P&J Column 2.3.17

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.


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.