson, Official Labour Party Spokesman

I think it is fair to say that Theresa May’s decision to call for a snap election took some of us by surprise.  Our beloved leader Jeremy was in the potting shed on his allotment when the news came through, and almost dropped his favourite trowel.  “Theresa has called an election?”  He said, “With a slim parliamentary majority, Labour 20 points behind in the polls, the papers frothing with jingoistic fervour, the certain knowledge that support for Brexit will ebb away as the negotiations grind on, nothing to lose and only a landslide majority to gain? Why ever has she done it now, when she repeatedly said she would not? It is almost as if she is without honour.”   And then he sat down on a pile of bags of John Innes Number 3 with the kind of look I last saw on my favourite uncle when he had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

Eventually we got him moving again by shoving vintage copies of the Morning Star under the shed door leaving a trail of falafel outside.   And so it was that Jeremy was back at the helm when Labour joined with the Tories yesterday in voting for an early election.

There are some who say that this was a tactical error of similar magnitude to the National Congress of Turkeys’ infamous 1955 AGM resolution, when they voted unanimously for Christmas.  There are some who say that the public – exhausted and exasperated by politics – would readily forgive Labour for dodging this particular vote, but will never forgive it for willingly hollowing itself out just at the time it was most needed to hold to account a despotic Government.  To these people, my message is a simple one.  You try telling the stubborn old git.  Mind you, it is hard to stay angry with Uncle Jeremy for long.  As I saw him yesterday evening, whistling the Red Flag and contentedly making a hanging basket out of macramé, he seemed happier than I had seen him in a long while.  Perhaps – as my own uncle did – he is finding peace in the contemplation of the merciful release that will surely follow, on the morning of the 9^th of June.

Archie Fraser, Gentleman of the Road

This weekend, I had a heated exchange with another itinerant denizen of the city centre, who seemed getting very enthusiastic on the topic of Nougat.  We were both on the wrong side of a bottle of Croft original, so the conversation was not as scintillating as it might have been, but I told him I found it preferable to toffee, certainly now that I’ve lost all my teeth, but couldn’t agree that it was, as he claimed, ‘absolutely everywhere’. He then appeared to insist that the nougat her was referring to was “Muriel’s“, and when I told him I wasn’t acquainted with Muriel he became quite irate, an wrestled me to the ground in a doorway on Hadden Street. But all soon became clear as a large crowd gathered around us, wondering aloud if we might be a life-size sculpture by Spanish artist Isaac Cordal. I had inadvertently situated myself in the midst of Aberdeen’s festival of street art.

This tremendous initiative has seen previously drab and unpleasant old Aberdonian buildings turned into stunning works of art by guerilla artists, and has saved me a bit of money by transforming much of my environment into a swirling riot of colour without the usual need for an investment in White Lightning.

Like many of my fellow citizens, I joined, and indeed, parted, the large crowds in The Green to goggle at the metamorphosis of the city’s ‘New Market’ into Aberdeen’s equivalent of London’s Roundhouse. The outside of the building is now a transformative work of art; a fairytale of unicorns and dreams, in striking counterpoint to the eyebrow threading, deep fried doughnuts and nail parlours within.

I applaud the City Council on this latest initiative, what a masterstroke, to simultaneously shut both the Art Gallery and the Music Hall for a protracted period and so force artistic expression out into the streets.

Moreover, how astute to realise that the decrepit old face of Aberdeen’s neglected city centre doesn’t need ‘regeneration’ or ‘redevelopment’, it just needs the skilled and application of an aerosol can. Why solve problems, when we can simply paint over them?

Politics and football don’t mix. Ask anyone who’s seen Ed Balls play.

 

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’d put you up.

I has seen some shocking things in football, like Robbie Winters practising penalties and Doug Rougvie without his teeth in.  But I has never seen nothing like what I seen on Tuesday night when Borussia Dortmund’s team bus got hut by that explosions.  Fortunately, no-one was seriously hurt, and we can only hope that there will be no repeat, like the last time I had a pie at Pittodrie and could taste it for three weeks.

