Memories Of A Sorting Office By Duncan Harley

 Creative Writing, Featured, Satire and Humour  No Responses »
Dec 172015
 

Xmas_mask__c__Duncan_HarleyBy Duncan Harley.

As support for Trump hits a new high, the discontents of Xmas are upon us. Dances with Santa under the mistletoe and brandy-laced puddings are on the cusp, as the traditional festival drops from on high.
Personally I have a particular hatred of Xmas.

Family fights and feuds blighted my enjoyment of the season to be joyful, and many a festive turkey witnessed huffy uncles sniffing at wicked aunties who had caused uproar by omitting to knit fitting pressies last year or the year before.

I prefer funerals to be honest. Amongst the eulogies and the wee burnt up sausage rolls there is a least a common theme of how to bury the dead.

When my children were young, Xmas had some attraction. Hiding the truth about Santa ranked with being wakened up at some god-forsaken hour to be told,

“Santa’s been, look what I got!”

The trashing of carefully wrapped presents ranked equally with the cleaning of chocolate covered faces prior to the granny visit. Happy faces all round usually led to cries of “When can we go home”, and the desperate playing of Monopoly. The only winners were Waddingtons.

The very best festive season I ever had was in Glasgow.

I’d read some of Charles Bukowski’s work prior to taking a seasonal job in the local sorting office … sic … it was Xmas nineteen-something-or-other and I was charged with sorting out postal packets in Dixon’s Blazes.

A former ironworks, the place was built by one William Dixon (1788-1859). In days long past the industrialist’s furnaces lit up the night sky on the south side of the River Clyde and earned the ironworks the nickname “Dixon’s Blazes”.

When the furnaces died down the Royal Mail set up a sorting office in the old red-bricked factory buildings.

After the job interview, I signed the Official Secrets Act. The exact detail escapes me to this day; but I remain convinced that the paperwork specified that I should not divulge state-secrets to any foreign power including Wales or St Kilda. It was the time of the Cold War and the postal authorities were decidedly edgy, and on the lookout for left-wing infiltrators.

Burnhervie_edited-1Despite the long hair, I must have come across as a nice young right-wing non-activist and the very next day, I began work as a sorter-out of the nation’s Xmas parcels.

In those far off days parcels were sorted out by chucking them into mailbags hung on metal posts and labelled by destination. My postal station had around 30 of these bags and featured towns such as Cambridge, Carnoustie and Coventry alongside Dundee, Dundonald and Dunkeld. The procedure was to stand well back, pick a parcel from the line and chuck it into the appropriate destination mailbag.

In those far-off days, only Aberdeen featured post-codes, and the Postal Authorities in Glasgow were a bit sniffy about the new technology.

Needless to say, my aim was poor and my knowledge of geography was even worse.

A man by the name of Dutch Hendry took me under his wing and informed me that the name of the game was smashing up the mail. A full-time sorting-office employee he had plenty of tips.

“Chuck it into the bags, who cares where the stuff’s meant for.”

“What about the children?”

“The children? Just smash the toys.”

Dutch was of course both permanently drunk and permanently childless. His only claim to being from Holland was his liking for Dutch courage.

During the night shift some other drunks drove a red ‘by Royal Appointment’ Post Office van through the sorting office doors and got suspended for 24 hours. No-one seemingly cared about the wrecked van. Things were desperate at the sorting office.

One colleague had been fired last year for sticking it in big time. He had met a supervisor in the canteen and beat him with a loaded mail bag. You just never know who you’re associating with. They took him on again. Unbelievable.

Anyway, in nineteen-something-or-other, we all felt privileged to be looking after the Royal Mail despite the obvious blemishes.

In his classic American bestseller “Post Office” Bukowski describes the delivering of mail as a menial job worthy only of low life absurdly governed and powerless drones.

“You got any mail for me?”

“How the F… ck should I know … I’m only the mailman.”

“You got any mail for me?”

“How the F… ck should I know … I’m only the mailman.”

