She ain’t heavy; she’s my significant other.

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King of the Grips

Folks wi’ a keen eye for value will nae doot hiv been very interested to see that there is going to be a ‘wobbly wife’ competition at this year’s Turriff Show.  The event, fit his a £10 entry fee, sees competitors pick up their ither-half and race round the display ground, negotiating obstacles, wi’ the winner receiving his wife’s body weight in beer. This represents something o’ a low point for gender equality, but, crucially, a potential high point for value. Wi’ even the maist petite lady likely to be worth around 100 pints, we are speaking aboot 10p a pint for the winner.  The 10p pint his nae been seen since Futret McKechnie sold his home-brew roond the doors in 1986. Ironically, mony o’ the folk fa bought it hinna been seen since neither.

With that incredible prize at stake, the competition is causing considerable interest in the Cash household.  However there are some rules and regulations that potential entrants need to think aboot.  The wife his to be a minimum of 49 kilos, or 7 stone 7, in auld money.  The current Mrs Cash presently tips the scales at aboot 7 stone 4, but his been pit on double rowie rations atween noo and Sunday, and is willing to be force fed Murray Mints on the drive north if that is fit it taks to mak the weight.  We’re going to be giving a lift tae (and takin’ petrol money fae) my pal, Mick the Pill and his missus Pat, fa’re gaan into the competition too.  That really is the triumph of hope over expectation.  Pat is een o’ the nicest folk you could ever meet.  She’ll dae onything for ye and she’s got a heart as big as a whale’s.  The only problem is, the rest o’ her is mair or less in proportion.  This widna be a problem if Mick wiz a similar size.  The difficulty is that Mick is fit the experts wid cry a tiny wee flech o’ a mannie.  I widna say the twa o them are mis-matched, but fan I see them thegither, I’m aye pit in mind o’ Timon & Pumba fae ‘The Lion King’.  Still, Mick refuses to accept defeat.  He says he’s  deceptively strong.  But if he’s going to pull this one off, the deception wid hiv to be of Tony Blair-like proportions.  I dinna think Mick is going to see much value out of his £10 spend.  But his chiropractor might, or his supplier of hernia trusses.

View from the Midden – rural affairs with Mtv (Meiklewartle Television) personality Jock Alexander

It’s been a pugilistic week in the village. I wiz shocked tae read the reports o’ a punch up ameen the produce, a fracas in the fruit and veg, a stooshie by the salad, if you will, at a branch of Tescos nae far fae Meiklewartle.  Partly cos ye dinna expect that kind o’thing fae the big city sophisticates o’ Huntly; but maistly because I fair thocht Feel Moira hid the monopoly on that kind of behaviour (regular readers will mind the business wi’ Asda and the JCB).

A few year syne, we established the Meiklewartle Fairmers’ Mairket – an anarcho-syndicalist collective, tae better promote the interests of the locals and flog owerpriced unwashed tatties tae the credulous middle classes. I’ll niver forget oor first day o’ trading. This boy comes up tae Skittery Willie’s stall wi’ a great muckle ploom in his mou and says “tell me my good man, are these sausages organic’ ‘I widna ging ‘at far’ says Willie, ‘but they’re nae bad’.

Onywye, soon efter a large retail chain unwisely set up shop on the outskirts of the village.  Me and my fellow traders were nae happy at the thoct o’ wir prices being drastically undercut – less than ten quid for a free range egg? Outrageous! – and Feel Moira wiz particularly incensed at the potential loss tae local business. Naeb’dy wid touch her crappit heed noo, wid they?  Fair play, they ran a mile fae it aforehand, but still. So she marched roond there, and started swearing and ranting at the manager. It took fower staff, a big family sack o’ frozen peas, and the timely intervention of a shelf-stacking quinie wi’ a label pricing gun tae bring her doon.

I took a verra dim view of Moira’s actions. Violence is niver the answer. So I went in the following wik and hid a load o’ unpasteurised cheese ahind their radiators. Twa wiks later the Environmental Health boys closed em doon.

Cheerio!