Politics and football do not mix, as no-one who never seen Ed Balls play wouldn’t not tell you. And like I always turn around and say, violence has no place in football, except out on the pitch. The game got rescheduled for the next day, but Dortmund’s opponents, Monaco, was already at the stadium and hundreds of Monastic supporters found themselves stranded without nowhere to stay. Up stepped the Borussia fans who offered the Monacalese a bed for the night. That is a really beautiful gesture that everybody can applaud. Unless you own a B&B in Dortmund

PC Bobby Constable, community policeman (retired)

As a former officer of Grumpian Police, there is few things I enjoy mair than laughing uproariously at the misfortunes of Police Scotland. But even I found masel’ feeling sorry for the bobbies called oot tae a brak-in at a Tescos, fa went tae the een in Great Western Road in Glesca, instead of the correct een in Aiberdeen.  Noo fair play, if I heard aboot a shoppie door getting kicked in I widnae think it wiz in Aiberdeen’s West End either. Glesca is far mair likely, it being full of Glaswegians.  Nae doot we’ll get the usual moaning minnies saying this is fit happens fan ye centralise services, and hae staff in a call-centre a hunner miles awa fae the area they’re dealing wi’. Weel, havers. Back fan I wiz on the beat, we wis jist as bad. ‘Cos michty it’s an affa job the switchboard, ye ken. Jist constant stress and worry. I filled in eence in my Queen Street days and I tell ye, there wiz ayewiz somedee yarking on at ye. Niver a minute’s peace. I didna get a cuppie till I turned the phones aff a’thegither. As a result, it’s affa easy for officers tae get confused aboot exactly far they’re supposed tae ging. I mind the time I got the call: ‘Bobby, there’s a traffic jam in Dallas. G’wa there and dinna come back til it’s sorted it oot”. Weel I niver kent there wis a Dallas near Elgin. But I hid a rare twa wiks in Texas.

Ron Cluny, Official Council spokesman

As spin-doctor for Aberdeen City Council, you have good days and bad days.  On my bad days I like to see how other spin doctors are getting on.  And my, how my step lightens when I check on the progress of Donald Trump’s press officer, Sean Spicer.

I see that this week he has managed to cause fresh outrage by claiming that Hitler never used chemical weapons.  In a sense this latest mis-step is no surprise: Mr Spicer no longer courts controversy – he has wooed, wed and settled down with her in a clapboard house behind a nice white picket fence. But this was still an outstanding addition to his oeuvre.  Mr Spicer, you are living proof that a man with less gravity and historical knowledge than a mediocre pub-quizzer can, if he is willing to comb his hair nicely, pull on a pale blue suit and lay to one side all sense of decency and principle, rise to an office of national significance.  I salute you.

Scales of Justice: a new column by John Scales, legal correspondent

The Daily Mail has had to pay damages to Melania Trump for a scurrilous article it wrote about her.  The Trumps create real problems for the Mail.  One the one hand, Donald is a right-wing, authoritarian leader, who the Daily Mail should like.  On the other, his wife is an immigrant, and, moreover, a woman. A combination which is enough to give it’s readers an annuerism.  Happily, the whole tawdry episode has been resolved by the a transfer of millions of pounds from one billionaire to another; leaving the Mail free to return to the vital business of forensically comparing Melania’s legs to those of other world leaders and their wives.

It’s Red Nose Day, so we’re going to donate all of today’s proceeds from sales in our shoppie to Comic Relief. We’ve got 5 CD’s available and if you buy one today all the money will go straight to helping their vital work at home and abroad.

Go to the shoppie.