“You got any mail for me?”

“Who the F…ck are you and why should I even care?”

“You got any mail for me?”

Bukowski throws you over the place. After all, he’s dead and even when he wasn’t he didn’t give a shi …………

Apologies to Post Office Workers everywhere … you do a great job folks!

Merry Xmas everyone … unless you’re a Donald.

Words and images © Duncan Harley

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An Aberdeen Nativity – By Suzanne Kelly

 Aberdeen City, Creative Writing, Featured, Satire and Humour  1 Response »
Dec 142015
 

An Aberdeen Nativity by Suzanne Kelly.

Author’s note: Due to some recent developments, it seems the audience for Aberdeen Voice has widened; this is very welcome.

Every year I write an irreverent satirical piece summing up some of the year’s local, occasionally national, issues. Most of this won’t make the blindest bit of sense to those outside our little hamlet; apologies to anyone who invests time reading this, only to wind up scratching their head at the end.

Before recent developments, I had started to write this piece. All previous pieces had steered clear of the religious element of the traditional Christmas story. There were pieces based on Dickens A Christmas Carol, Dr Seuss’ wonderful Grinch, and so on. I hope it doesn’t need to be said I don’t mock anyone’s belief – but I think I’d best go on record as saying such. The story of the Nativity seemed very apt to a country where penniless travellers in need have come seeking shelter; I hope that is clear.

I could have pulled the piece; I could have taken a safer slant for this satire. But as I am determined that recent developments should not change me or what I do, I’m going to keep doing the things I do. Thank you for bearing with me, and even if this won’t be the best piece of satire you’ve ever read (and it certainly won’t be), thank you for understanding the important role satire has in standing up for what’s right, and mocking what is wrong.

Happy holidays, whatever you celebrate.
– Suzanne.

#                                  #                                  #

Aberdeen21NativityAnd lo, forsooth, result! – It came to pass that travellers from afar came to Aberdeen, a man named Joseph and a woman, Mary.

Verily things were not so good in the region they had come from. This was not far from what is called The Holy Land, where things are even less great, but I digresseth.

The great Caledonian cheiftans had decreed every child would be given a Person Named who would beneficently look into every child’s thoughts and life – for their own good of course.

Mary was heavy with child, and as is of course a good thing, as soon as the couple reached Caledonia, a Person Named was assigned to them. As was the Person Named’s wont, he stayed with them, beneficially watching their every move.

Joseph had come to seek respite from famine and war, which of course were all his personal fault. Perhaps he would landeth one of the many thousands of jobs created in the Shire of the Deen by Caesar Augustus Trumpus Maximus Racist, whose great pleasure palace would be the envy of the civilised world. Placed on the world’s largest dunes of sand, verily the wealthy multitudes would come here for a game of golf and leisure, although it was leagues north of Hadrian’s Wall, in the frozen land of the Picts and Celts. But I digresseth again.

The Person Named had managed to secure a temporary hotel lodging for the homeless couple, a beddeth and breakfasteth which the taxpayer would pay for. Now the taxpayer waxed wroth, for verily they had already paid for a massive number of social homes – some 400 of these were ready for use, but were sitting empty.

Peterus Leonardus Ruminant Vermin-Slayer Totallus Incompetentus, the head of the city’s housing, had decreed it was too complicated to give these homes a good use, and anyway, he was far too busy ridding the city of its roe deer menace. He claimed that a roe deer caused one chariot accident every week. This may in part have been because Leonardus had destroyed every bit of meadow the poor creatures had, but again, I digresseth.

The hotel was, according to the brochure the Person Named had acquired, supposed to be an iconic, smart, forward-looking building breathing new life into the heart of Aberdeen.

However, when Joseph, Mary and the Person Named arrived at their hotel, alas! It was still under construction, although it should have been finished months ago. A giant scraper of the sky, towering over the other buildings in Aberdeen, including some dusty old relic called the Provost’s House – it could not house them. The Person Named exclaimed:

“Behold what mighty works there are here in Aberdeenland. Great towers of glass and concerete so great as to block out the sky and light! Result!”

