Lifting The Lid On Aberdeen Inspired Finances.

 Aberdeen City, News  No Responses »
Dec 172022
 

Business Improvement District entity Aberdeen Inspired kept a lid on its finances – until now. Suzanne Kelly writes.

Businesses in the BID area pay 1% of rateable value to Aberdeen City Council. Aberdeen Inspired invoices ACC for salaries, the levy, and schemes ranging from lacklustre to hare-brained.

AI’s website boasts “…we will try our best to answer any queries and engage with our audience…”. In reality AI blocked many from its social media and won’t answer Freedom Of Information requests.

Happily, a FOI to Aberdeen City Council about an AI scheme resulted in 80 invoices and 200 pages of emails being released.

These show AI invoicing ACC for the Christmas village (ACC contributing £165k in 2019 and £180k in 2018), an annual mural event (£100k pa), and more. These events are nice enough – but they do not seem to be saving businesses from folding.

The released invoices total nearly £3 million including VAT, but don’t cover all AI’s activities. Inspired invoiced the city a total of £1.6 million for the levy across these invoices – the true total is likely to be higher.

Two winners from the BID scheme were AI’s City Centre Manager and its Night Time & Eveniing Economy Manager, trousering £47k and £20k respectively per annum. What do they and AI do to earn their cash?

AI Chief Executive Adrian Watson, a retired police officer, boasted the 2018 Christmas market welcomed 631k visitors. When questioned on the absurdly-high figures, Watson said they used an external company to track footfall.

Had even a fraction of such a crowd visited nearby John Lewis and other shops, perhaps JL and other business would still be here.

During lockdown AI spent £80k on wooden ‘parklets’ (aka benches). Some were vandalized; all have since been removed in a huge waste of materials.

Many BID levy payers were shocked when it emerged £400k of central government money went on a scheme for illuminated street signs.

The 12 signs can only be read from one direction, they experience failures, and are often left switched off.

The company awarded the work (apparently with no tender exercise held) was an English firm that has since gone bankrupt.
How this was meant to help local businesses remains a mystery.

What’s the impact on retailers and hospitality of these follies plus a gift card scheme AI charged £15k to launch, £30k on a ‘place-based investment fund,’ and £6.4k for seagull nest and egg removal? Businesses are leaving in droves.

From the departure of John Lewis, potential pull-out of Marks & Spencer through to the closure of beloved restaurants, pubs and small shops, the millions AI spent have had no measurable positive impact.

Don’t assume though that Inspired don’t know how to economise. In 2015 it invited musicians to audition to play for free at the Christmas village where they could ‘pass the hat around in the usual manner.’

A Night At The Museum

 Aberdeen City, Articles, Featured, Satire and Humour  No Responses »
Dec 192021
 

In her tenth annual Christmas Satire Aberdeen Voice’s Suzanne ‘Old Susannah’ Kelly revisits the events of the past year and revisits last year’s satire, ‘A Night At Storybook Glen’. 

In that tale last year we learned how Angus performed on his first shift at the night security guard at Storybook Glen. Tonight we join Angus at his new job.

Angus straightened his tie, gave his lapels a pull to straighten his jacket and stepped off the No. 19 Hydrogen bus onto Union Street. Then he promptly slipped on the permanent temporary wooden decking, cracking his head on the wooden parklet (in other words a bench with a planter container filled with vandalised plants, fast-food wrappers and cigarette butts).

“Oh! ma heid!” he muttered, getting up and staggering towards the Souless bar, where he intended to have a quick weak beer before his 9pm shift at The Aberdeen Museum & Art Gallery would start.

Celebrating his new job since leaving Storybook Glen seemed a good idea.

“What’ll it be?” shouted the bar person over the heads of the noisy shouting/hugging throng.

“Ah’ll jist hae a Nanny State Shandy, mak it a half,” he smiled.

Just then a round-faced ginger-haired man in foggy spectacles popped his head around the bar.

“Oh no, my old pal Angus here wants something a wee bit stronger, don’t you pal? I hear you’re that new night security guard at the Musuem; you’ll be wantin tae stay awake.

“Here, have one of my Torry snowballs,” he said, pushing a glass to Angus.

Angus cocked his head to one side, and looked at the drink a bit dubiously.

He suddenly remembered the last time he’d had one of Pablo’s cocktails was last year at Storybook Glen’s drinks marquee, where he wasn’t sure whether half the things he’d seen that night were real or not.

He hadn’t been able to sleep properly for days afterwards, and found himself talking as long and as nonsensically as any ACC councillor.

“Pablo, ta aa the same, but Ah’m startin’ ma new job i noo, an’ need tae look sharp. By the wye, how did ye ken Ah’m on nights i noo?”

“Both the Night Time Economy Manger an’ the Alternate Night Time Economy Managers told me. Now just get that down yer neck an’ you’ll have a crackin’ time at the museum.”

Thinking both ‘fit’s an ‘Alternative Night Time Economy Manager’ and ‘Ach why nae?’ Angus downed the drink, thanked Pablo, and went on his merry way.

Who knows? Who cares? It’s a free dinner at the Marcliffe.

The snowy streets were dark, and here and there a fallen over pensioner, woman in high heels or people with mobility issues moaned for help as they slipped, slid and fell on the wooden pavements.

‘Anither normal night in the Deen’ Angus thought, watching brawling men spilling out of a pub swinging at each other and shouting.

Before long, turning down the beautifully illuminated street sign that read ‘elmo tree’ hanging over Belmont Street (one of twelve English-made signs a snip at £400k the lot), Angus found himself approaching the front of the Art Gallery.

He could see the curator standing just inside the doorway.

“It’s 2 minutes and 17 seconds to nine – I hope you’re going to be more punctual tomorrow night Angus!” the curator impatiently simmered, tapping at his watch.

“Angus, I think you met Tom, Dick and Harry; they’ll take it from here. I’m off to the award ceremony.”

“Thank you sir,” said Angus

“Err, which award ceremony is that?”

The curator gave a sign and an eyeroll, answering:

“Who knows? Who cares? It’s a free dinner at the Marcliffe.” And off he went.

Angus said ‘hullo’ to the three guards who stood before him. He had met them on his interview.

Angus heard a ‘SPLAT’ and the whole museum suddenly got eerily darker

They were all retired, but like so many people these days, chose to work minimum wages for the fun and excitement of it rather than enjoying their retirement.

Tom spoke first.

“Fine seein’ ye Angus; welcome. Ah ken ye’ve got yer flashlicht, an’ ere’s the keys.”

Dick chimed in:

“An’ ye’ll be needin this instruction manual; tells ye aa ye need tae ken aboot workin here at nicht. Can get a bittie spooky, ken – “ he broke off.

“But ach, ye’ll be jis’ fine.”

Finally Harry spoke, thrusting a bag at Angus, saying:

“Ye’ll hae a gran’ time Angus, jist dinna mind ony noises ye hear or onythin’ funny ye think ye micht be gan on. Sometimes the lichts play funny tricks.

“An’ if yer feelin’ i cauld, jist hae some o’ this BrewDog Tactical Nuclear Penguin or Sink the Bismarck – we thocht ye micht like a wee gift fae us on yer first day.”

They toured the museum, now devoid of the last of its visitors. Tracey Emin’s artwork, basically a neon sign,made entirely by others based on a scrawled few words of hers through neon light which reflected strangely on a nearby copy of Michelangelo’s David, a statue of Robert the Bruce, and a few paintings.

‘Fit is it wi’ Aiberdeen thinkin neon signs should be elevated tae expensive artwork an’ road signs?’ Angus thought.

For a fleeting moment the light almost made it seem as if the statues could talk – and wanted to. He shook his head and the effect was gone.

The four men meandered through the museum’s many rooms and floors, they passed priceless artworks by Scottish masters, portraits, battle scenes.

They stood under the great glass oculus window when Angus heard a ‘SPLAT’ and the whole museum suddenly got eerily darker as the light seemed to lower.

The three other security guards laughed.

“Aye, ye looked spooked already pal; that’s jist a seagull splattering the windae wi’ sh*te.” Tom laughed.

Dick said:

“Aye, it came as a huge surprise tae the architects that seagulls sh*te near the sea. Fa wid hae thocht?”

“Didnae stop them gettin’ plenty o’ awards though – fer gettin’ rid o’ the auld marble stairs veneer, an putting a pottycabin on the roof. The original architects are nae thrilled at aa” added Harry.

Tom broke across him:

“Ya mean the original architects widna be thrilled.”

“At’s fit Ah’m sayin’,” Harry answered.

Angus thought the three exchanged a quick glance, but then they ushered him onward.

Peering at the Inventory, Angus thumbed through

They were now in the basement, or ‘Subterranean Treasure Hub No 19’ as a sign read. Huge mountainous shelves were piled high with items the museum had collected.

There were old sewing pattern books, pieces of granite, an old A-Z, unsold copies of the Evening Express from 1973, some old glass jars and more. Angus couldn’t help wonder why anyone in their right mind would keep this junk.

Almost as if sensing Angus’ misgivings about the quality of these items, Tom volunteered:

“Tae some fowk thon auld boots wi’ hols in em, auld used tin cans an’ the like are jist rubbish.”

‘Too right’ thought Angus.

“But,” continued Tom, “we ken they’re valuable, cause the city accepted thon donations an’ officially logged them here in this invinterry.”

They had gone through a door labelled ‘SECURITY’ and Tom pointed to a printed document marked ‘Inventory’. This was a few hundred pages in size.

Peering at the Inventory, Angus thumbed through it read a few lines as the other three men stepped into an ante room marked ‘NO ENTRY NOT EVEN YOU – KEN!’

“Afore we leave ye tae it, we’re, errr… jist gan tae git a few things we … err … left ahind, like ma piece box an ma shoppin’ fae Poondland.

“Noo, Angus, ye lisnin? – ye can ging onywye ye like in i museum, but nae past ess door.

“Nivver! – nae metter fitivver happens! Ye hear ma?”

Angus just shrugged, and left them to it. As he heard banging, and scraping noises from that room, he thumbed through the inventory:

ABDMS095514 Gilda Le Fevre Label, 1920-1980
ABDMS095515 Jane Doe’s Thimble, 1920-1940
ABDMS095516 Jane Doe’s broken Thimble, 1886
ABDMS095517 Pattern for Six-Section Hat, 1936-1980
ABDMS095518 Pattern for Six-Section Hat, 1936-1980
ABDMS095519 Oval Hat Pattern, 1936-1980
ABDMS095520 Jane Doe’s Brim Pattern, 1936-1980
ABDMS095521 Jane Doe Sewing, 1990
ABDMS095522 Photograph of Gilda LeFevre, 1990
ABDMS095523 Photograph of Jane Doe, 1936-1980
ABDMS095524 Photograph of Gilda LeFevre and Employees, 1990
ABDMS095525 Photograph of Gilda LeFevre and Employees, 1990
ABDMS095526 Photograph of Pantomime, 1944
ABDMS095527 Photograph of Pantomime, 1944
ABDMS095589 Results Past, 2017
ABDMS095590 Comment No 20.
ABDMS095591 Comment No 15.
ABDMS095592 Comment No 16.
ABDMS095562 Valuable Gift, 2011
ABDMS095533 Income Tax Record, 1944-1945
DISAGBS000057
DISAGBS000058
DISAGBS000059
DISAGBS000060
DISAGBS000061
DISAGBS000062
DISAGBS000063

“Fit’s a hat maker’s broken thimble daein in a museum?” He asked

“Nae idea, but ye can be sure it’s worth a fair few bob.” Tom shouted back

“Fits somebody’s auld tax record daein’ here?”

“Nae idea.” answered Dick

“Fit’s ess aboot? – items ca’d ‘Comment 20’ an’ hunners o’ blank lines?”

“Dinnae fash yersel loon, the important museum curator staff an’ cooncil will understan’ aa thon technical stuff.”

“Hey – how come there’s aa this stuff marked ‘missin’?” Angus asked.

Tom, Dick and Harry had stepped out of the back room.

Each now had on a huge backpack. Tom had a suitcase on wheels.

Dick had a big cardboard box with what looked like a gold frame sticking out of the top of it, and Harry had a big sack.

“Angus, jist bide here, watch i telly, hae a drink an’ a nap, and we’ll see ye aboot 9 the morn’s mornin. Dinna worry aboot onythin’ an’ pey nae heed tae ony noises ye think ye micht be hearin’.” Tom said

“Aye, an’ read thon instruction manual if onythin’ … errr …  unusual pops up. See ye the morn.” said Dick.

“An’ mind fit Ah tellt ye. BIDE OOT O’ ESS ROOM…. Guid Nicht!” said Harry, shutting the door to the forbidden room.

The three turned to leave when with a clatter a selection of silver spoons fell out of Dick’s coat’s sleeve. Scooping them up Angus said:

“Hemen, hing on, looks like ye drapped summin. Ah think ah got ’em aa. See yiz the morn …  an’ thanks for the drink an’ yer help.”

The three men traded furtive looks and off they went out the security guard entrance. For some reason they turned off the light outside of the exit door, and the street outside was in darkness.

Angus watched as they pulled on their covid masks (‘for safety no doubt’ Angus thought), and drew their hats and scarves over their faces, their uniforms covered by their long dark coats. They threw their bags and boxes into the back of the van. Jumping in, they sped off into the night.

“Hey, ye’ve nae switched yer heidlights on”- Angus called after them, but they had sped out of sight.