The aircraft laptop ban makes sense – plane and simple

Reverend Edmund Everend, Minister, Holburn North-North East

I see that, due to an increased security risk associated with so-called Islamic State, the UK is to follow the US in banning the use of electronic devices on certain flights.  Speaking in my capacity as a man of god, it pains me greatly that relations between the faiths have deteriorated to such an extent that such measures are necessary.  However, speaking as someone who, while travelling, is regularly jabbed in the ribs by laptop-wielding spreadsheet-monkeys, I say, truly, The Lord works in mysterious ways. And roll on the regular shuttle Aberdeen to Heathrow shuttle from Air Turkey.

The mobile electronic device is the curse of the modern age.  As I said to the last earnest young man who whacked me across the cranium while getting his laptop down from an overhead locker, “Is your work really so urgent that it can not wait?  Every day I see my harassed parishioners glued to their mobile phones as they watch their children play football, as they enjoy a well-earned meal out with their families, and even during church services – oh, who am I trying to kid? – especially during church services.  Really, never was mankind so deceived as when employers gave electronic devices to their employees and dressed up enslavement as emancipation.”  My travelling companion laughed and said, “Never so deceived? Really?  Not even when they were told fairy stories about loaves and fishes and the rolling away of the stone?”

I smiled seraphically and lo, shortly afterwards some unexpected turbulence provided me with an opportunity to spill my wine unto both his lap and his confounded machine.

God bless.

Archie Fisher, gentlemen of the road.

George Osborne is set to become editor of the London Evening Standard whilst remaining as an MP. Now, the Evening Standard is not one of my usuals. On the rare occasions I find a copy in a bin at the station I find the paper to be rather thin, and as a result, a poor insulator and hopeless for shirt-stuffing against the cold. However, I applaud Mr Osborne for keeping himself busy. Having recently lost his £130,000 a year job as Chancellor he’s having to eke out an living on his meager MP’s salary, his consultancy at the American financial giant BlackRock, a fellowship at the Arizona-based McCain Institute and his fees as a public speaker – he’s barely making a million pounds a year. With only his Baronetcy and a trust worth £4 million to fall back on, he has little option but to take on more work. The parallels between George and I are extraordinary. Osborne went to independent schools; I was educated independent of any school. Osborne misbehaved himself in the Bullingdon Club; I soiled myself in the Cotton Club. And of course while he juggles at least 4 jobs, I also multi-task in a variety of part-time roles.

Every morning you’ll find me scouring the gutters round the back of the Bon Accord Centre for fag ends, which I sell on – an example of the kind of entrepreneurial spirit of which I’m sure George would approve. Then it’s a quick liquid lunch, before commencing my role as unofficial town-crier, loudly declaiming the day’s news to passersby at the Edward VII statue. Next, positioned as I am directly across from the Trinity Centre, it’s an ideal spot to charm funds from those I observe crossing the road to avoid the Chuggers. I don’t require your direct debit details, madam, just a pound coin from the depths of your purse will see me on my way.

So there’s another similarity with George; we’re both interested in cold, hard cash!

Tanya soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I’d love tae hae something named efter me for posteriority. Yon auld mannie on the TV wi’ the animals, David Attenborough, his got a’ sorts named efter him; a research ship, a flightless weevil and noo a fossil o’ an ancient shrimp.

My ex-boyfriend Lee got something named efter him an a’. He lent his name tae the perfect seat in the Broadsword in Tilly.   He worked oot the exact spot that wiz the perfect distance fae the bandit, pool table, juke box and the bar. Woe betide onybdy else that sat in it!  “That’s Lee’s seat” they’d say. And if you moved quickly, Lee wid only chin you the once. Efter a particularly fractious Setterday nicht I noticed they’d gaan as far as tae mark it on the carpet, fan they drew the ootline o’ a body in chalk. Must have worked, because naebdy sat there efter that!

Is your microwave spying on you?*

*[Spoiler] No.