Joseph whispered to Mary:

“I wonder that the city’s senators would allow such ugly carbuncles to be erected amid the pleasant Granite buildings and suspected some shekels had traded hands. This Square of the Marischal looks like our blighted homeland. What maniacs are these we find ourselves among I wonder?”

Mary, Joseph and the Person Named followed street signs pointing to the tourist board, but verily these all led back to the place where the iron horses sped along tracks of metal, well, the trains did work when the copper wiring had not been stripped away by the Vandals and Ostragoths, or unless the wrong types of leaves lay on the rails – but again I digresseth.

Eventually finding the tourist board office, despite all the signs pointing to either the railway station or a giant bazaar, they spoke with the tourist board staff.

“Och noo, there are nae hotel rooms available, the whole o Scotland’s come to see yon Christmas Village, you see. However, I could get you either a single room in Peterheid, or the Britannia still seems to have lots of space for some reason.”

Joseph was tired and aggrieved:

“Verily I would sooner take my chances in the Sunken Gardens of the Terrace of Union with its murderers, miscreants and n’eer do wells, and Buckfast drinkers than take my wife and the Person Named to the Britannia.”

So off they went.

#                                  #                                  #                                  #

“This is going on your permanent record” saideth the Person Named. Mary was sore afraid.

They headed to the outskirts of town, and found a stable filled with horses, cattle, chickens and sheep – you getteth the idea.

And what kind of a farm was this?

It was a charity farm, one which rescued all kinds of farm animals (no dogs or cats).

Joseph was intrigued. Addressing the farmer he asked her:

“Lo, by what means do you pay for all the food, vet bills, insurance and regular horse-shoeing the horses and ponies need?”

“We’re 100% dependent on the public for donations.” the lady farmer replied, “I don’t have a computer, but I put up ads on fundraising websites with lovely pictures of horses and ponies and sheep, and people send us donations for the animals we rescue.”

“Verily” said the Person Named, “I can see a picture here of a sheep, and another of four little ponies – mind, these ponies look very much like some that I’ve seen in a photograph of yonder Shetlands – ponies which need no rescue.”

“Well!” said the farmer “we are a working farm, and I never said we weren’t. It’s like this: we show photos of fluffy lambs because our supporters want to see them. Then we sell the lambs at auction to people who will probably turn them into lamb chops, but it is none of our business what happens to the animals we raise as a business to support our business, and well all of our supporters know we save animals by raising other animals to get killed, if you know what I mean.”

She continued proudly:

“Sometimes, as I don’t have a camera or a computer, I have to download pictures of other people’s animals, and I’m sure no one minds too much. Anyway, that’ll be £30 for the night. In advance.”

Neither Joseph, Mary or the Person Named were sure they understood this business model.

“Well, it’s still better than staying in the Britannia” Mary said.

All agreed, and began settling down for the night.

“Joseph honey, I think I’m going into labour” said Mary.

“You sure it’s not just indigestion from that all you can eat Chinese on Union Street our Mary?” he asked

“No, it’s the realeth deal”

“Shall we get you to the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary then?” asked the Person Named

Joseph and Mary looked at their clip-board bearing travel companion (who refused to give them their name as it happened) and exchanged a look.

“You mean that place where the cleaning staff, nurses and doctors are all on a pittance and toil all day and night, where germs have run rampant, where junior doctors are exhausted, and the ER is crammed on a weekend with people who have had too much wine and mead?” – Joseph was aghast.

“Well, that’s where we’re going, I’ll just call for an ambulance and call to let the midwives know we’re on the way. Then I’m going to find you two immigrants some permanent accommodation and some work. The council will have your home and work straightened out in no time.” said the Person Named.

Joseph and Mary again looked at each other and shook their heads.

#                                  #                                  #                                  #

Meaneth while, some shepherds were out in one of the few fields left, counting their sheep.