Angus sat down and opened the bag he’d been left; pulling out a bottle of Tactical Nuclear Penguin he thought ‘At least this will be a bit more normal than Storybook Glen was’.

He thumbed through the inventory half-interested by the repeated words ‘missing’, ‘damaged’, ‘stolen’. On the desk he saw an old Press & Journal; its headlines read ‘Wood to save Torry by turning it into an industrial zone – Hoorah!’ and ‘Exclusive whitewash of oor role in Trump Menie development’.

Folding the paper up into a pillow, he put his head down and soon was fast asleep.

# # #

Angus slowly woke from a dream

He thought he heard voices.

Grabbing his flashlight and having a quick swig from his hip flask, followed by more fortified beer, he stealthily made his way to where the sound was coming from.

Approaching the centre of the building, he stopped to listen; he heard men and women chattering, the pop of a champagne cork, and glasses clinking.

Angus stood out of sight around a corner. The lights were on, and a few dozen well-dressed men and women were milling around the entrance foyer.

“.. so we donated 400 grubby auld cigarette cards, an’ got a 10k tax break; it wis hilarious!”

“I ken, right?,” said a woman’s voice “We donated some auld bits o’ stationery we were gan tae fling oot – seriously, an auld eraser, some index tabs. Chucked in a cigarette lighter or twa, and ken? We didnae hae tae pey tax fer a year. I’m affa gled ye suggested it; thanks again!”

Laughter ensued. Glasses clinked.

“Fit a crackin’ award ceremony; wis richt fine hearin’ Stew tell mair o’ his hilarious jokes doon the Marcliffe. Cooncil pickin’ up the tab Ah’d expect, aye?”

Angus kept hidden out of sight; he realised that these people were some of the town’s great and the good – and a few councillors.

“Hey, div ye still hae thon siller punch bowl roon at yer place? Ah widna mind a shottie o’ it in a couple o wikks fer the big ONE Christmas perty, if ye can spare it?”

Angus stayed out of sight and caught snippets of further conversations.

“Looks a richt sotter, dis it nae? Lik tuppence o’ mix. A metal box on tap o’ a MacKenzie mesterpiece? Nae cohesive use o’ materials, nae relation tae the existing proportions or aesthetic. It wis bound tae win awards. Did ye ken MacKenzie’d daen the Waldorf?

“D’ye think they’d let some hacks come alang an’ stick a metal box on tap o’ the Waldorf?”

Further laughter followed; Angus heard more glasses clinking.

“Fa’s carin’ fit it looks like?” a woman’s voice could be heard asking,

“The point is it wis a much-needed consultation an’ construction job – an’ fit’s mair vibrant an’ dynamic than a few extra crisp Jane Austen’s in your wikkly brownie?”

“The £36 mil wis weel spent – Ah mean, it’s nae like ony o’ us or we’re faimilies will hae tae pey for it.”

“A shame it didna help like we thocht it wid though … tae push the £180 million revamp o’ thon gerdens, Ah mean that wis the original plan, wis it nae?”

“Ach weel, at least the gerdens are aa dug up noo; thon space-hoggin, unprofitable trees awa – well maist o’ them, an’ thankfully some shops are gan in. Mair consultation, mair construction, an’ … errr …. some mair goodies up for grabs an’ aa.”

“Mind, ‘at was richt sleekit o’ ye tae announce with nae prior warning that the gallery wid fa’ tae bits if it didna get a new roof an’ a new a’thin else. Weel done.”

“Aye, an’ thon lottery ticket sellin’ racket wis genius an’ aa.”

“Foo lang dis onybody think ess new buildin’ work will stan’ up? That windae better be water ticht, an’ let’s hope that despite fit it looks like, that box winna ivver cause ony funny stresses or load issues ower time.”

“But twa years owerdue – how’d ye sell ‘at tae the public again?”

“Get this.” A short balding man said.

“We got the P&J tae say – an’ Ah hae tae laugh – we were ower spent an’ owerdue because ‘We had to get it right!’”

The room erupted in laughter.

Just then the doors burst open and three people, looking a bit the worse for wear staggered in, arms over each others’ shoulders, singing.

“Here’s oor Wullie!” one of the revellers shouted.

“Aye, an’ the Alternative Night Time Manager sure seems tae hae livened him an’ Al up a bit, aye?”

Angus guessed it must still be snowing, as the newly-arrived trio were covered in white powder. The conversations continued.

“So fylst the average mannie in the street says ‘oh fit a bonny buildin! ‘it’s won an award’ or ‘we get tae see a heap o’ local artwork’ an’ aa that crap, we get some tax write affs for donating tat, a wee thank you fae the commissioning an’ construction folk, AND…”

The voice paused for a moment

“An’ aa the priceless airtwork, siller an’ nick-nacks ye could ivver want or need tae decorate wi’, or use tae pad up yer retirement fund.”

An anxious woman’s voice was heard next

“But will fowk nae twig that it’s aa o’ us fa’s donating absolute rubbish? Will they nae catch on that the good stuff’s naewye tae be found?”

The man who’d just spoken answered her,

“Nah, nah, dinna worry yersel; hae anither scoof o’ bubbly. Aa the donations are anonymous – unless somebody’s gan for a big publicity stunt; an’ naebody’ll ivver ken fa donated aa thon auld muck.

“Efter aa, thon auld bits o’ auld crap, unsellt papers, broken thimbles an’ fit hiv ye, are of course – should onybody ask – IMPORTANT PIECES O’ OOR HERITAGE.

“Onybody says stuff’s gan missing? Weel: fa’s gan tae clipe? Certainly nae oor local papers – by the wye, gled tae see yiz aa here the nicht an’ hope yer likin’ yer Marischal Square offices. We were happy tae help ye get thon rent breaks an’ perks; fit’s a few mill between chums? The morn, Ah’ve some mair stories for ye tae rin, but the nicht’s a social occasion. Here’s tae us!”

“HERE’S TAE US!!” the room answered back.

As Angus slowly crept away he heard a voice:

“Love how the granite an’ marble looks in yer gerden; lucky for yersel it’s aff limits an’ yer nae subject tae ess right tae roam stuff like the rest o’ us, as befits a mannie in yer position….”

“Ye’ll be in the hoose o’ heroes afore lang; oor very ain king o hydrogen…”

“…chose affa weel indeed… nah, nae The Shamen – drug references, ye ken? The beer brewing fowk – nah, too critical o’ Donald an’ made a few ither controversial missteps as weel …. St Machar the founder? Nah, nae famous enough. If we’d brocht up Glover fowk micht start askin’ aboot eez hoose an’ its contents…. nae punk musicians obviously – that would hae a toxic effect… an’ certainly nae St Fittick…”

Angus decided not to tangle with this crew and silently backed away into the darkness of the museum.
Reaching his guard room again, he tried to make sense of what he’d just overheard. ‘Far’s tha instruction manual?’ he muttered, and finding it started to read.

Rules:
1. Ye see nithin, ye ken nithin
2. If summin’s wrang an’ ye want to report it tae the line manager, dinna!. Mind, ye’ve got a job an’ jobs are hard tae come by. The cooncil’s the biggest employer roon here.
3. If ye feel ye need tae report summin an’ canna trust yer line manager, jist tell the local papers. They’ll keep a lid on it for us. Better still, see Rule 1.
4. If ye can follae Rule 1, we’ll be sure ye get a nice pat on the heid fer daein fit yer tellt, ken fit ah mean?

However, the various drinks he’d had this evening were starting to make him feel woozy, so he reached for another one, and had a few swigs from a few bottles.

He was putting his head down as the loud voices seemed to go away.

He thought he heard the museum’s door shut, and soon it fell silent.

Angus went back to sleep, the words ‘hoose o’ heroes’ echoing in his mind.

Alas, Angus had only started this security job before the museum refit! The B.R. Premier Oil Lamp (now missing) was actually a magic lamp. When it had been in the museum, at midnight it’s magic brought ALL of the collection to life, kind of like that Ben Stiller series of films.

This included the (now missing) painting of the Gods on Olympus, 1798 by William Williams, including the (missing) Apollo and Daphne, also by Williams.

The architect who so carefully planned the Art Gallery, Mr Mackenzie, once roamed the halls when they were under construction shouting and screaming about his jewel being cannibalised and desecrated to the other gallery inhabitants when the magic lamp brought him to life; but he is heard no more.

The (missing) portrait of Sir Thomas More [sic] by Francesco Bartolozzi RA, After Hans Holbein, came to life and spoke with eloquent logic.

Back then the (now missing) Scottish Maid by an unknown master sat down to enjoy a (now missing) Still Life With Candlestick & Bread by Oskar Kokoschka with the handsome (now missing) James, Fifth Earl of Fife by Alexander Brodie.

Highland Cattle came out of (now missing) paintings and huge, beautiful artworks were filled with life.

During the day, some of that magic could be seen by visiting school children, some of whom might once have been inspired to make similar work. Some of these pieces could have provided historical information to artists, researchers and family historians. And heck, some people might just have enjoyed looking at these now missing windows on another world and time.

nasty glass-box architecture rose

But today no one will see their beauty or magic again: save the people who know where these and 1,577 items are that belonged to Aberdonians.

While this is a satire with no relation to anyone living or dead, should anyone in possession of stolen valuable, irreplaceable art taken from the public ever read these lines, may they encounter the karma they have earned.

As to those who were paid to protect the art that belongs to all of us, but whether by ignorance, negligence or deliberate acts stole, turned a blind eye or otherwise allowed this betrayal of trust, may such judases eventually get their karmic rewards too.

Anyone who knows where any of the missing 1,577 items are but who is keeping quiet is an accessory after the fact to theft. Time to unburden yourselves and fess up.

In Angus’ dreams hundreds of valuable portraits disappeared out of the museum into nowhere. Bits of old papers, bus tickets, broken biros were put in gilt frames in place of the fine art and hung on the gallery walls. And he dreamed people were in awe of the elevated rubbish because they were told it was art.

He dreamed that the things of real value in his beloved city were being stolen, bulldozed, built over, sold cheaply and cheap, nasty glass-box architecture rose over what was once a collection of historic, unique buildings.

He dreamed the land once loved by heroes and literal saints was now governed by incompetents, venal, greedy self-serving sneaks, egotistical ward- and attention-seeking narcissists and sex offenders.

He dreamed that the historic was written off as old-fashioned and the cheap, profiteering projects destroying the greenbelt and its wildlife, as well as the once-unique city scape, were hailed in a bought-and-paid for biased press as ‘vibrant’ ‘dynamic’ and ‘job-creating’.

He dreamed that same press had abandoned any pretence of journalistic independence, integrity and impartiality by taking millions from the taxpayer and were happy to mislead the public when it suited them if there was money in it.

Then Angus saw it was morning and that he wasn’t dreaming.

Angus decided he’d had enough. He picked a few causes to fight, some wrongs to try to right, and he set off to lobby, to investigate and to run for office.

He might not succeed, but he was going to try.

# # #

Follow up on the 2018 Christmas Satire ‘The Snowman’

The above video Aberdeen Voice satire covered some of the awful events of 2019 worldwide. There are at least two happy endings – the Russian caging of beluga whales is over, and the cages destroyed: public pressure did this.

And happily Donald J Trump is out of office and in court – many courts – and may soon be convicted of crimes.

Here’s to a little people power: just what Aberdeen needs. Elections are in May. You can still register to run.

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A Night At Storybook Glen

 Aberdeen City, Featured, Satire and Humour  No Responses »
Dec 132020
 

A Night At The Museum Storybook Glen.

Continuing a tradition stretching back nine years, Aberdeen Voice presents Suzanne Kelly’s annual Christmas-time satire covering the vibrant and dynamic goings-on in The Deen, the shire and the wider world.

Angus was running late for his new job.

Courtesy of Universal Credit, the acclaimed petrochemical engineer was ‘retraining’ as a security guard. 

He was at a wooden bus stop waiting for his bus to Story Book Glen.  Nearby hung a poster – ‘Fatima’s Next Job Could Be in Cyber, Only She Doesn’t Know It Yet’ read the kindly, helpful advert, featuring a ballet dancer who obviously should give up her dancing to become a government computer spy.

If Angus got lucky, he too might be retrained in cyber.  But first, he had to prove himself to Universal Credit to get that £80 a week payment.  His bus arrived after an hour or so, and off he went.

It was getting dark as he got off the No. C-19 bus on the outskirts of The Deen; the city lights were coming on, showing how vibrant and dynamic the city looked.  From afar.

Wandering through the Maryculter streets he arrived at his work placement.  ‘WELCOME TO STORYBOOK GLEN – no dogs allowed’ read the sign at the entrance, where a man sat waiting for him.  There was a papier mache castle wall with an archway; it was as pretty and as well built as any of the Barratt Homes he’d been walking past.

The little old man, smelling a bit like Buckfast Angus thought, thrust a flashlight and some keys into his hands.

“Hullo!  Ye must be thon work experience loon, Aye? Weel, welcome tae Storybook Glen,” he said, gesticulating around him as the sun continued to sink. 

“Ere’s yer keys.”

The wizened old man led Angus to a little wooden hut; in it were a wooden chair by a solitary window, a tiny fridge, and a heater.  Before they went in, Angus looked around and in the distance he could see the figures of several nursery rhyme characters as the sun continued sinking, like the feeling in his stomach.