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

As a scientist, people are always asking me questions like “Why are repairs to public buildings like the Townhouse so expensive?” “How do we know it won’t fall down now they’ve finally taken the scaffolding off?”, and “Could you please come down from that ladder, sir?”,  but this week I have mostly been asked about US Presidential Aide and former Terrahawk Kelly Anne Conway. She was on the news discussing the threat of covert surveillance by means of devices such as TVs, smartphones and, most terrifying of all, “microwaves that turn into cameras”.  As I always wondered if the ‘Transformers’ films weren’t more documentary than Hollywood were letting on, I hurriedly conducted my own investigation, dismantling a microwave oven with a variety of screwdrivers and the lump hammer I keep about my person, in case of emergency.

Microwaves are, as well as being the ideal way to turn leftover macaroni-cheese into soft-palate searing lava, a form of radiation on the electromagnetic spectrum, not far from radio waves, and visible light. So the idea that such a device might have the potential to record sound, images or other data is not completely ridiculous. No, I’m kidding – it’s totally bonkers. Microwaves emit radiation, whereas recording devices are detectors. It’s like suggesting that light bulbs can smell. Hindsight is a wonderful thing though, and I must confess that that important observation didn’t actually occur to me until after I had entirely smashed the casing, stripped out all the components and drilled through the device’s magnetron tube. And that’s when I was thrown out of Curry’s.

The Reverend Edmund Everend, Minister, Holburn North North East

And so it begins again: or maybe it doesn’t.  Nicola Sturgeon has fired the starting pistol on the second independence referendum, only to be forcefully reminded by Teresa May that it’s Westminster’s pistol, and she only gets a shottie of it in certain tightly-circumscribed situations.  All the while, Nicola addresses us with what she hopes is a look of grave seriousness, but which I find reminiscent of my dear departed mother, a martyr to acid indigestion.  Teresa, by contrast, considers mere gravity to be for the weak, and goes directly for stern hectoring.  Well, it worked so well for the Scottish Tories under Thatcher.  I would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that spin doctoring session: “Teresa, about Scotland…” “Don’t worry, I’m going to haughtily lecture them on what do. They’ll love it, especially when I – a person pursuing a separatist agenda in pursuit of a divisive referendum – tell them they can’t.”  In the meantime, as a man of faith, I confess myself deeply troubled by the whole sorry mess, and fearful of the dispute, division and despair that I can foresee; but as a canny investor, I am looking at buying into a Glasgow-based firm that sells toughened safety glass, window shutters and fire extinguishing equipment.

J Fergus Lamont, Arts correspondent and author of “Nicky-Tams and Skinny Jeans – the Corn Kister in the 21^st Century”

I was delighted to slake my cultural thirst on Sunday night with a splendid mocku-docu-drama on Channel 4 (There is now a fourth channel. Perhaps “T.V.” is not to be the flash-in-the-pan it first appeared.)

“The Jump” (you won’t have heard of it, as it received little or no publicity) pitted an unlikely band of protagonists against the perils of an icy mountain, engaging in a series of convoluted challenges designed to eliminate the weakest of the herd until only the strongest survived. Dripping with symbolism, this innovative format was redolent with a sense of the eternal struggle for survival in an increasingly cold and dangerous world.

The tense battles were interspersed with perfectly irreverent interjections from host Davina MacCall (a name for the future, who surely needs to be given more air time). She perfectly lampooned the social media generation’s profligacy with expressions of heightened emotion; ironically declaring that she “loved” everything and everyone in a manner that transcended the tedium of repetition to emerge again as a sort of healing mantra.

And so to the denouement. The final 4 contestants were forced to perform “The Jump” to determine the winner. With 2 athletes and a beauty queen among them the stage was set for the predictable triumph of a physically superior specimen. Yet there was a twist. The final competitor, an individual with no discernable talents, referred to, incomprehensibly, as a ‘reality star’ emerged victorious. And as he strode forward to receive his prize, some delicious anagnorisis befell our hero; his trophy was a giant cowbell, symbolising that despite his singular victory he remained, firmly, one of the herd.

I wept.

Red or white? It’s a recipe for disaster.