“It’s nae use Murray,” Shepherd A spake “Fit wi so many ear tags on each animal nowadays they can barely keep their head up.”

“Agreed,” saideth Shepherd B. “And god help you if your sheep should lose a tag; that’s you stuck with an unsellable sheep, and about a week’s worth of paperwork, and a hefty bill. Things ain’t what they used to be.”

“Perhaps we could do liketh those farmers up the road do, and start also keeping some animals, you know, and saying we’re rescuing them. We’ll still sell our sheep at market, but we’ll tell everyone how kind and loving we are, and we’ll tell them we’re saving farm animals.” Shepherd A was proud of this plan.

“Ach, you’ve been smoking that funny stuff they sell on the Q T down at the farm have ye?” Shepherd B said. “Still, if it turneth a quid, let’s put our heads together and go fer it.”

Just at this moment the heavens lit up.

“Heck’s this?” asked Shepherd A “Aurora Borealis was nae forecast on my Facebook feed tonight.”

Shepherd B said:

“Must be one of those funny light projection things that the city think are so clever and forward looking. They shine a pink or blue light on a tree trunk or on a building, and think they’re Manhattan or London.”

Just then, an angel descended from the heavens, flapping its wings. it spake unto the shepherds:

“Do not be afraid.”

“Am nae bothered me,” said Shepherd B

“Not fashed either; what’s up?” said A.

Somewhat flustered at the unanticipated interruption and lack of awe the pair of shepherds displayed, the angel continued:

“I shall starteth over: Do not be afraid, for I bring you glad tidings of great joy.”

“Oooh, are we getting a new shopping mall?” Asked Shepherd B, rubbing his hands together “We need more cheap goods from other parts of the empire, madeth by the slaves so that we need not spendeth all our pounds and drachma on UK made goods.”

“I know!” Shouted Shepherd A, “It’s a Krispy Kreme Donut shop! I heard on Twitter that we’re getting one in the Empire Square mall. I don’t half fancy a few dozen of those chocolate ones.”

The frustrated angel, his wings flapping furiously as he hovered over the shepherds, flew flusterdly.

“Hey mate, you have a permit for this? All drones have to obey FAA commands.” Said Shepherd A

“It’s not a drone, stupid. It’s what you call one of those genetically modified chickens. Let’s have him and get some tags on those wings.” Shepherd B said

The angel waxed wroth. He pointed at a nearby boulder and it exploded.

“Pretty sure you need a permit for that.” muttered Shepherd A.

“Right. Let’s try this again.” the Angel started. “Do not be afraid, for I bring you glad tidings of great joy. Behold, a child is born tonight in a manger; he will be king of kings. His parents have travelled from afar for this miracle of birth.”

“You what?” said Shepherd B. “Last thing we need are more immigrants round here. That’s more competition for jobs, innit?”

Shepherd A was not impressed.

“King of kings? Look mate, we’re trying to get rid of the monarchy. What did the monarchs ever do for us? Except Robert the Bruce of course; he gave us common good land, foreseeing a day when we’d want to turn it over to private hands to build a granite web on.”

“Right, when you said ‘glad tidings of great joy’ I thought you at least meant a peripheral ring road, more housing in the greenbelt, or jobs creation. I hoped that maybe we’d finally get that granite web everyone wants. Jeez.” Shephderd B was sore disappointed.

Shepherd A waived his hands and arms as if to shoo the Angel away.

“Bugger off, you, and take any foreigners with you.” 

The Angel, now veritably incandescent with rage, pointed his arm at the ground by the shepherds, and a vast chasm filled with fire and brimstone opened at their feet. Out popped three people in pinstripe suits armed with mobile phones and clipboards. A mountain of paperwork and forms appeared from the firey depths as well.

“I’m Smith from DEFRA, this is Higgins from EU Agriculture and Rural Development, this is your MEP, and there’s more coming. What’s this about one of your lambs missing one of its ear tags??”

Smith thrust a bale of forms at Shepherd A.