“Did ye tak yer passport like we tellt ye tae?” the man asked; he seemed a little tipsy.

“Sure, have it here.” Angus replied, assuming it was needed for tax or ID purposes.

“Good, good – keep it on ye fer noo.  Noo ye micht get some tresspassers; some n’eer do wells were through the ither year, paintin punk rock slogans on oor statues – caused a fair stooshie,” the man warned. 

“Aa ye hae tae dae is tak a walkie roon’ noo an again, an hit onyhin ye see o’er the heid wi yer flashy, ken?  And bide oot o’ trouble!”

‘What trouble could I possibly get into around here?,’ wondered Angus ‘this will be a boring but easy way to earn ma minimum hourly wage so I can pay my council tax off soon.’

The man thrust a paper bag with a bottle in it into Angus’ hand.

“Noo, fae time tae time ye micht hear some funny stuff gan on, aye, and see even funnier stuff” said the old man.

“Tak a scoof ‘o this an’ athin will be fine.  There’s some o’ ma homemade mushroom pate in tha fridge along with half a bottle o’ Fred Wilkinson’s Tullos Hill Red – help yersel.  Ahm awa noo; see ye in the mornin’ – if ye’re still aboot.” 

And laughing to himself, the little old man hobbled away through the fake castle entrance away from Storybook Glen and out of sight.

An owl hooted.  Angus looked in the bag at a bottle that read ‘Tactical Nuclear Penguin.’ ‘Ah fine; this job will be a breeze’ he thought, and with that he set himself down in the chair in the tiny guard’s booth.  He helped himself to the amazingly delicious homemade wine and pate, had a swig of Penguin, and started to doze off.

*                                        *                                         *                                          *

Angus woke with a start some hours later; the owl hooted.  He shivered and got up to turn on the space heater.  As he turned to go back to his chair, his eyes glanced at the window and he froze.

Looking back in on him were a pair of giant reptilian eyes.  He dared not move.

“Hullo!  Hullo!  Dinna be feart; Ah’m nae gan tae hurt naebody.”

Angus blinked, but when he looked again, the thing was still there, and was trying to open the door to the guard hut. 

It had a round face.  It looked like – but no it couldn’t be –

“Onywye. Fit Like?  Ah’m Barney” the thing said.  It stood in the threshold now; a giant lizard that looked like –

“You’re Barney.  Barney the -the-“ Angus stammered lost for words

“Dinosaur, aye, it’s often been said” said the beast with a chuckle an swish of its tail.

Grabbing Angus by the arm (Angus had just enough time to grab his flashlight and bottle) Barney took Angus out of the hut.  An eerie green glow illuminated Storybook Glen now, and Angus could see Barney was wearing a chain of office.

“You’re a talking dinosaur.  You’re Barney the dinosaur.  And – you’re purple – how is this possible?”

“Why am I purple?  Well, when ye start oot as Labour, but form a coalition with the Tories, the red and the blue get a bittie mixed up, and ye get purple.”

(Angus had actually meant how had a Barney the Dinosaur statue started walking and talking). 

“Weel ma loon, let ma lead ye doon the Storybook Glen gerden path and Ah’ll tell you aa ye need tae ken, and introduce ye to the rest o’ us.”

“Rest of you?” Angus repeated weakly as Barney led him away from the hut.

*                                        *                                         *                                          *

“Ye’re here on an affa special nicht” Barney said, elated.

“Ye ken, Storybook Glen Cooncil has won nae jist ane, but twa awards!  The hale o the Glen is celebratin’ the nicht!”

Angus was being led down the garden path.  Soon they came to a 6’ high wooden soldier which stood at tollhouse.

“HALT!  Who goes there?” Demanded the soldier; it had very red cheeks and a mop of blonde hair. 

“Passports out!  Non-Storybook Glen characters this way – take off your shoes, belt, coat, take any computers out of bags, only one flagon of mead per person do you have any cigarettes to declare –”

“Ah Boris, it’s me – Barney,”  the purple dinosaur laughed at the guard.

“We surely dinna hae tae go through aa that, div we?  This is ma new pal Angus, oor new security guard.”

“Well OK then,” said Boris.

“I’m a tough negotiator.” 

And Barney and Angus were waived past the checkpoint.

Beep!’  ‘Beep!’ 

“Bleeping ~&!!&! bleep!”

Barney and Angus were approaching what looked like 4 tiny yellow cars driving around in a circle.  Elves driving them were waving their fists, honking their horns and shouting at the other drivers.

“It’s a one wye system ya bamstick!”

“Ah’m only gan one way ya gluepot!” shouted another elf

An older elf was in her yellow car sobbing; 

“Ah jist wanted tae dae ma shoppin’; I canna go a bike or walk, ken?  Aa thon one wye signs hiv  me gan roon in circles fer oors!  Ah jis want tae ging hame!”

And sure enough, the little path they were on was covered with one-way signs, do not enter signs, and a sign which read ‘Storybook Glen Fun Beach next left. No left turn’.  Dotted around were wooden bus stops and 136 wooden benches.

Barney puffed out his Devonian-era chest and said:

“Storybook Glen may yet win anither award for this An’ aa. Ah’m richt prood. Ess is how we fecht the dreaded plague here in the Glen.  We canna hae fowk jis drivin intae toon an’ parkin’ cars tae ging intae shops; it’s nae safe. Abody should be on bikes.  An’ it’s only cost £1.76 million pieces o’ gold tae get it sortit oot.”

Angus took a swig.

“Do you ride a bicycle then?” asked Angus, feeling sure Barney could not manage such a feat – knowing there were many others who could not either.

“Oh aye, yer yer a funny guy, eh?” Barney replied nodding his head,

“Me on a bike? Are ye wise min? Ah’ve got ma ain Barneymobile wi’ a chauffeur.”

Barney pointed to a large marquee in the distance; it was lit up, as were its customers apparently; the shouting and carrying on could be heard faintly on the air.

“At’s far we’re heidin,” said Barney, dragging an unwilling Angus along,

“Jist one mair stop tae mak.”

Heading down the path, Angus could make out in the green glowing light which filled the glen one brick house, a wooden house, and a big pile of straw.

“That’s …. surely not?” Angus stammered, seeing three little pigs; two were patting a sobbing pig on the back.  Angus took another swig.

“Aye, yer richt enough. Come an’ meet some o’ ma constituents, The Three Little Pigs.” Barney replied, anticipating Angus’ question.

Wordlessly Barney and Angus now stood in front of the pigs.  The sobbing pig looked up at Angus

“Stewart Milne Home, eh?” Angus commiserated and the pigs nodded.

“Come on an’ hae a drink lads, it’ll gee ye up a bittie” Barney said to the pigs, who immediately perked up. 

And soon Angus, Barney and the three little perky pigs were heading to the giant marquee.

Angus could barely hear Barney, who was telling story after story, as a terrible din rose from the marquee, which Angus soon realised was a big beer tent.  A huge roar went up; Angus peered inside.

The place was filled with storybook characters brought to life; swigging flagons of ale, Jaegerbombs, and Buckfast.  There were banshees screeching; elves dancing on tables, screaming, laughing and hugging.   Above hung a sign saying ‘Welcome to the Seven Dwarves Incorporated Trades of Storybook Glen Annual beer tent – An Inspired idea’

Dwarves mixed with trolls and witches; in a corner sat Little Jack Horner, eating a Christmas pie.  Angus swore he’d never drink again as he took another swig of the Tactical Nuclear Penguin. 

Beer flowed, shouts were heard, everyone hugged one another.  Barney took Angus by the shoulder and they entered the crowded tent.  A witch at a table stopped them at the entrance.

“Good evening.  Do you have reservations?”

‘Quite a few’ thought Angus.

“No” answered Barney.

“Good – I hate all that red tape.” Answered the witch.

“Are you in a bubble?” she demanded.

“Course Ah am, Ah’m wi’ the Cooncil.”

Barney and the witch both laughed.

“Right then, have a great time, social distance or wear a mask if you feel like it, and hug the nearest strangers if there is a goal scored in the football match on the telly. 

“We canna stop ye daein ‘at can we, ken?” She said, forgetting herself and lapsing into her default Doric.

Passing it off as humour to hide her embarrassment, she continued in her adopted, more ‘professional’ tone:

“We close at the stroke of midnight, except if we don’t.  The big award ceremony celebration starts at 11”

“Come an’ meet some o’ ma fella cooncillors.” Barney said.

“Sit doon an’ A’ll get the drinks in – nah, dinna sit there –“ Barney said, grabbing Angus away from a tall bald man and plonking him in a chair next to a man in a suit. 

Angus was introduced to him as being Wee Willie Wilkie.

Angus took another swig of his Penguin.  And with that Barney started to make his way through the throng to the bar, using his tail to sweep the crowd out of his way.  Angus was left at the table.  ‘I am definitely asking for a pay rise’ he thought, taking another sip of Penguin.

“An then –” cackled the bald man,

“then when Ah wez on me holidays, Ah got them te gissies another suspension!” 

He leaned forward on the table, and the others laughed and nodded approvingly.

“An then…” he continued, hushing the approving chuckles of agreement.

“Then Ah got them te postpone the hearing fre a furtha month. Another month on the payroll!” 

He nodded confidently and the others smiled and cheered.

“What’s all that about?” asked Angus to no one in particular as the bald speaker polished off flagon after flagon of wine.

Wee Willie answered him.

“That’s Donnelly Wonnelly Puddin and Pies. He assaults the unwilling and always denies. 

“He gets away with lots of things – like taking sex offenders fer drinks in shady bars in STorrybook toon, and taking cash fer upgradin passengers tae first class on Thomas the Tank engine trips an keeping their gold. 

“Nothing touches him, he doesn’t even get his wrist slapped, and if he does get into trouble, the judges say ‘it’s just a one off’ or ‘it didn’t seem like an assault to me’, and away he goes on holidays. Unlike poor me.”

Angus felt revolted and was glad Barney stopped him from sitting next to Donnelly.  Donnelly Wonnelly continued:

“Aye man, but get this,” he threw back his head howling with laughter,

“then at the hearing the convener sez the assault wez ‘a one off!!’”

The whole table – except Angus – erupted in laughter and they clinked their glasses and toasted Donnely Wonnelly.

Wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, Donnelly addressed Wee Willie,

“Ahm sorry aald mate, Ah divvent mean te celebrate me victories when Ah knaa yee hev yer problems.  or should Ah syah ‘Wall te Wall’ problems!” 

Everyone at the table laughed again – except Wee Willie and Angus.  Willie shook his head and sighed.

“Well, at least the wall’s paid fre noo . Forst , Humpty Dumpty sat on it an had a fall, then Storm Gertie made it fall in.” Donnelly said.  

At that several eyes silently met each other around the table, almost as if they didn’t believe Gertie was responsible.

“Yes, go on, laugh if you must. But it was not as easy as you might think to remember whether I owned the wall, whether I didn’t own the wall, whether I owned the wall with the wife, whether the city owned the wall, or me or my da or-“  Willie stammered

“Aye,” interrupted Barney, who was back with drinks, plonking a steaming tankard of something or other in front of Angus. 

“Some of’ us drink tae ferget; but Wee Willie, you dinna need ony help at aa, div ye?  How’s the amnesia?  Cleared up noo?” 

A few at the table laughed; Willie blushed.

“Dinna worry yersel aboot it Willie; that’s aa fergotten”. 

“Handy though that ye didnae hae to pay 200,000 pieces o’ gold tae get it fixed.  But this ither business needs tae blaw ower, then ye can come back in aboot the body o’ the kirk.”

“What has to blow over, Barney?” asked Willie,

“You mean when I told the peasants we had to build Marischal Square Castle or that they would have to pay a billion pieces of eight in penalty?”

“Nah, nae thon” said Barney.

“Ye mean that I’m in the Labour party but support the Tories?” asked Willie.

“Nah, ‘at’s nithin; hisna stopped the rest o’ us.” 

The table laughed.

“You mean when I didn’t know who owned that wall but I gave verbal permission for the repairs, that I sent and got emails aboot it using my council email and held meetings in my council office aboot it? 

“Maybe you mean when I accidentally leaked some information about yon Marischal Sq? Or-”

“No Willie – Abody likes to mix a wee bit o’ business wi’ council business” said Barney

“Ah mean this fortune cookie Covid-19 racist cairry on.  We hae tae hing fire til ‘at aa blaws ower.  Ahm thinkin we’ll get oor pals at Inspired tae dae some’hin in the Storybook Glen Press. Gie fowk some’hin else tae spik aboot.  Mibbee some good news aboot the ‘Inspired indoor Christmas fayre’. 

“We’ll hae thoosans o’ fowk come in aboot tae shop – and they’ll be gled we stopped them gan intae aa the wee shoppies.  Some’hin’ lik ‘at. But dinna worry Wee Willie; anither wikk or twa, and it’ll be aa business as usual again.”

Everyone at the table chatted to each other, growing increasingly drunk. Angus, who was feeling somewhat left out of the conversation, decided he really wanted to do the rest of his security guard rounds – and to get some fresh air out of the stifling, noisy, crowded tent. 

After he finished whatever was in his tankard that is.  Soon he was ready to go, but feeling somewhat worse for wear.

“Barney, ladies an gents; I really must go do my rounds” Angus said.

“Maybe I’ll be back here though before closing time.”

