Just think; ‘the spit of Jamie Carragher’ used to be a compliment.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s gobby in a different way.

My regulatory readers will know that Old Kenny is very open mined when it comes to modern football, but there is some things what has no place in the bountiful game; like racialist abuse, men with ponytails, and match fixing when nobody has not told me what to bet on.  Spitting is another one, and I is sad to say that this week a former great of the game has let his self down badly after he got caught on camera extemporising at a young lassie.

Jamie Carragher might not be the most intelligent footballer in the world,  in fact he might not even be ahead of old Kenny on that list, but he should well have knowed better than to let his emulsions bubble up to the surface when a Man Utd fan was goading him in his car.  Sadly for JC, when the fan kept adding in salt to his injury, he seen red and sent a massive greener across the carriageway.  Like a lot of pros, I was shocked and disappointed, disappointed and shocked.

First of all, his technique was all wrong.  My old school pal, Dunter Duncan, was like a sniper with his grot.  He once took aim at Specky Spalding’s satchel out of the detention room window at Kincorth and hit it right on the buckle!  Dunter always said the trick behind the perfect gob was to smoke 20 Woodbine a day.  He was great at the spitting, was Dunter, but not too hot at the 100 yard dash.

Most importantly though, Carragher needs to learn how to handle situations like that in a much more classier way.  I used to get a lot of attention in the Covenanters Bar back when I had signed for the Dandies.  Folk would come up to me when the Dons had lost and tease me about it.  Yes, it made me angry, but I didn’t spit on them.  I just kept myself composted, and lamped them.

J Fergus Lamont, Arts Correspondent and author of “How Green Is My Buttery: A History of Food Safety in the Baking Industry”

This corner of the world continues to burst full with the most bounteous fruits of artistic endeavour. I’ve heard a lot of weeping and wailing recently both locally and nationally over the loss of the International Youth Festival, the collapse of the Scottish Youth Theatre and the end of free school music lessons, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about.  Aberdeen continues to lead the way when it comes to vibrant culture. You will have noticed that the staff and students of Aberdeen University have this week been presenting a stunning festival of synergistic street theatre, featuring, placard waving protestors, picket lines and sit-ins. All of these of course vividly evoking the bad old days of the late 60s and 70s, with their unionised strikes, power cuts and the 3 day week. But do not worry, gentle reader, this is not, of course evidence of society’s collapse, but a searing commentary on the cyclical nature of history from an artistic collective of unusual perspicacity. History, you see, is very much like my home-brewed parsnip prosecco; it vanishes quickly, but when you least expect it, it will suddenly and violently repeat. Often accompanied by a noisy trump.

I was, therefore, delighted when I stumbled upon the actors pretending to be banner-waving strikers at Aberdeen University, with their battle cry: ‘What do we want?’ “No change to the Universities’ Superannuation Scheme from a “defined benefit” pension, which gives workers a guaranteed income, to a “defined contribution” scheme, in which pensions are subject to fluctuations in the stock market.’ ‘When do we want it?’ ‘On retirement!’ .

It so evoked the student protests of my youth that I dashed home to don my purple loon pants and the kaftan which Jimi Hendrix’s roadie was once sick on outside the Cafe Metro. On my return to campus and having swallowed an entire packet of orange tic-tacs offered to me by a passing student, I developed a tremendous thirst, then removed my trousers and ran home, laughing all the way. There, I turned on the news to see that even the UK Government was joining in the nostalgic role-play by upbraiding Russia. Deciding that nothing says 1970s nostalgia like the threat of mutually assured destruction, I wept. Then laughed, for no clear reason. Then wept again.