“We’ll start with this. Our call-out fee is £10,000, which we’ll take out of next year’s farm subsidy.”

The Angel said to Shepherd B:

“If you don’t want the same, go and get the three Wise Men, and tell them to get to the barn the star hangs over, and go greet the newborn king.”

“OK OK, whatever; don’t get in a flap” Said Shepherd B, and he was off.

Shepherd A was aghast:

“But we’ve not received this year’s subsidy yet!” 

Turning to the Angel, he said:

“Couldn’t you have just turned me into a pillar of salt or something instead?”

But the Angel was gone.

#                                              #                                              #                                              #

The Person Named had called a cab, and had gone off to a five star restaurant/hotel which he’d found on Trippeth Advisor. The cab took winding roads until gigantic signs proclaimed his arrival at ‘Trumpus Maximus Scota Golfus’. He figured he’d make some calls about Joseph and Mary, have a nice steak dinner and in the morning play a round of golf.

Of course, the grateful taxpayer would be happy to pay for the costs of a Person Named, and only the best would do. Making some calls from the club house of this magnificent resort, with its giant sundials and Trumpus crested furniture, he’d sorteth out the work and housing for this couple. The ambulance had never arrived though he waited hours, and then somehow Mary and Joseph didn’t seem to be around anyway.

“If only I could find some kind of jobs for these immigrants.” the Person named sighed aloud into his third martini.

“Hi there – did you say you need to find some housing and work for some immigrants? Well look no further!”

The speaker was a woman with giant hair, giant heels, and a lovely lovely face.

“We are building staff accommodation and I’m sure we can find them some work cleaning rooms and dishes. Shall we talk?” 

Verily, it was Sarah Malonia Bates Majora, Face of Aberdeen, Spokeswoman of Trumpus. The Person Named bowed before her.

And thus another successful outcome for the Person Named scheme came to be.

#                                              #                                              #                                              #

Shepherd B arrived at the mighty palace of Marischal College. Rushing to the head of the queue at Reception, he was jostled and jeered by those in line.

“Right.” he said breathlessly to the jaded receptionist,

“I’m looking for Three Wise Men”

“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” the receptionist asked.

“Well, for openers, there’s ACSEF.”

“No, not wiseguys, Wise MEN.” the Shepherd said. “Besides it’s ONE now, not ACSEF. It’s a whole different thing!”

“Sure it is, sure it is,” The receptionist laughed,

“A public/private quango paid for partly by taxes, headed by Sir Ian Wood and Jennifer Claw’s involved, and they want to build stuff in Union Terrace Gardens.  Yeah. completely different. Anyway, what do you want wise men for, and where do you expect to find them around here?”

“A baby’s been born that will be king of kings and straighten everything out!” cried the Shepherd,

“And an angel flew down from heaven and told me to get the word around, and find the wise men.”

“NEXT!” said the receptionist, and the shepherd was jostled along out of the line.

#                                  #                                  #                                  #

In the meaneth time, Mary had had her baby right there in the manger, and couldn’t be moved now. She thought the farmer was trying to take snaps of the babe in the manger, and would have sworn the farmer whispered:

“wait til I get this on Go Fundeth Me! I’ll be sheckels in!”

And lo, similar stories were being played out in Gaul, in Brittania, in the very Roman Empire too.

Tired, worn out people were fleeing the four horsemen: Famine had come to the formerly Fertile Crescent, wreaking havoc. He was followed closely by Plague, as the fleeing refugees spilled out from the now barren land. They streamed to their country’s cities where War had been waiting to meet them. As they fled from Famine, Plague and War, many fled straight into the arms of Death, who had also been waiting.

Those who escaped Death were a diverse band. The hugest part were simply people trying to stay alive and keep their wives, husbands, mothers, fathers and children alive. They did what you or I would do.  Their options were few, and Death waited everywhere.

A tiny fraction of the people on the move were the very agents of War and Death, who decided that rather than solving problems they would make more problems.