“Cinderella will arrive around 11pm; myek sure yee are heor fre tha – she’s got summat ta celebrate – we’ve won awards –  and that’s why so many of weh are oot the neet – though Ahm not heor in me official capacity, yee knaa” said Donnelly, and the table laughed.

Angus got up, wove his way out of the crowd, and found himself in the night air once more.  He had another hit of Penguin.  Somewhere an owl hooted.

*                                        *                                         *                                          *

Angus felt dazed; ‘Well, at least things can’t get any stranger’ he prematurely told himself as he wandered down a further path.

He heard a whirring noise, and stumbling towards it, found himself face to face with an imp hard at work on a spinning wheel.  On the creature’s left was a huge pile of sh*te and straw which he placed on the spinning wheel; on the right was a tiny pile of gold, falling from the wheel. There was also a giant pile of books.

“I’ll bet ye canna guess ma name!” The creature said in a smug, satisfied conceited manner.

“Err, yer Damian Bates, disgraced news editor who used his job to further his wife’s business aspirations.”

“”$!”%!!! ye little sh*te” said the outraged creature,

“I’ve rebranded!  I’m Trumplestiltskin!” said the thing angrily, spinning harder than ever.

Angus picked up a book; the cover read ‘Shirk in Scotland:  Thon Real Deal, Ken’; over it was a sticker saying ‘SALE NOW ON: ONLY 1 GROAT OR 2 EGGS’

“Ah’m a Spin Doctor!  If aince on a blue moon Shirk says or daes some’hin’ that could be taen the wrang wye,  it’s ma job tae spin his sh*te intae gold.

“Like, fan Shirk cages immigrant bairns -he micht be cooking them fer aa I ken- I spin for him an’ tell fowk that nasty trolls fae abroad are tryin tae sneak intae Storybook Glen. 

“Hiv ye nae read any o’ the stories I wrote aboot fit a topper o’ a boy Shirk is?  Did ye nae hear aboot thon time he rearranged some o’ his paintins in Turnberry Glen Castle? Amazin!  Fit a guy! 

“Anither time, he tellt me personally – he likes eatin ornery grub like hamberders and cofvefee!  Can ye believe Ah got these amazing insights!  I really ken the loon! He’s  ane o’ wer ain, ken? 

“Ah’m ees best pal!  Lik Brithers! He took me tae farawa lands in a flying machine aince.

“Ah hae a Ferrari.  Ye needin a copy o’ ma book?  It’s chock-a-block wi smashin stories lik thon.  A could gie ye a signed copy fer jist one egg if –“

“Wait a minute” Angus interrupted “Just who is this Shirk guy?”

The imp was astonished and stopped his monologue.  Jaw dropping, he said:

“Well if ye dinna ken, jis follae the path on the richt.  Tak a far richt turn, an’ hud gan as far tae the richt as ye can. Ye’ll find Shirk.  He’s wi ma bonny wife richt noo – She’s ca’d ‘Fee-earner’.  Just tell them Ah sint ye! 

 “Then I ken ye’ll be back ta buy ma book!”

Angus, feeling a desire to be away from the imp, made his excuses and headed away down the right-leading path, taking one further swig of Penguin from the now half-full bottle.

After a time, Angus saw a clearing up ahead on the extreme right.  As he got closer, he heard bellowing- then a golf ball whizzed past his ears.

“ANOTHER HOLE IN ONE FOR ME, FEE-EARNER – I’M MAKING GOLF GREAT AGAIN!”

Angus reached the clearing. 

An enormous ogre stood in a golf swing pose. 

Its skin was bright orange with bright pink lips on a misshapen mouth.

White circles were around its beady black eyes.

It was as wide in the stomach as it was tall. 

Before Angus could recover himself, an ear-splitting shriek went out, and an ogress grabbed Angus by the arm.

“EEEEK!  FA ARE YOU?” the ogress shouted.

“FIT YE DAEIN HERE?  ARE YE FAE THE PAPERS?  THEY’RE AA OOT TAE GET ME AN SHIRK, KEN? AND IT’S NAE FAIR!” 

She had brown hair teased up into a ridiculous do, wore impossibly high heels, which kept sinking into the grass, and from her shoulder hung a banner which read ‘FACE OF THE GLEN – 2010.’

Angus found himself dragged in front of the Ogre, who wore a red baseball hat with the initials MSGGA.

“Look fit ah’ve foon, Shirk” she said to the golfing ogre.

“WHO IS THIS GUY?  WHADDYA WANT? AN AUTOGRAPH?  A MSGGA HAT? GONNA VOTE FOR ME AGAINST THOSE COMMIES?” it bellowed.

“Er, my name is Angus, and some guy named Trumplestiltskin told me I should come and say hello.”

“WHO? OH YOU MEAN FEE-EARNER’S HUSBAND, THAT WRITER GUY -WHAT’S-HIS-NAME.  HE BETTER BE SPINNING ME SOME GOLD.”

“Aye, too richt boss”, crooned the ogress, pointing to her oversized feet spilling out of her high-heels,

“Thon ‘Jimmy Choomaker and the Elves shoes’ dinna come cheap.”

Angus’ curiosity got the better of him, and taking a swig from the bottle in his tightly-clutched paper bag asked:

“Why de they call ye ‘Shirk’?”

“BEATS ME!” Bellowed the ogre, lining up another golfball

“SOME PEOPLE HAVE NO IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO BE AN OGRE. SOMETIMES THEY EVEN WANT ME TO LISTEN TO SECURITY BRIEFINGS.  DON’T THEY KNOW I’M BUSY?  DID YOU WATCH FOX LAST NIGHT?”  he asked while swinging at the ball, which flew off into the sky,

“ANOTHER GREAT SHOT!  MAKE GOLF GREAT AGAIN!  MAKE STORYBOOK GLEN GREAT AGAIN!  MAKE ME A HAMBERDER FEE-EARNER!”

Angus felt a strong desire to get away, but what to his wondering eyes did appear but Santa Claus, a team of reindeer pulling his flying sled, which landed on the edges of the clearing.

Santa was not what Angus expected:  he was tall and thin, and looked a bit like Sir Ian. Santa approached.

“Shirk, wonderful to see you again, and you too Fee-earner.  I’ve got a few presents for you,” Santa said, pulling some brown envelopes out of his sack. 

“Ah, just look at all these trees, glens and glades.”  Santa smiled, waving his hand towards the trees and a sand bank.

“Isn’t it a pity” said Santa slowly,

“that the Sandman no longer has environmental protection on his sand dunes?  Who could have seen that coming?”

Fee-earner laughed.

“Between that ‘unfortunate’ loss of protection, my connections and your, errr, obvious charisma, this will all be Stewart Milne homes before you can say ‘Jack Swinney be Nimble’.”

“THANKS SANTA! THIS IS MUCH BETTER THAN THAT DIPLOMA THINGY YOU TRIED TO GIVE ME A FEW YEARS AGO.  DID YOU BRING ME ANY KFC?  HUNGRY!”

“Yes, well. I wanted to-” but before Santa could finish his thought, shots rang out from several directions. 

Donner and Blitzen fell over dead in their tracks.  Dasher was wounded.  Angus took a big sip.

“Daddy!  Daddy!  Daddy!” said a little donkey clutching an AK47, “Daddy I killed them!  I’m a hunter daddy, a big scary macho hunter!”

“JUNIOR, THAT’S NICE NOW RUN ALONG AND PLAY, DADDY’S BUSY.” Said Shirk as his son, the ass, who was visibly crestfallen, “NOW THERE’S A GOOD BOY, GO RUN ALONG AND MAYBE FIND SOME SHEEP YOU CAN SHOOT TOO.”

“I got one! Kill! I got one! A Tree for every citizen!  Kill!”  Another hunter emerged from the glen. She was a tiny little witch with a pointed hat.

“Damn those deer!  They eat plants!  Kill!  Kill!”

“JUNIOR, TAKE YOUR FRIEND AILEEN MALICE WITH YOU AND GO KILL STUFF SOMEWHERE ELSE, I’M BUSY”

Shirk dismissed the pair who wandered off together.  Soon other shots rang out as the pair disappeared into the trees.

“Don’t worry about those deer” said Santa coldly,

“No one is irreplaceable.  I’ll just be off now though, plenty of ‘gifts’ to be delivered at the Awards Ceremony, not least to the people behind the Storybook Glen incinerator and the Storybook Glen harbour expansion.  Shouldn’t we all be heading there now?”

And as everyone always obeys Santa, off they headed back to the beer tent.  Angus had some Penguin.

*                                       *                              *                                     *

Shirk, Fee-earner and Santa all headed back down the path towards the beer tent.  Angus followed behind.

“PSST!” Angus heard a voice,

“Come here fer a second”

Angus found himself face to face with three fish.  What three 2-metre-long fish were doing in this place he had no idea.

“Ye must be the new security guard” said the first fish.

“Ok, I’ll bite – who are you?” Angus asked.

“We’re the three fish. Naebody kens ower muckle aboot us, tho there’s mony a tail, maistly codswallop, but on a scale of 1 to 10 we dinna gie a dab” said the first fish, floating above the ground.

“Ye see we’re actually the legendary Black Fish.  Ye ken? – fish that were caught and landit, but nivver declared tae the Storybook Glen tax mannie.  A big ‘net profit’ ye micht surmise. There wis heaps o’ gold in that back in the day.”

“Still is” said the second fish.

“T’wis the Crookit Man fa steert thon up, Ah’m tellin ye.” said the third fish, which inexplicably wore a bowler hat. 

“Them fa land black fish ayewis say it’s by accident – but we ken it’s daen on porpoise.”

Angus, who found himself transported from Universal Credit minimum wage security guard to grown man talking to three giant hat-wearing talking fish who was about to catch up with ogres and Santa, found himself finally lost for words.  He had another swig from his bottle.

“Ye ken the story” said the first fish: “There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile?  That guy.  Affa fishy indeed.”

“Need tae watch thon crooked mannie lik a hake” said the second fish “He’ll come bearing gifts an’ acting like yer best pal.  Ye’ll fa’ for him hook, line an’ sinker if ye dinna look oot.”

“Aye,” said the second fish, “he stitched ma mate up like a kipper.”

“What’s your names?” asked Angus.

“Ah’m Gil” said the first fish.

“And this is Finn, an’ Ray.”

“Well, thanks for the warning and all, but I think I need to go get a drink.”

“Sorry we canna jine ye.”said Finn.

“Gil drinks like a fish, an we’ve aa been barred.  Thinks he’s the life and sole o’ the party.”

“Always legless” said Ray,

“And Ah dinna like pubs; Ah aye feel oot o’ plaice – lik a fish oot o water.”

Angus, who feared he had a haddock coming on, had had enough. 

“Bye then chaps; I’d best get my skates on.  Bigger fish to fry.  Sea you later.”

“Whale meet again!” chimed the three fish.

And off Angus hurried to catch up with Shirk and his party, taking a quick sip from his bottle on the way.

*                                            *                                    *                                       *

The Seven Incorporated Dwarves tent was heaving.  A space had been cleared in the middle of the tent when Angus arrived.  His friend Barney sidled up to him and thrust a further tankard of drink into his hands.

“Been haein a fun wi Shirk an’ Suntie Claas Ah hear” smiled Barney, who was now clutching a brown envelope. 

In fact Santa was working the room, handing out brown envelopes large and small.  Just then, to Angus’ astonishment, Santa pulled off his beard, which had been a disguise, and his Santa hat.  He put on a tall, black hat, which was crooked.

“The crooked man” muttered Angus to himself.

“What wez tha, Angus?” asked Donnelly Wonnelly tucking something into his suit jacket pocket.

“Er nothing.  I-“

But Donnelly wasn’t listening and a sudden blast of trumpets made even the drunken revellers hush.

“Ladies, Gentlemen an’ Cooncillors” Barney addressed the room; he was now in a spotlight talking on a mic. 

“Here she comes noo; the fairest in aa the land:  Give it up fer SNOOOOW WHITE!”

A hush fell over the room as Snow White glided to the centre of the room.

‘She looks just like Melania Trump’ Angus thought, although he didn’t recognise her at first with so much clothes on.

“Ladeees and Gentlemen.  I am Snow White.  Whiter than White.  White Power.  Obama he had never been born – no birth certificate.  My husband Shirk is going to make Storybook Glen Great again!  Be best!”

Huge cheers rang out in the tent.  She continued, but it was clear she was a bit tipsy.  Suddenly as Shirk tried to take her hand, her mood changed abruptly.

“I really don’t care do you?  F Christmas!  Who gives a F about Christmas! I-“ Snow White growled, as she was suddenly being dragged away by footmen. 

“I have more to say!  I am brilliant like Shirk!  I have Epstein Visa!” she bellowed as they took her away.

Barney swiftly recovered the event. 

“OK, Movin richt along noo, here she is:  oor ain Cinderella, an’ AWARD-WINNING COUNCILLOR OF THE YEAR!  Welcome Jeanny Ling!”

The crowd shouted wildly and applauded as a pumpkin coach drawn by six hydrogen-powered cars pulled up next to Barney, who helped the beautiful award-winning Cinderella out.

“Well, this is the best thing that has ever, ever happened!” 

“I WON!  I won an award as best councillor!”

The crowds chanted ‘Jea-nny!  Jea-nny! Jea-nny!’ as she held the shining golden trophy aloft.

“Ah micht nae be Labour richt noo, but Ah’m an AWARD WINNER!” Jeanny told her admirers,

“Aye, thon prestigious, fee-charging, private thinktank, the LGIU decidit to mak me – ME! The top cooncillor!”