 Tanya Soutar, local lifestyle guru

I dinna ken about yous, but I love experimenting in the kitchen. That’s fit wye I wisnae shocked fan Mary Berry’s Spag Bol recipe cried fer white wine instead o the mair traditional reed. I made it last nicht and as per the instructions I added 150mls of Blue Nun. (In fairness, the recipe‘s fae the BBC website, so they canna specify the name, but Mary is a classy lady, so it gings wi oot saying, ken?) And let me reassure ony pouting Thomases oot there, it wis yummers. The spaghetti wis OK too, but if I’m honest, I couldna really taste it efter the fourth gless o’ wine.

Some o’ my best recipes, the eens fit I use fer entertaining evening guests, hiv a’ come about by experimenting in a similar wye. For starters there’s my deconstructed prawn cocktail, which I serve wi nae prawns – just a cocktail. Then for main course there’s my take on a beef stroganoff – “beer Smirnoff” – Or spice up yer fajitas by making them mojitas instead, (rum sooked up through a tortilla wrap), and for dessert ye canna go wrang wi crème de menthe brûlée. So dinna be feart tae experiment – the sky is the limit, and I’m fleeing!

Cosmo Ludovic Fawkes Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck

It is a rare occasion when I, highborn scion of the Scottish landed classes that I am, feel ashamed to be a peer of the realm.  I can think of only two occasions when it has happened before: once, when the Earl of Boyndie attended the Braemar Gathering in incorrect kilt hose, and on another occasion, when, while grouse shooting with the Duke of Udny, I learned that he had once voted for the Liberals.  Happily, a “misunderstanding” as to whether a cartridge remained within one of my Purdeys meant that the Duke’s error would never be repeated.

But starch my britches if I haven’t been ashamed to be an aristocrat twice already this week.  First, there was the news that the House of Lords is putting obstacles in the way of Brexit.  (Unfortunately, I was unable to attend the vote myself, having been detained by a delightful young lady in the Kings Cross area.)  Then there came the news that Rhodri Colwyn-Phillips, the 4th Viscount St Davids, has been charged with sending malicious emails to Gina Miller, the woman who led the legal case against Brexit.  The shame he has brought upon his family will not easily be expunged.  As all true blue bloods know, poison pen letters are totally unacceptable, unless written in longhand using a Montblanc on Basildon Bond.

Archie Fraser, gentleman of the road

One of the many advantages of using broadsheet newspaper as an ersatz duvet, is that one’s bedtime reading habitually results in one being kept suitably abreast of all the important news of the day. This gives me something to both discuss in depth with my fellows at night, and to shout about incomprehensibly whilst sitting on a bench during working hours.

It was whilst settling down to sleep the other night that I read that Scotland’s streets are ‘getting dirtier’. Spending reductions across the country have lead to a corresponding drop in cleanliness, with the biggest drop cited being Aberdeen itself. Well, no doubt the ordinary citizen may feel many things upon learning this fact, and bemoan the city’s unsightly, muck-encrusted and chuddy-ridden pavements, or complain about the one scaffie left, ineffectively pushing the stoor from one side of the pavement to the other, or blowing it around a bit with his clean green machine.

I, however, with perhaps a little more expertise than most in the field, would beg to differ. The squalor of our streets is nothing to be ashamed of! When I’m careering towards the paving stones, face first, thanks to the efficacy of my tipple of choice, (a bottle of croft original followed by another of White Lightning); it is only the 2 inch layer of MacDonald’s wrappers and old pizza boxes that cushions my fall. And whilst I’m down there, I invariably take the time to count my blessings. 200 years ago the same streets would have been awash with fetid effluvia of all kinds, so really, we can consider ourselves lucky that we enjoy levels of filth which are merely Victorian. Our far-sighted local Authority Council has managed to cultivate, without fuss or fanfare, the kind of pavement feculence that our forefathers enjoyed. What with all of the smells, ordure, and uneven cobbled streets one could be in Dickensian London. So well done, Aberdeen City Council, you have truly brought history alive!

 

You’re so vain, you probably think this Oscars Fiasco is about you.

