Sandstorms hit Aberdeenshire! Perfect conditions for Lawrence of Kemnay.

PROFFESOR HECTOR SCHLENK, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute

As a scientist, I am frequently asked questions about what constitutes a meteorological phenomenon.  “Ah yes”, I reply.  “The question is: Weather, or not?”  And then I laugh, uproariously.  For quite some time.  Rather longer than some people feel comfortable with, in fact. But such phenomena have been the source of many fascinating questions in a week when Aberdeenshire has experienced sandstorms, so shortly after extreme wintery conditions. “Just imagine” I thought to myself, while soaking in the tub “how handy it would have been if the blizzards and the sandstorms had happened at the same time!”  And then I realised what I had chanced upon: the self-gritting snowstorm!  “Eureka!”, I cried, as I erupted from my bath and ran naked down the hall to jot the thought down – just as my landlady came up the stair to ask why bath water was leaking into the lounge below, significantly impairing her enjoyment of ‘The Cube‘.

This leads me to what has become the most pressing question of all – does anyone have a spare room to let, preferably with an en-suite bathroom? My landlady has cancelled my lease. 

View from the Midden – rural affairs with JOCK ALEXANDER

It’s been a hairt-braking wik in the village and I hiv been moved tae tears. My central heating’s on the blink and the carbon dioxide is making my een watter, but I hiv been deeply affected by the big news story of the last siven days, which wiz, of course, the tug o’ love atween a Strachan fermer and an animal sanctuary over custody of the tiny wee lamb fit was lost, presumed washed awa by the Water o’ Feugh. ‘River’, they’d cried it. Rather an insensitive moniker that, if you ask me. If I’d near droont in a raging torrent I dinna think I’d wint tae be minded on’t the hale time. They should’ve cried him Banksy. But michty, it’s jist lik Kramer versus Kramer, if Dustin Hoffman wiz a fermer, Meryl Streep wiz an animal recue centre, and their wee loon hid been a sheep. It fair minds me on fan Feel Moira’s goat, Shatner, escaped fae her bothy and took up residence in Skittery Willie’s front gairden. Weel, he didna wint it molloching aboot his hollyhocks and, ill-natered craiter that it wis, she didna wint it back. Their ‘tug of hate’ only ended fan I interceded with diplomacy, chappit tatties and a whisky sauce. Fit fine. Cheerio!

RON CLUNY, Official Council Spokesman

We have been accused, by Trade Union officials, of engaging in bullying tactics in an on-going pay dispute.  This lazy and emotive rhetoric says less about the Council than it does about those who stand against us.   Let us be clear.  “Bullying” is a terrible thing: ask any of us who were constantly tormented during what should have been the happiest days of our lives.  I still remember the fear and shame of being affixed to the science block’s down-pipe by my school tie; and the burning sense of injustice from getting a detention after the whole class colluded to blame me for drawing a priapic figure on the Mannie Weir’s blackboard.  These are experiences from which one does not emerge unchanged. In this dispute, we are not “bullying”. We have simply pointed out that we are the bosses; and if the employees don’t accept the cuts we are imposing, they can lump it.  This is no more than responsible fiscal governance.  And if anyone says otherwise, me and the boys from finance will give them a dead arm and flush their head down the chunty.

 ‘CAVA’ KENNY CORDINER, the sports columnist who packs a punch!

My old club AFC have taken the decision to golfball the upper deck of the Dick Donald Stand next season.  They says they’re wanting a better atmosphere at Pittodrie so they’re going to get all the fans into a smaller space so they can make more noise.  If you want my opinion they is parking up the wrong tree.  Will slightly louder sweetie paper rustling make any difference to the atmosphere?  Back when I was a Don the crowd was magic.  They was singing and chanting and clapping all the time.  “Get Cordiner aff!” they would shout “He’s mince!”. You couldnt beat the banter. These days it’s all groaning and sighing.  The board need to give the fans something to cheer about on the pitch rather than herd them into pens like sheep.  The lovely Melody says to me, she says “They should rename Pittodrie ‘The Moon’ cos there’s no atmosphere there either!” I never knew they played football on the Moon, so I don’t know what she was talking about but everyone else was laughing so I put it in my column.

I see Olympic bicyclist Sir Chris Hoy has decided to hang up his helmet.  It is sad that we won’t see Sir Chris whizzing round the Velcrodome anymore but I bet he’s glad he gets to stop wearing them lycra shorts!  I tried them in a game once after my old pal “Champagne” Charlie Nicholas wore them when he was playing for the Dandies.  They was not comfy. Two minutes in, when I halfed their striker, the ref showed me a yellow and he says to me, he says “shocking tackle, Kenny”.  That shorts was tight, right enough.