Barney handed her a bouquet of flowers; Angus thought he saw a bulging brown envelope inside of it.

“Tae show oor gratitude, Ahm hopin ma fella Storybook Glen cooncillors will be a-signing up fer some o’ the LGIU’s braw workshops – there’s a bargain course ‘how to deal with difficult people’  for jist 540 pieces o’ eight.  Some o’ ye micht need ‘at if yev hid ony doins wi Donnelly Wonnelly or Wee Willie!”

The crowd guffawed except Wee Willie, who was busy live-tweeting the event, pretending not to notice the slight.

Angus started to have his doubts about the integrity of his new-found pals.

Jeanny continued: 

“Ah hope ye’ve aa got yer memberships; maybe cometime ye’ll win an AWARD as weel – jis think foo happy the peasants will feel aboot ‘at  – or think they feel, Ah should say.  Costs Storybook Toon Cooncil next tae ni’hin for the annual membership fees – but we canna tell ye foo muckle.”

“And this prestigious LGIU award is sponsored by CCLA.  And fit’s the CCLA?” Jeanny trilled,

“A charitable investment fund!   AND..” she waited for cheers to die down.

“Last year CCLA had a turnower o’ 33 million gold coins!”

The applause was thunderous; streamers and balloons fell from the sky.   Brown envelopes were flying like confetti.  The Crooked Man had left the Santa suit he’d been wearing across a table; he was now talking to a few men in suits.

Angus felt a touch on his arm.  It was the witch from the table at the doorway.

“Here dearie,” she crooned,

“Ye look a wee bit peaky.  I’ve something tae mak ye feel better.”

“Is it a magic potion?” Angus asked.

“Well, dearie in a wye it is” and she pressed a small but thick brown envelope into his hand. 

“Time ye wis back doon tae yer guardhoose.”

She snapped her fingers.

*                                      *                          *                                          *

“Huzzaat?”

With a jolt Angus was awake.  The sun was coming up.

Next to him on the desk was the now-empty dish of home-made mushroom pate and the empty wine bottle. There was still a slug of Penguin left.

“You wakkint?”

The old man who’d helped him last night was knocking on the window of the guard hut; his face was beaming. 

“Ony bother last nicht?”

Angus took a few moments to recover his senses. 

“Err, all fine last night, nothing to report.”

“Smashin,” said the man with a twinkle in his eye.

“Morn’s nicht again then, Aye?”

“Err.. sure” said Angus, gathering his things. 

“Mind if I take the rest of this Penguin with me?  I’ll bring you some ‘Sink the Bismarck’ tomorrow.”

“Ach, ‘at would be affa good o’ ye”. said the man patting Angus on the shoulder.

“Ah think me an’ you’s gan tae get on jist rare.”  

Angus turned to leave and was walking away when the old man caught his arm. 

“Ye fergot this, pal.” said the old man, and he thrust a brown envelope at Angus, who swiftly put it in his inside pocket.

Angus took a further swig from the bottle, patted the envelope through his jacket and headed to find the bus back home.  Somewhere a sleepy owl hooted.

*                                      *                          *                                          *

From Aberdeen Voice, Old Susannah, and the fictitious, unrelated to any plaice, place, person or persons, Storybook Glen and its fake inhabitants – MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY 2021, and Good Health!  Wear a mask.

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Boris Whittington

 Featured, Satire and Humour  1 Response »
Dec 072019
 

Suzanne Kelly presents her annual Christmas tale.

Popular mythology would have it that the original Dick Whittington, born 1354 was born of poor parents; this simply wasn’t true.
Dick was wealthy and became mayor of London; that’s as far as it went.

Popular mythology would have it that Boris Johnson, born 1964, was born of average parents; this simply isn’t true.

Boris is wealthy and became mayor of London and PM: that’s further than it should have gone. Now read on.

A long time ago there was once a poor boy called Boris Whittington whose parents were so poor not all the children could go to English prep schools.

People at his school made fun of his great poverty and his foreign ancestry. He would learn from this.

Our hero was so poor he went to Oxford to study, well – maybe he studied less than some. He did however cut a fine figure for a poor foreigner in the Bullyton Club. He spent all his parents’ pieces of gold on the £3,500 outfit he needed to wear to go to Bullyton Club dinners.

Soon this awkward, sensitive outsider was accepted as being ‘almost one of us’ when he proved what he was made of, and burned a £50 note in front of a homeless person (who might have even been from ‘Bongo Bongo land’ as Boris called some countries).

Poor Boris wanted to better his life, and his fellow Bullyton club members told him of London, where the streets were paved with gold.

“Cripes!,” thought Boris

“I say, that sounds like the place for me, what?”.

So off Boris Whittington bravely strode to London town, carrying in a little handkerchief tied to a steamer trunk in a flotilla of moving vans all of his meagre worldly possessions. He was determined that he would go there and dig up enough gold from the streets to make his fortune.

One day he met a friendly hedge fund manager who was going to London who said he would give him a lift there, so off they went.  When they reached the big city Boris couldn’t believe his eyes, he could see horses, carriages, hundreds of people, great tall buildings, lots of mud, but nowhere could he see any gold.

What a disappointment. How was he going to make his fortune? How was he even going to buy a four-bed flat?

“But corrr! Look at all this Totty!” He thought, and set off to better himself.

By then he had married a pussycat who grew up in a castle in Perthshire; she was called Allegra Mostyn-Owen. This was very useful for a time. They both toiled in the news business for a time. But Boris realised he was destined for greater things, so he sold her on.

Being a man of great character, he decided to start at the bottom and deigned to take a trainee job at Ye Times newspaper.

Alas! Boris thought he would add a little excitement to one of his stories, and surprisingly Ye Times took a dim view of this, so much so that they gaveth him ye sack. The Times then continued its unsullied mission of printing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: well truth as The Digger (who was a sorcerer from the land of Oz) saw it.

After a few days he was so hungry that he collapsed in a ragged heap on the doorstep of a rag merchant owned by two twins Barclay Dee and Barclay Dumb.

Out of the house came a crook:

“How would you like to be a weekly columnist for the Daily Telegraph? We can pay you £275,000 for one column a week – but it’s a start.”

Boris thought long and hard of the sacrifices he’d have to make.

“I’ll do it! Jings! Crivens!” he said.

He suffered. Boris even had to cover an event full of Lefties in 1996. Now the Lefties were not really our sort of people, don’t you know. Some of them weren’t even white; they even let girls be Lefties, and some of those girls ‘dressed up like letterboxes’.

Worse still – the Lefties allowed ‘bum boys’ to join! Cripes! What would Boris write for the Daily Torygraph about this horrible scene?

“The unanimous opinion is that what has been called the ‘Tottymeter’ reading is higher than at any Labour Party conference in living memory,” he wrote.

And the Torygraph readers loved him all the more.

Alas! Boris was notorious at the rag merchant for writing his column during a brief window on Sunday afternoons before sending it to the printing press only just in time.

This left little time for editors to make changes and fact-check his claims, but happily, fact-checking was not high on the Barclay twins’ agenda. So, on Boris toiled, dreaming of better days. He started to wonder if he wasn’t destined for better things and an easier life, like going into politics.

Boris was ever so grateful to the Daily Torygraph’s Barclay Dee and Barclay Dumb but, alas, the editor was always very bad tempered and, when no one was looking, used to beat and pinch him.

Now while Boris was slaving away day in, day out toiling at his demanding job, he acquired a pussy. Her name was Miranda.

London was full of rats and fat cats. Boris realised that the more rats and fat cats he could catch, the richer he’d get. But Miranda really wasn’t much cop for improving Boris’ social standing, so she had to go.  Verily he got shot of Miranda, which opened the cat flap for lots of other pussies, and lo, they verily did make use of it; they were Petronella, Helen (with whom he had a litter of kittens) and most recently Carrie. Carrie and Boris are so fond of each other that to this very day, the sounds of cats screaming and breaking things can be heard from their happy home.

Soon Boris was attracting lots of pussies, fat cats and rats. And lo it came to pass that with the blessing of the Tories, the help of the Barclay twins, and a whole bunch of rats, Boris became Mayor of London.

But our story does not end there.

Boris spent millions on a garden bridge in old London Town; it was never built. The people didn’t care.

One day Boris met a very important fat cat – and the most true Brit in all of Britland: Nigel Farage.

Nigel hated the people from ‘Bongo Bongo land’, people who wanted to come to Britain (except Boris’ ancestors of course!), and the Lefties. And pretty much anyone who wasn’t a white British man.

Nigel made his fortune by representing Brit land in the Union of Europe. This Union of Europe was an evil organisation that allowed people to trade goods throughout European countries, work in other countries, live in other countries, and gave them something called Human Rights.

Worse still, it wanted to harm the fat cats and rats by not letting them give their money to seafaring merchants to take away to the lands of Island of Virgins and Bahamas and verily the lands where the Barclay Twins lived in the Island of Channels. Nigel took a big salary from Europe, and will take a big pension from Europe.

Nigel hates Europe. And so does Boris.

The two of them hired a great big red coach, and painted on it that Europe was costing 350 million gold pieces each week, which should be used to heal the sick instead. Verily the people who had read Boris’ wise words in the Barclay twins’ rag believed every word, and felleth for this hooketh, lineth and sinkereth.

Alas, it was not strictly speaking true.

How the people loved his racism, sexism, lying, propaganda and anti-Europe positions! Yes, Boris was destined for greater things still.

The evil, ageing hag-queen of London was clearly losing her ability to govern. Sometimes when she had to walk across a stage, she had odd convulsions that some mistook for dancing. The Queen of the May had held power for some time now, and had many accomplishments.

She buried news about a disastrous, expensive failure of the Trident rockets, had cut all services to the poor, and made the dying travel to centres where they were told they weren’t dying at all. Who could possibly pick up where she left off?

Yes, you guesseth correctly: Boris soon became the Prime Minister of all of England!

Now, being Prime Minister was even less work than being mayor was. There was always someone with a bag of gold or a perk or a pussy or two who wanted to help him out and do the work for him.

“Cripes! This is great!” Boris thought, as his collection of gold doubloons and totty continued to increase. But it was never enough.

Not long after, Boris heard the merchant twins and other fat cats he knew asking everyone in the Houses of Parliament if they wanted to send anything on board their ship, they thought they could sell. The ship was going on a long voyage to the other side of the world to a place called America and the captain would sell everything on the ship so they could all make some money.

Poor Boris, what could he sell?

Suddenly, a thought came to him

“Please sir, will you take the National Health Service?”

Everyone burst out laughing, but the merchant smiled and said:

“Yes Boris, just what I was thinking, I will, and all the money from her sale will go to you – and to all of us.”

After the merchant had left from the city Dick found there was a small group of peasants who were revolting because they were such smelly oiks.

They somehow objected to selling off the NHS, to Boris’ little white lies about the gold going to the NHS, to leaving Europe, to having their ill and dying being made to work, and their air and land being poisoned.

How would Boris deal with these rabble – especially as the captain of the guard had decided that Boris couldn’t just sweep them all away with the water cannons he’d ordered years before. So, he just closed Parliament down a few times instead.

Boris knew he had to do something to make himself more popular again, so he could keep being the Prime Minister.

He invented an immigration points system to keep the wrong sort out of the UK, threw people out who had come in the Windrush period, and this kind of thing made his peasant fans, Mr Yaxley Lennon and his mates very happy.

Verily, this distracted such peasants from caring about the honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five pound note the fat cats were sheltering in the Offshore Trusts. But it wasn’t quite enough, and Boris had secret plans underway.

One such plan would happen right here in England; the other was being put into action by the merchant captain at the fat cat’s bidding.

Boris had denigrated women, grabbed them (in an English way – by the thigh, not their pussycats so that was OK); and said women in burkas looked like letterboxes. Sure, he had also said that seeing groups of black kids made him nervous, and black people had watermelon smiles.

But here was the genius plan: He’d just say everything he’d ever said or done was satirical, and the real racism was in the Labour party. After all, the oiks in the streets wouldn’t know what satirical meant and wouldn’t care as long as white people – white men – were still top of the food chain, what?

His old friends the twins and his old newspaper jobs would be delighted to print this story, and so it came to pass. BoJo (as he was unaffectionately known) and his press baron friends painted Labour as being villainous racists, while Boris was made to look like a saint.

Unsurprisingly, this pleased his peasant fans – like Yaxley-Lennon who was also known for violent arguments with women, hating non-whites, and blatant lies. Success! Result!

Across the other side of the world, the merchant captain and his ship had arrived at their destination, Washington.

King Trump and Queen Melania (who had been so poor she could only afford to wear boots, handcuffs and guns before her rise to power) were so delighted that they invited them all to a feast.

The captain had heard that like Boris Whittington, King Trump was a self-made man. Set out into the world on his own with just six million dollars in the 1980s and a family Ku Klux Klan background, Trump had to fend for himself with just a few mafia figures to help him – and that all turned out OK.

Except for a few bankruptcies, people losing their homes and jobs when Trump went bust, black people not being able to own homes in Trump castles, and the odd rape accusation or two (including from his wife Ivana).

But, believe it or not, when the food was brought in none of the ship’s crew nor captain would eat it.

“Oh dear” said the king stuffing a chicken leg into his mouth and wiping his hands on his golf trousers,

“Dontcha like KFC and Chick fil a?”