And a smaller number still are the ones who one day will, we hope, try to solve problems with peace, intelligence, kindness, and maybe even Love, who it is rumoured is making something of a comeback.

Mary slept; Joseph kept watch, and the baby smiled in its sleep.

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Old Susannah No. 185 – Carry On

 Opinion, Satire and Humour  4 Responses »
Nov 162015
 

Voice’s Old Susannah takes a look over the past week’s events in the ‘Deen and beyond. By Suzanne Kelly.

DictionaryI’d have loved to say that this was another great week in the Deen and the wider world, but senseless violence has again cast shadows.

Parents are burying their son who was stabbed to death in his school. Parisiens are mourning friends family and colleagues after a brutal, barbaric attack on a city and its freedom. People are coping with these tragedies in different ways.

If I had some clever, healing words that could make it all better, I’d write them. What I will say though is violence is never the answer.

Conflicts rage around the world, between individuals and between ideaologies, races, sexes. The answers are kindness, reason, justice equality and freedom for all.

Everyone can find a way to help put these in place – whether it’s in your school, your job, your neighbourhood or your country. Do something positive; do something useful with your anger. Violence is never the answer.

As for me, I intend to keep doing what I do; to try and do more both to stand up against what is wrong, and help people (and animals and the environment). Giving up isn’t on the agenda. Carrying on is. Whatever your answer is, make it a peaceful one.

Normal services resume. Here are a few definitions from recent events here in the granite city. If you think humour is inappropriate at present, remember no one’s forcing you to read this. However, laughter, and pointing out things that are wrong whether on a local or national scale with a bit of satire helps a bit for me. Hopefully it might help another person or two as well.

Entertainment:

Isn’t it wonderful? The spirit of good will approaches, and not to be found wanting, Aberdeen Inspired is going to allow musicians to busk at their Christmas Village!

Form an orderly queue; you will be allowed to play for free! And, you can ‘put your hat out in the ‘usual manner’ – for after all, being a musician is kind of one step above being a beggar.

This will give you much need exposure. Exposure to rain, cold, wind, and exposure to pleading for money. At least by then we should have swept all the homeless and beggars off the streets – so that it will be easier for you as a musician to get a bigger share of the 5p pieces that otherwise might have gone to a homeless person.

The life of a musician’s an easy one. You learn to play a few songs (takes a day or two); learn to play in time and in tune with others (allow another day), buy an instrument or two (some guitarists have more than one guitar; I’ve never been able to figure that out, or why drum kits have more than one drum).

you’ve no overheads. And – it gives you exposure

Then, you start performing. You might even get a bass player to join your band (quick definition: a bass player is a cross between a musician and a drummer).

Money comes hand over fist overnight, and you fight off different record company offers and groupies.

Recording music costs next to nothing these days, you don’t need studios, engineers, producers; you can do it all in your bedroom and it will sound just as good. And if you want a really excellent CD cover, just get some graphic artist to do it for free, for the exposure, don’t you know?

Within a month of writing your songs, getting a band together, cutting CDs to sell, you’ll be rolling in it. Playing for free at events like Aberdeen’s Christmas Village is fine, because you’ve no overheads. And – it gives you exposure. That will increase your record sales.

Perhaps the people who’ve designed this event, who take a cut of all the business rate taxes in our fair city, are likewise going to work for free. Perhaps their suppliers and their security guards will as well. I can’t wait to see Santa, the reindeer (which really don’t belong in the wild, and are much better off being transported, kept in small enclosures and gawped at by crowds – but I digress) and Santa’s traditional security guards.

In keeping with the true meaning of Christmas, I hear the Coca Cola truck is soon to put in an appearance too. In light of all this – asking musicians to perform for free or to beg for donations, and the beverage company distribution truck, it makes me think the City of Culture bid loss was a fix. By the way, the Culture bid team bought itself a number of ipads; does anyone happen to know where these are now? Just asking.