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz Correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

As usual, I got a’ frocked up and made my way to the red carpet for the Oscars on Sunday night.  I wasn’t actually there: but I always go round to my pal Shirley’s to watch it.  She’s got a Sky movies subscription and a crimson Axminster in her front lobby. The ceremony had a’ the usual glitz and glamour but also a great muckle glitch when Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty announced the wrong winner!  OM actual G!  Apparently they got passed the wrong envelope by a senior auditor from PWC, one of the event’s major sponsors.  Fit an affront!  Still, at least the mannie’s nae in a job that requires meticulous attention to detail.  I felt so sorry for Warren Beatty, standing there looking lost and confused, like Jeremy Corbyn in a dinner suit.

Of course, me and Warren go way back.  I was first introduced to him by his brother, Johnny, at the Stonehaven show in 1987.  I was there as a spoke-model for Young’s Seafood.  It was a classy gig.  I was dressed up as a sexy crustacean and holding a sign saying “Get Your Crabs From Us!”  Warren stopped to speak.  He was quite the ladies man back then and before long we were walking along the seashore, hand in pincer, looking at the sea as it glittered romantically in the dusk.  “What is it that’s making the sea sparkle so bonny, Warren?”  I asked.  “It’s Moonlight”, he replied.

Wise words, from a true gent.

View from the midden – Rural matters with MTV (Meiklewartle Television) presenter Jock Alexander.

 Weel, it’s been an embargoed wik in the village, as Feel Moira’s controversial reign as heid of the Women’s Institute continues unabated. Ye’d think she’d have been removed by noo, but no, she’s still there, stubbornly clinging on, lik the mineer on my barn door. Efter banning fowk fae ither villages, Moira hs now begun an assault on certain media outlets. The Deeside Piper, Orininal 106 and even MTV itsel (fit she described as anither ‘bonny een’) have been labeled, ‘”fake blethering” and excluded fae the traditional W.I. post-coffee morning “huddle” – far ab’dy squeezes in tae the church hall’s galley kitchen and enjoys a’ the left-over fine pieces. Of course, we protested the ban maist vociferously. Firstly, it is an unacceptable infringement of press freedom and secondly, Agnes Taylor’s raisin bannocks looked right fine. In fact, Skittery Wullie, (fa did manage tae get inaboot as the author of the pro-Moira newsletter, ‘Let’s Mak Meiklewartle Rare Again’) telt they were “hoovered up lik crack”, by the loon fae the Turra Squeak.

Mind you, Wullie’s currently mair concerned, wi’ the continuing threat of bird flu. Free-range eggs must noo hiv labels saying hens are “temporarily housed in barns for their safety”. Luckily, Meikle Wartle free-range hens are nae affected, as they’ve never roamed ootside in the first place. They’ve ayewiz had the run of Wullie’s hoose. Aye, it is a pigsty, but it’s also full o’ chickens. But the good news is, there is nae wye bird flu could survive in there, nae wi’ a’ the ither germs that’s fleein’ aboot.

Cheerio!

Cava Kenny Cordiner the sports writer who always goes in for the ruck.

I’m not normally a flan of the old egg-chasing game, but I spent a lot of time watching the rugby over the weekend.  Well, it was either that or wash the Jag.  Scotland got a great result against the boyos from Whales and England nearly got upsetted by Italy, who decided not to compete for the ball.  Some said they were the Aston Villas of the piece but most said it was a stroke of tic-tactical Genies.  It just goes to show how different rugby is from football.  Any time I decided not to compete for the ball I got bawled at by the gaffer and hooked at half-time.

Apparently the English boys couldn’t work out what it was what the Italians was up to, and was asking the referee for advice on the rules.  For me, that is Bang out of Olufsen .  A player should never, ever ask the ref for advice.  Players should be in the ref’s lug-hole for the whole game, telling him what to do.  And imagine going out onto the pitch not knowing the rules of the game you was playing? As my career total of 57 red cards proves, I always knowed the rules of the game – I just never obeyed them.