“No offense your majesty” said the captain,

“but we don’t allow growth hormones in our beef and bleach in our chicken. We don’t allow ground-up bugs in our chocolates (well, not in as high quantities as you do), and we don’t put lots of non-food chemicals into our food. Nothing personal – we just like to live.”

“Not to worry!” laughed King Trump,

“Everyone is healthy here – I’m 6’3” tall and only weigh 185 lbs… or is that 185 stone?”

Chewing on a KFC family bargain bucket, Trump continued:

“To show our appreciation for your country, we’ve agreed to take on the NHS contracts, and as a bonus, when you leave the Union of Europe, we’re going to be your new food trading partner. Everything’s all arranged – just ask President Boris.”

And they all laughed, and the real feast of edible foods was brought out.
The merchant ship captain looked at the huge banquet dais where Trump sat, and behind his thrown was a curtain.

Behind that was an athletic chap, shirtless, sitting on a horse. He seemed to be pulling levers and strings.

Before the merchant ship captain could ask, Queen Melania hissed in his ear:

“Pay no attention to zat mehn behind ze curtain!”

“But it looks like he’s really the one running the show and pulling the strings!”

“I really don’t care, do you?” she purred.

Clinking his plastic cola bottle with a plastic fork, King Trump signalled for the room to be silent for one of his speeches. The captain thought some of the King’s aids rolled their eyeballs.

“Welcome friends from Englandland! We’ve decided to help you out of the NHS – I mean help the NHS.”

“Right, we have even more gifts we want to give youse guys in Englandland” Trump continued.

“The reason you have these terrorists is because you let people immigrate – that means come in – to your country. You gatta do what we do here – when they get to the border, put ‘em in cages.

“Lots of money for getting the little ones adopted – believe me! And the amount of money you can get for keeping these vermin sleeping on concrete floors under foil blankets – ya wouldn’t believe me.”

The captain felt his smile recede as Trump continued:

“Then, you’d also be much better off if you’d all jes get yerselves some guns – yeah, good guys with guns. Not having guns is un-American ain’t that right Mitch McConnell?”

At this several old white men stood up; many clutching fists full of roubles. The man behind the curtain with no shirt laughed.

“You’re too nice over there too” Trump told the captain,

“The press – well, not Boris and his friends – the other press, and these foreigners, these people not following the right religion – you know you have to rough ‘em up a little bit, right?”

The captain felt some colour drain from his face as he started to make his goodbyes. He and all the fat cats had been happy to do a bit of profiteering off the NHS – who wouldn’t be?

But surely England would never stand for people being deported, mistreated and dying in custody? And no one in their right minds would want to see guns on London’s streets: what kind of a maniac would even propose such a thing.

Over 40,000 people were shot in this crazy Trump land last year alone; synagogues, churches had been burnt or vandalised, women were prevented from making decisions about whether to have children or not – with some even going to jail for miscarrying.

“But the worst thing about those Lefties?” Trump asked,

“They wanna get rid of Christmas! That’s right – no ‘Merry Christmas’, no trees!”

At this a group of TV preachers and evangelists ran to the king, and put their arms around him, proclaiming him ‘the chosen one’.

Whether it was the cockroach-infested chocolates or the bleached chicken, the captain felt his stomach turn.

After the feast, the captain and crew made their way to the harbour. They walked the streets of Washington, where dozens of homeless people slept or begged for alms. Some had been soldiers; some lost everything they had due to paying for medical bills.

Shots rang out; school children covered in blood and crying ran through the streets. The brave captain and crew barely made it back to the ship, and they weighed anchor, immediately setting sail for home.

As they sailed into the east, the captain sighed, safe in the knowledge such far-fetched things would never happen; Boris wouldn’t allow it.
When the ship returned to London, the captain was making his way to Boris’ humble home in Downing Street when a newspaper caught his eye.

“Legalise Handguns now! Says Farage”

“NHS will improve under US contracts!”

“Point system for foreigners Boris proposes!”

“Windrush man facing deportation kills himself!”

“Boris leading in polls!”

The captain stood looking at the headlines for a few minutes.

“Maybe the Union of Europe wasn’t such a bad thing after all.” he thought.

Slowing his pace, losing his desire to race to No. 10, the captain saw one ‘Leftie’ newspaper before he left the newsstand which read:

“Don’t forget to vote on Thursday 12 December!”

“No, no I won’t forget that” thought the captain, as he slowly turned from his course to No. 10, and headed home to ensure his voter registration card was at the ready.

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The Abominable Snowman

 Environment, Featured, Satire and Humour  No Responses »
Dec 162018
 

Every Christmas for the last seven years Suzanne Kelly aka Old Susannah has written a topical satire based on events whether in Aberdeen or the larger world, based on a traditional Christmas story, panto or fairytale.
This year’s offering is a bit different; it’s a video – deliberately low tech.

The idea came to me while watching the late, great David Bowie introduce The Snowman on YouTube, and I wondered what he’d make of the mess we’re being led into, and that things were better for everyone back then.

Lyrics are printed below should you all want to sing along. Enjoy.

The Abominable Snowman.

1. We’re walking in the air…
we’re floating in the moonlit sky…
The people far below are sleeping as we fly…

2. You’re poisoning the air
And polluting all our minds with lies
And money seems to be the only reason why

3. All across the world
the villages go up in flames…
You’ve exploited all the rivers
The forests and the streams…

Children gaze, open-mouthed
Confused and horrified
To see their parents led away
By a force known as ICE

4. Nobody wants to die
they only want to go to school
But guns are everywhere
Cos of the NRA and you

Children gaze, open-mouthed
Confused and Terrified
All because some think it best
To close their eyes

5. My parents vote for you
Just the way their parents did before
But I will never vote
For fear and hate and war

Here’s to a brighter, saner, happier, freer, cleaner 2019.
– Old Susannah.

Aberdeen Christmas Village Boosts City Centre Trade

 Aberdeen City, Information  2 Responses »
Jan 132017
 

With thanks to Jessica Murphy, Senior Account Executive, Citrus:Mix.

The local business community has expressed its support for the Aberdeen Christmas Village, which helped boost trade during the festive period.

Spearheaded by Aberdeen Inspired in partnership with Aberdeen City Council and Codona’s, hundreds of thousands of people visited the winter wonderland over the five weeks it was open.

Organisers have received positive feedback from visitors, artists, craftsmen/women as well as local business owners, who commented on increased footfall through their doors and a rise in sales.

Adrian Watson, chief executive of Aberdeen Inspired, said:

“The Aberdeen Christmas Village is exactly the type of event which is needed to drive increased footfall and dwell time in the city centre. It was our ambition, along with our partner organisations, to build on the success of last year and create an even larger festive event.

“It was brilliant to see the public get into the Christmas spirit and enjoy everything the Village had to offer. We have also been pleased with the response from the businesses in the city centre, a number of which have been in touch with us to comment on the positive difference they noticed throughout the festive period in terms of increased footfall. It was a key aim of ours to achieve a knock-on effect for local businesses, which further emphasises the tremendous benefits of big events like this in Aberdeen.”

Julie Haig, owner of Haigs Food Hall, Schoolhill, said:

“We were delighted with the footfall the Christmas Village brought to Aberdeen city centre and our business. It created a real buzz in the city and it was great to see so many people out and about enjoying the Christmas Village.

“We are looking forward to seeing it back again this year and would like to give a huge thank you to Aberdeen Inspired and Aberdeen City Council for all of their hard work making this event happen.”

Aberdeen City Council leader Councillor Jenny Laing said:

“The Aberdeen Christmas Village has once again been a tremendous success and we are delighted to have worked with our partners to provide what has become a mainstay of the city’s events calendar.

“Running alongside the village, Aberdeen City Council also brought the Christmas Tree Maze to Union Terrace Gardens and the response from the public was fantastic.

“By coming out and supporting these attractions in numbers, people have demonstrated they will support bright, engaging and innovative events and that provides great confidence as we seek to build on the foundations we already have in place.

“We are planning for a bigger, better and busier programme of events for 2017 than we have ever had before in Aberdeen. There are a number of major dates in the diary already and more to follow.

“Aberdeen City Council is looking forward to working with our many partners in the year ahead, investing in events and facilities, as the city’s role as a cultural hub and tourist destination continues to grow.”

Mr Watson added:

“This year we were also happy to offer stalls to up to 30 hugely talented local artists and designers to give them a platform to sell their products. It was fantastic to see their presence being enjoyed by the public.

“We would like to thank everyone who visited and enjoyed the Village, the stallholders and our staff and partners for all their hard work. Our talented team will continue to work hard to bring projects to fruition that will enhance the city centre and drive footfall. We are always looking to build on our successes and in doing so we take on board all constructive feedback. We are very excited about our current plans, which include the globally renowned Nuart street art festival in the spring.”

Aberdeen Inspired is the banner under which the Aberdeen BID (Business Improvement District) operates. It is a business-led initiative within the city centre in which levy payers within the BID zone contribute. Proceeds are used to fund projects designed to improve the business district and driving footfall to the zone.

More information on the work of Aberdeen Inspired is available at www.aberdeeninspired.com

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Festive Camps To Keep Kids Active Over The Holidays

 Aberdeen City, Featured, Sport  No Responses »
Dec 232016
 

With thanks to Yvette Rayner, PR Account Manager, Frasermedia.

An Aberdeen sports facility is urging kids to don their trainers over the festive break, following a report on child weight and obesity.
Aberdeen Sports Village (ASV), based in the city’s Linksfield Road, has a series of festive camps available for children from P1 – S3, to encourage youngsters to stay active and healthy during the Christmas break.

A new report from NHS Scotland, showed that almost a quarter of children starting school in Scotland are overweight or obese, sparking fears of long-term physical and mental health issues, including diabetes, heart disease and depression.

The body mass index of 92% of all 2015/16 primary one children was analysed, and results indicated that one in ten children starting school was already at risk of obesity, with a further 12% at risk of being overweight. The statistics, collected from all NHS boards in Scotland, also showed that NHS Grampian region had more overweight P1s than health boards in Edinburgh and Glasgow.

ASV, which was established in 2009, aims to provide world class sporting opportunities for everyone in the community, and the facility has a number of festive events during December and January, to keep Aberdonians of all ages fit and healthy.

ASV boasts a state-of-the-art gym, sports halls, indoor and outdoor athletics facilities, a range of exercise classes and indoor football pitches, as well as the Aquatics Centre, which includes an Olympic standard 50m pool and 25m diving pool.  

Two festive camps will take place, for children from P1 – S3, to give youngsters the chance to run off some steam after Christmas. The camps, the first from 27th – 30th December and the second a healthy start to 2017 from 3rd – 6th January, will ensure children go back to school feeling ready for the new academic session.

The ASV festive camps aim to give children the chance to try out a range of sports, from athletics to volleyball, as well as introducing some Christmas cheer with games of Quidditch and the famous ASV Aqua Run, an inflatable obstacle course in ASV’s 50m pool.

ASV CEO Duncan Sinclair, said:

“As adults we know we should exercise more, but for youngsters, particularly in winter when it is cold and dark outside, it’s all too easy to stay inside on the Xbox or watching YouTube.

“The Christmas holidays can be a long time for parents and so our festive camps will help the youngsters stay busy and entertained. Children from 4-15 will enjoy running around trying out new sports, and meeting new friends. Lifetime habits are learnt at a young age, so it is never too early for parents to introduce a wide variety of sports to their children.”

To book ASV festive camps, visit www.aberdeensportsvillage.com or call 01224 438900.

Aberdeen Sports Village (ASV):

ASV is the premier sports facility in the North East of Scotland and home to an array of first class sporting facilities and events.

ASV aims to deliver high quality sports services and opportunities for all at the home of sport in the North East. The facility, which opened in 2009, is the result of a joint venture by funding partners the University of Aberdeen, Aberdeen City Council and sportscotland.

For more information please visit www.aberdeensportsvillage.com

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MP And MSP Thank Local Posties For A First Class Christmas

 Aberdeenshire, Articles  No Responses »
Dec 162016
 

With thanks to Kenneth Hutchison, Parliamentary Assistant to Dr. Eilidh Whiteford.

Eilidh Whiteford and Stewart Stevenson with Broch Postal Staff Dec 2016.

Dr Eilidh Whiteford MP and Stewart Stevenson MSP visited the Fraserburgh Delivery Office on Friday morning to see first-hand the operation of delivering Christmas post and to pass on season’s greetings to its hardworking staff.
Dr Whiteford and Mr Stevenson were shown around the office by Delivery Office Manager, Chris Share, and were introduced to the postmen and women, who are pulling out all the stops to sort and deliver mail in the Fraserburgh area over the Christmas period.

The Festive Season is Royal Mail’s busiest period, as millions of people shop online for gifts and send Christmas cards and parcels.

As Royal Mail’s 500th anniversary draws to a close, this Christmas provides an opportunity to reflect on the centuries of hard work  delivering to every single address in the UK.

Dr Eilidh Whiteford MP said:

“At no other time is the hard work and dedication of postmen and women clearer than during the festive period.”

Stewart Stevenson MSP added:

“I thank them for the extraordinary lengths they go to ensure Christmas cards and presents are delivered to loved ones on time, and for all they do year-round.”

Chris Share, Royal Mail Delivery Office Manager, said:

“It was a pleasure to show Dr Whiteford and Mr Stevenson our Christmas operation and to hear their kind words of encouragement and support.”

