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!