“We are extremely proud of our postmen and women for all their hard work during the Festive Season and for continuing our proud history of delivering Christmas mail.”

The last recommend posting dates for Christmas are:

Second Class – Tuesday 20 December 2016
First Class – Wednesday 21 December 2016
Special Delivery – Thursday 22 December 2016

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Old Susannah’s Christmas Tale 2016: The Nutcracker

 Creative Writing, Featured, Satire and Humour  3 Responses »
Dec 162016
 

Melancolia meets the hideous nutcracker named Donald J Drumpf whose odd shaped mouth and repellent hair don’t put her off, neither does the fact he’s actually loaded.  After waging a battle it seems unlikely the nutcracker can possibly win, they are miraculously victorious. Together they go on a journey around the world visiting wondrous lands etc etc. Now read on.

IT WAS A cosy Christmas eve at young Melancolia’s photoshoot; photographers, stylists, other nude models and various reptilian types were gathering for a
Christmas themed girl-on-girl shoot – but a tasteful one.

Melancolia was one of the top glamour models ever to share a full page spread with another woman and guns.
Her sparkly eyes, perfect teeth, chiselled cheekbones and enviable physique were only matched by her perfect pout.

And all her features were perfectly natural, with only a few boob jobs, teeth work, nose re-sculpting, tummy tucking to tweak her natural beauty a wee bit.

Some of the girls had their reservations about the current shoot, but the stylists said ‘this will make your career; it will be very artful – just think of Hannah Montana and the sexualized giant teddy bears only nude – now put on these tassels. What a cracker!’.

But young Melancolia had no such qualms. Rather, she was transfixed by something in the room. It looked like a bloated, oversized animated – overly-animated – nutcracker.

To be clear, this was one of the most repellent looking things at the shoot. It seemed wooden for a start. But it was grossly misshapen – where there might have been a chin, the oversized potato-esque head joined to its body directly, and there were so many chins Melancolia couldn’t count them all.

And the hair! Revolting! Thin wisps of straw like grey material – ‘Squirrel fur?’ Melancolia wondered – were in places dyed a primary shade of yellow. These few strands were probably several feet in length and would have hung down like a balding Rapunzel. Rather, they were seemingly wound into a shape not seen since the days of Douglas Hird and were lacquered into a shape such as to accentuate, rather than disguise the nutcracker’s bald pate.

The eyes were beady; the outfit gaudy. The thing wore a little red cap which only exaggerated the size of its head. The hat said ‘Make America Bigly Again’ – while a little label sticking out of the back of the tacky headpiece proclaimed ‘Made In Mexico’.

The mouth. The mouth was revolting and never, never stopped moving. Was the thing having some kind of asthmatic attack? The mouth seemed to gasp like a basking shark gulping down plankton one moment, and the next it wore a leering smile like a Cheshire cat.

“Melancolia, what are you looking at?” asked one of the models, adjusting a leather sleigh harness and fixing her antlers to her head.

“Zat thing over there – vat is it?” Melancolia said pointing with her chin towards the nutcracker and her glossy mane flew round her perfect features.

“That guy’s a nut – a real whitebread cracker who owns a model agency. Gives me the creeps myself; I try and stay clear. Calls himself Herr Drumpf or something.”

“Sank you” Melancolia said, and turning now to the creature, who was wildly waving its arms and yelling at one minion or other, mouth quivering like the maw of a giant squid, she smiled. The nutcracker smiled back, or at least she thought so.

“Hey baby, you’re wanted on set, and bring the gun and handcuffs, gonna be real classy. People will be talking about this shoot for years to come” the director said to Melancolia.

How right he was. Yugely right.

*                                             *                                             *

What happened that night was all a big blur for Melancolia; the traditional after shoot party was in full swing. Someone had decided to play Christmas music, and Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker Suite was emanating from a wireless. Naturally this being an after-shoot Christmas party, there was lots and lots and lots and lots of ‘snow’.  It seemed to be everywhere. People had all sorts of other candy as well.

The Nutcracker – I mean Drumpf – made its way over to Melancolia; they both pouted. Right then and there, they seemed destined to be together.

“Hey I’m Donald Drumpf, nice to meet me I know. You’re not from Central America I hope?” The Nutcracker drawled,

“Nice shoot baby – loved what they did with the sleigh bells.”

“Zank you, you handsome man.”

“Yes, I know I’m handsome, but thanks for saying it. Wanna go for a ride in my Drumpf jet after the party? The toilets are solid gold.”

“Ven do ve go?” pouted Melancolia

“I can get into some clothes in a minute or two.”

“Never mind the clothes honey, just bring that gun, the handcuffs, and that photographer.”

“Okey dokey as you Americans say.”

From the other side of the room, the random chatter, snorts of amusement (or snorts of something) from the models echoed, and the wireless continued:

“… and the ugly Nutcracker transforms into a rich, handsome prince; he and Clara defeat their enemies, and take off in a magical flying sleigh to the world of candy and fantasy…”

Melancolia listened as Drumpf continued listing his accomplishments; but she was feeling a bit woozy by now.

“… and Drumpf Model Agency, and Drumpf whisky, Drumpf Golf links Scotland, Drumpf…” Drumpf continued without pause.

The wireless competed for Melancolia’s attentions too; the announcer’s voice rising:

“… and The Nutcracker and Clara visit exotic faraway lands such as China and Japan…”

The snow dazzled the East European beauty as large flakes of it fell on her tongue. The more the snow raged, the better looking the nutcracker (and his wallet) became. The room was humming harder as the ceiling flew away. Melancolia fell into a vision – giant mounds of snow appeared, she saw fairies dancing, mice with seven heads, and all sorts. Her head swam.

‘Not bad party’ she thought as Drumpf droned on – “…Drumpf offshore holdings, Drumpf casinos..” and she fell into a reverie (obviously not fuelled by any illicit substances, because nude models don’t go near that scene, nor do their photographers).

*                                             *                                             *

Melancolia closed her eyes for a moment.

Woosh! the happy couple were suddenly flying off to Drumpf’s kingdom on 5th Avenue, and all the little people – black, Jewish, Mexican and even gay ones rejoiced and worshipped their undoubted king and queen Donald and Melancolia. Everyone wanted to buy Drumpf brand clothing; everyone wanted to play golf at Drumpf golf courses, or gamble away all their money at Drumpf casinos.

The whole world watched The Nutcracker – or rather Drumpf – on television telling people they were fired; and all the women contestants on his fantastic television show were in love with the him, which goes without saying. The burgermeisters turned a blind eye to some of The Donald’s colourful antics.

Black people were turned away from Drumpf apartments and Drumpf job openings – but that’s just how you do business. Women were grabbed by their tutus as they competed to be Miss Nutcracker – but of course as they were dressed provocatively, they deserved it and if you’re famous, you can grab all the tutu you like.

Illegal immigrants got beaten up – but in the land of freedom, justice and liberty for all, you have to expect that kind of thing. All was well.

What more could the happy couple have wanted? – they had their own son, and Melancolia might not have been as young as Drumpf’s daughter from another marriage, but she was just as sexy – Drumpf himself often said as much. Melancolia had all the clothes a woman could want, and after all those years without wearing any clothes, this made a nice change.

But somehow for her beloved husband Donald, this wasn’t enough. New York, New York – if he could make it there, he could make it anywhere – so where next for the Drumpfs?

*                                             *                                             *

“Hey Melancolia, ya know” said Donald Drumpf, smiling widely like a crocodile with gas,

“I think I’m gonna go be president. Whaddya think of that?”

He was reclining on a gold lame cushion on the gold divan, sitting on the marble floors inlaid with the Drumpf logo.

“Okey dokey honey – you do that. You win. You big winner. You always telling me that.” 

Melancolia was admiring her face in one of the gilt mirrors.

“Lots of pictures get taken when you campaign in America no? I buy dresses. First Lady dresses. I be traditional First Lady like Mrs Ford or Jackie O. Jackie vas pretty. I prettier.” 

She came and put her arms around The Nutcracker, though they barely reached around the space where a neck should have been.

“Sure honey, you buy all the dresses you want.” The Nutcracker/Drumpf said, its mouth throwing otherworldly shapes,

“Mind the hair Mel, just had it woven last week.”

And so it came to pass that the Nutcracker and his brood hit the campaign trail. Many wondrous sites did they see. All of a sudden wonderful worlds of opportunity appeared; the mood was jubilant. First of all, they could give all the Drumpf children official campaign jobs – that meant tax breaks, taking donation money and giving it to the family, and it was all legit – which made a yuge change.

Then they could hold parties at Drumpf hotels and resorts – and charge the campaign fund a fortune for them! Result! Never before had those fundraising dinners caused The Nutcracker to salivate so. The Donald was now so busy that understandably he forgot about a few million dollars he was going to give to some veterans, but it’s the thought that counts.

Then there was money from his charities – he could raise money for charity and look good, tell people how charitable he was (which is the real point of charitable works), get tax relief, and then keep the money. He should have run for president years ago.

At the rallies Drumpf would tell his euphoric fans what his great plans were.

“Donald J Drumpf will wall up Mexico!” – the crowds cheered

“Donald J Drumpf will punish women who have abortions” – the crowds were in a frenzy

“Donald J Drumpf will throw all the illegal aliens (and some legal ones) out of the country and monitor all those Muslim types!” – the crowds were euphoric

“Climate change is just a myth made by the Chinese!” – how could he fail to win the presidency?

For some reason, not everyone in America was delighted by his candidacy. Then again, these weren’t real Americans – some were even Muslims and a few Mexicans who’d snuck in.

There was one guy who pretended to be some kind of American war hero who objected to Drumpf too – but he was a big fraud who had been dumb enough to get caught, and we all like our heroes to be guys who don’t get caught.

Donald might have been a great war hero himself, but he had a tragic medical flaw – there was a bone spur on his foot. This was so bad, that he couldn’t always win all the college basketball games he played in while being too ill to be drafted. Playing ball with a bone spur must have hurt sometimes, so in a way a pretty heroic thing to play b-ball at all.

Occasionally undesirables would get into one of nutcracker Drumpf’s rallies and try to protest – as if there were anything to protest, and as if resistance wasn’t futile.

“That guy over there is a protestor, throw him out, throw him out. You know, when I was younger, this guy would have been roughed up.” Drumpf told the faithful– and thus he won the heart of the right wing.

Melancolia was not crazy about the arduous schedule this campaigning meant, but it was worth it for such a good cause. She had to sometimes get up early before 11 am when the stylists arrived, and she had to wear some pretty frumpy outfits – but at least they were eye-wateringly expensive. She had to stand around at the nutcracker’s side and smile for hours on end – it was gruelling work.

How hard it was to smile without throwing in a single pout! But the photographers were there, and that was all that mattered. However, things were about to get really tough.

One evening Drumpf told her:

“Honey, ya gotta give a speech next week.”

Melancolia was not used to doing anything more than pouting or smiling, this was going to be a challenge.

“You will have a speech written out, and then you say the words on the paper, and smile – all at the same time. We’ll get you a coach honey, gonna be fine. Gonna be the biggest, best, yugest speech anyone’s ever made – well except me of course.”

And the day arrived and Melancolia read her speech. It was really hard, but she managed. At least people took pictures, and she smiled.

Alas! The speech was copied by someone named Michelle! The nerve! This copying was even more annoying because Michelle did her speech before Melancolia could do hers! This campaigning was a hard business.

Anyway to make a long campaign short, Drumpf The Nutcracker won the nomination, and then went on to defeat the evil cheating lying dishonest Hillary, who should be really in prison. The next president of the United States would be a wooden figure, whose mouth was controlled by a lever in the back by unseen hands. Russian hands. Result!

*                                             *                                             *

A voice far, far away came into Melancolia’s head:

“…and so The Nutcracker and Clara defeat their enemies, and take off in a magical flying sleigh to the world of candy and fantasy…”

He’d won! He defeated all comers and had been elected!

“Dahling!” she purred into her nutcracker-husband’s fuzzy ear-hole,

“eet iz wonderful! I buy ballgowns now. But vat is this cabinet zey keep talking about? Do we need nother gold cabinet to put zings in?  How much money we get for being president?”

“Melancolia – it’s gonna be a really big cabinet. Yuge. The best cabinet ever. No one will have ever had a cabinet like my presidential cabinet’s gonna be. I’m really smart when it comes to cabinets.” Drumpf reassured her, arms flailing, mouth flapping

“Vat you put in zees cabinet?”

“Nuts. Lots and lots of nuts.”

*                                             *                                             *

“Honey, we’re going on a victory rally tour; got the idea from this great book I’m reading by some German guy, Adolph something or other. The media will love it. They love me.” Drumpf explained as the servants packed a few gold-plated essentials.

And off the couple flew, with some of the Drumpf children, a handful of secret servicemen and a press team.

The first stop on this tour was Japan.

Drumpf’s daughter Iwantitall and son Donny Jr had come along on the tour, and it was heart-warming to Melancolia how her Donald was letting his children learn the ropes for the new family president business.

“Iwantitall, why don’t you go to that Japanese meeting thing darling; I’ve got some really important Tweets to send.”

“Fer sher daddy; can I have an advance on my allowance?” Drumpf’s daughter drawled; she was wearing a tasteful mini dress (available from her QVC shopping channel for £499).

Perhaps it was sour grapes, but the Japanese and some embassy attaches (whatever those are Melancolia wondered) didn’t think it was proper that Iwantitall was at the meeting. But what did that matter? Drumpf was running the show – the TV show that is (he was hardly going to give up ‘The Apprentice’ and the chance to say ‘You’re Fired!’ on TV – that was pretty important stuff).

As to running the White House, there was some guy who would call up and give Drumpf pointers. He had a Russian accent, and was pretty knowledgeable about all this electric college and cabinet stuff – how good it was to have help.

And off the entourage flew to their next destination. Africa.

“Welcome to Africa! Hail to the Chief! You come shoot some more elephants and giraffes Mr Donny – we need the shoes and game meat your little visits supply! We’re so grateful! Anything you want, anything at all!”

Donny Jr said:

“Thanks thanks – but ya know, I’ve not bagged one of those ferocious giraffes in a couple of months, let’s go kill some and then you can show me some more gratitude.”

The African ambassadors threw glances at each other for a moment:

“We’ll get back to you on that soon, Donny.” 

For some reason, they all had to go really suddenly.

“That went yugely well” Drumpf said as they all got back on the plane, Donny sporting an elephant’s tail the grateful locals insisted he take with him.

And off they went to China.

“I’m gonna handle this one on my own” Drumpf told his fellow travellers.

“But first, I got a little phone call to make to Taiwan. They’re gonna do some merchandising for me.”

Melancolia thought she saw a look of shock on the faces of some of the press team, but she put that down to their being awed that she and Donald knew Taiwan was a thing.

After completing a phone order for a hundred thousand ‘Make America Greatly Again’ baseball caps from the Taiwanese business delegation, it was off to China.

Stepping out of the plane, Drumpf was for some reason given a frosty reception. Putting on his best ‘O’ shaped mouth, he descended and told the Chinese government representatives:

“Yous guys gotta stop raping America – and why didn’t you ask my permission before you devalued your currency? You didn’t even respond to my tweets about that! You’d better learn who’s in charge – yeah, that’s right Vlad – I mean me. Now if only you’d have done the right thing, I wouldn’ta had to order my baseball caps from Taiwan. So you’d better stop thinking like losers and –“

For some reason at this point the secret servicemen pulled all the presidential party back up the plane steps, and prepared for a hasty departure.

“Get ready for take off!” the pilot announced over the tannoy of Air Farce One

“Ze dress first and leave the shoes on like usual?” Melancolia asked. But no one answered, and off they jetted.

“Geez, this thing doesn’t even have a gold plated can” Drumpf said, exiting the jet’s toilet.

“I’m gonna cancel that Boeing contract, that’ll show ‘em – and get a proper Presidential Plane”

“But- but sir” said one of the press party – and it was a woman to boot,

“there are thousands of American jobs at stake at Boeing, and if you make such an announcement, you’ll devalue the Boeing stock!”

“Who let this woman on the plane – are you a real reporter honey? – you don’t look very pretty. Who are you to be questioning me!” Drumpf thundered,

“and don’t go telling me about business. I know business really well. Dad lent me $6,000,000 – and I’ve only had eight bankruptcies. Go put on some makeup or something.” 

And with that the hapless hack was despatched.

“Ya know, we’re gonna go somewhere they really love me – not that they don’t love me everywhere that is – but in Scotchland they love me. Take us over there, that’s where my mother was from.”

And the Presidential jet touched down in Aberdeen. A police escort took Trump to his beloved golf course at Menie. All the staff were lined up and ready to meet him.

“Sarah Malone always good to see you – how’s that husband of yours doing – does he want another column for his newspaper yet, cause I got some great ideas.”

Drumpf addressed none other than the very Face of Aberdeen – a stunningly beautiful creature – obviously not as pretty as Iwantitall or Melancolia.

“We’re so glad to see you sir Mr Drumpf sir! If I can just -” she squealed.

“Just make sure I get plenty of clean towels honey.”

He dismissed her, and then proceeded to greet all the assembled Aberdeen city and shire councillors who lined up to kiss his ring.

Melancolia thought the Scotchland visit went much better than the China trip. It was freezing cold, the place was deserted, and part of the golf course had fallen into the sea. Still, there was the tasteful Drumpf clubhouse – with the Drumpf family crest – a two-headed monstrous bird – carved or printed on every surface within eyesight. Drumpf whisky was on sale at a mere £500 per bottle, signed by Drumpf (or truth be told, signed by Sarah Malone).

Soon this state visit had to end as well, and off the party flew back towards the States.

“One more stop, just to make sure everyone knows what a winner I am” the Drumpf/nutcracker said; its hinged mouth flapping wildly, its hair more frazzled than ever. “Mexico it is.”

The welcoming party at the airport seemed very festive; the peasants were all holding giant piñatas that looked just like Donald J Drumpf, and they were beating the s*it out of them. Drumpf opened his mouth to speak, but the cheering was so loud he couldn’t be heard. Melancolia was told that the waving of pitchforks and torches was a traditional Mexican greeting. Drumpf, his family and Melancolia were ushered quickly away and soon sat down to talk to the Mexican president.

“It’s very simple.” Donald said, his mouth in one of his widest smiles,

“You’re not giving us your best people. You’re giving us rapist and drug dealers. You gotta keep people in Mexico or I can’t get a good price on my Drumpf t-shirts that they make so cheaply here. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna build a wall. It’s gonna be the biggest, bestest, smartest wall anyone ever built, and it’s gonna keep those bad Mexicans out of America.”

“Senor – this is not possible – think of the environment, the practicalities – the cost!” The Mexican president wiped his brow.

“Not my problem – you’re gonna pay for it pal!” Drumpf said, leering.

“This meeting’s over and I’ll send you the bill later.” 

And with that, he rose, the rest of his party rose, and off they went.

“Oh wait, there’s some other place we gotta go” Drumpf said to his weary pilot,

“What’s it called again, it’s somewhere they really, really need my smart thinking. Oh yeah, The Middle East – that’s it.”

Audible groans came from everyone but the first family, as the jet roared into the night.

“Time for your CIA briefing sir.” said a man in a black suit.

“Ya know, I’m not one of those dumb guys, I don’t need to be told the same thing day in day out.” said a bored Drumpf, who was tweeting about a television show called Saturday Night Live, which was not funny or fair at all.

“But Sir!” persisted the CIA officer,

“The Syrian problem is deepening, there is a rift in Turkmenistan, there is insurgency in Turkey, human rights violations in several countries, economic instability threatens several regions, and environmental disaster relief is threatening to outstrip spending on our other missions.”

“Eh?” said Drumpf

“Just do what ya gotta do; maybe I’ll get time for you next month; we’ll see. Don’t you know I still gotta television show I gotta produce?”

Drumpf had ordered all the region’s diplomats and leaders to meet his plane, which as usual was greeted by a classy red carpet, a couple of models, and some bagpipe players just in case anyone forgot his mother was from Scotchland.

“Darling you do know how to make ze entrance!” Melancolia purred.

“Here’s some money from one of the charities – why don’t you and Iwantitall go do some shopping.”

Needing no further encouragement, the women were off. Drumpf was ushered into an assembly room and led to a podium.

“Guys you got to know – Jews love me. Muslims love me. The blacks – they love me. Now the problem is that you’ve got too many Muslims here in the Middle East – I’d suggest you deport some of ‘em like I’m gonna do in the States – send ‘em back where they came from.

“But I gotta hand it to you, ya know how to do great wall building here, and if you play your cards right, you might get some building contract work from me on the Mexican border, maybe even some security guard work, unless my pal Vlad has that sewn up already… Now if you’ll form an orderly queue, I’ve brought a few dozen copies of my new book ‘Nuclear weapons – why have ‘em but not use ‘em?’ – a snip at only £49.99 each – £99.99 if I sign them.”

Leaving the Middle East was all a bit of a blur to Melancolia, but the echoed shouts of thanks seemed to fill the streets.

“Donald Darling – Iwantitall and I have bought such darling new ball gowns – look – even titties mostly covered on mine! – we vant to go have dinner at Buckingham Palace.”

“Great idea Mel – let’s go do that. They love me there. The Queen – she loves me; she’ll want me to stop by. Prince Philip – he and I get along great – agree on almost everything. That Charles one – he loves me. Now don’t get jealous sweetie – but his ex-wife Diana – she couldn’t keep her hands off me. I had to tell her – Di – darling – I’ll send you a t-shirt and a cap, but you gotta get off me.”

Melancolia was not pleased to learn that the late princess had such a fixation on her Donald – but it was perfectly understandable of course. So off they all flew to Heathrow.

Soon they were ushered into a Buckingham Palace state room. A gaggle of courtiers surrounded the stately if diminutive Queen.

“Hey, hey Liz – this is my wife Melancolia – shake hands there you go – give me a big kiss.” 

Drumpf’s attempt to slobber all over HM were blocked by the courtiers. The Queen seemed to have turned a shade of red not dissimilar to the colour of a ‘Make America Great Again’ hat.

“Brought you something” Drumpf said, handing over a plastic bag with one of the coveted baseball caps.

A footman took the package, holding it in his gloved hands by two fingers, holding it an extreme distance away.

“Liz, there’s a guy here that wants to see you too – it’s my pal Nigel Farage. Nigel – Liz, Lizzie – Nigel. You’re gonna be fast friends I can tell. It will be yuge. I told Nigel he can be ambassador to the USA for your little country – that’s OK right? He’s got some great ideas – not as great as mine you understand – but he’s gonna make Great Britain Great Again. 

“Now about these immigrants like the Irish you got here….”

The Queen was speechless, not least because Drumpf’s wife and daughter were both trying to grab her tiara.

“This audience is at an end. Her Majesty thanks you and bids you good day.” a guard said, ushering the whole party out of the palace with bayonets drawn.

Soon they were back on their plane, flying for the States.

“Probably an old English custom. Nigel – leave some of that Drumpf whisky; we need to sell some later, that’s a good guy.” Donald said.

Melancolia was in a whirl from this whirlwind world tour. As they walked to their waiting limos to return to Air Farce One, it started to snow.

Donald was on the phone; she wasn’t sure to whom.

“Yes, Vlad, all good here – how’s Wendy? You must come over for some golf sometime soon. Thanks again for everything. What’s that? You want me to press that button thing now? OK – give you a half hour head start to get into that underground complex. 

“I’ll tell the Pentagon just like we agreed. I’ll tell those missiles myself ‘YOU’RE FIRED!’”

Everything was a blur of mushroom-shaped clouds, Drumpf shouting, and then everything went black. She closed her eyes for a second, and everything seemed to fade away.

The snow was swirling all about her face now, landing in huge crystals around her tongue and nose.

*                                             *                                             *

Melancolia was suddenly back at the Christmas Eve photoshoot – it had all been a dream.

“So honey, you wanna blow this party and come back to 5th Avenue with me on my big gold plated jet now?” Drumpf asked, a little drool spilling over his oily o-shaped lips.

His hair had loosened from its previously lacquered condition so that several single strands of oiliness and dye reached his chest, hitting his Drumpf necktie, which at the neck seemed nearly as wide as the spud-shaped head.

Some of the snow had stuck to his polylmer hair and a dash was on his nose.
Melancolia thought of all her imagined adventures which had seemed so real a moment ago.

Turning to Drumpf, moving closer to him, she turned her pout into a wide smile and said:

“Let’s get going big boy. Zees is going to be great.”

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Festive Fun Day Raises A Smile At Christmas Village

 Aberdeen City, News  No Responses »
Dec 062016
 

With thanks to Ross Anderson, Senior Account Manager, Citrus:Mix

aberdeen-christmas-village-festive-fun-day2

Lord Provost George Adam with Adrian Watson, chief executive of Aberdeen Inspired.

North-east charities, community groups and people with additional support needs enjoyed a free festive event in the heart of Aberdeen today.

Aberdeen Inspired, which delivers the Aberdeen Christmas Village in partnership with Aberdeen City Council and Codona’s, laid on a special Festive Fun Day and invited guests to enjoy the winter wonderland in a relaxed atmosphere.

Now in its second year, the Festive Fun Day attracted groups from Rosie’s social enterprises, Children First, Aberlour/Families First, Kaimhill School Rainbow Room pupils, Hazlewood School and Befriend a Child, to name but a few, who got into the Yuletide spirit at the attraction on Union Terrace.

They were treated to the rides, a session on the ice, free snacks and a soft drink in one of the marquees, where a disco took place all day.

Adrian Watson, chief executive of Aberdeen Inspired, said:

“We’re proud to host the Festive Fun Day at Aberdeen Christmas Village and it’s great to be able to give something back to good causes in the city and beyond.

“We were delighted with the response from charitable organisations and groups across Aberdeen and the wider north-east, the uptake has been fantastic once again this year.

“It’s been wonderful to see our guests smiling and enjoying themselves throughout the day and I hope they have lots of happy memories from their visit.”

The Aberdeen Christmas Village is open until Sunday, January 8. Union Terrace is closed until Sunday, January 15 to accommodate the village, with a number of traffic measures in place until then. For more information visit: www.aberdeenchristmas.co.uk/plan-your-visit

Aberdeen Inspired is the banner under which the Aberdeen BID (Business Improvement District) operates.

It is a business-led initiative within the city centre in which levy payers within the BID zone contribute. Proceeds are used to fund projects designed to improve the business district and drive footfall to the zone.

More information about Aberdeen Inspired is available at www.aberdeeninspired.com

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