So musicians – playing this gig will get you that lucrative record deal that much faster – sign up here: Oh, and it couldn’t hurt to get matching t-shirts with the Aberdeen Inspired logo (someone remind me – what was the cost of this logo? It’s nearly as cool as the ACSEF one, which was at least a five figure sum. In hindsight, ACSEF should have found someone to do it for free.

I wonder whether the commission could have been given to an ACSEF member, like when they commissioned photos to show that UTG is empty and hard to access. That cost us the taxpayer a few hundred quid, and well spent it was. But paying musicians? Well, you’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

Deer Population Figures:

At least the deer being transported around the area during Coca Cola Truck season aren’t (probably) in any immediate danger of being poached or culled, although the concentration of these little things in such a small area is contrary to SNH population guidelines.

The SNH think we can have a healthy gene pool and stable herd on Tullos Hill with something like 3-5 deer allowed. I think that sounds as scientific and reasonable to you as it does to me.

Here’s how the city manages to explain the deer population figures:

  • January 2014 – inconclusive

Despite SNH using their best technology such as thermal imaging, they counted 19 deer in the city area.

  • January 2013 – too few

Deer remains were found on both Tullos and Kincorth hills by walkers. The city warden didn’t think the Kincorth find (including remains of a skinned cat) were worth mentioning. At any rate. the city’s ranger service concluded the Tullos deer were so few in number that the criminals did this: they poached the deer somewhere else (you have to gut deer quickly or the meat goes bad), then decided to carry the entrails and severed limbs up to Tullos Hill.

Have you been to Tullos? It’s the most accessible, straightforward place to dump any cumbersome crime evidence. No, the city might not really know how many or how few deer are left, but they do know the crime was committed elsewhere. They said:

“The Tullos one is something we heard about from the police who are investigating this as poaching though [name redacted] and I suspect the animals could not have been taken on Tullos Hill as the population that [name redacted] has seen in recent months is less than this. SNH were due to be doing their repeat thermal imaging survey on the Tull0s Hill last night, I haven’t heard the results of how many deer they found.”

  • April 2015 – far too many

The city claims that a deer a week is involved in a road accident these past two years. They bravely withheld this information from the public and cleverly warned absolutely no one about it, waiting to spring this on the public as a reason for more culling.

However robust their data, they are withholding it. This may or may not be related to the fact their data in April included non-city accidents, and a deer found dead – in a nature reserve.

Surely they would instantly share their data to prove how accurate and scientific they are? Surely we’d be seeing a huge spike in figures as they’ve basically allowed building to take over huge tracts of former deer habit from Loirston to Kingswells? Surely they’d want to help do something to stop accidents when bulldozers come in?

Peter Leonard said ‘that’s the landowner’s issue’ in almost so many words. They have this data. They’ve been asked for it for weeks now. They’re not sharing it.

This is now a FOI request, and Old Susannah can hardly wait to see if their answer is as robust as their last FOI answer on the cost of the scheme. Told by the Petitions committee to release all the costs, they sent a spreadsheet to me – five months after being told to do so – that had at least £50,000 of costs missing from it – compared to a spreadsheet I had been sent previously.

So – depending on whether or not it fits the current situation, whether or not we have a lot or a few deer is very much a flexible question when the city’s concerned. Then again, who are we to doubt them when they’ve delivered the lush, award-winning, cost-neutral, wildlife-packed forest we all enjoy on Tullos Hill?

You see, if we didn’t destroy our deer to plant that forest, they’d have nowhere to live. Although they lived on the hill before just fine. (for more info, just search Aberdeen Voice re. Tullos Hill or deer – all feeble excuses about culling are more than covered. We don’t have to kill. But it’s a nice little earner for a few folks, and a career-booster as well).

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Old Susannah No. 184: Organised Crime Special

 Opinion, Satire and Humour  No Responses »
Oct 192015
 

Is the country in the grip of an organised crime onslaught? Old Susannah thinks so, and offers two bonus definitions, one courtesy of Aberdeen City Council. By Suzanne Kelly

DictionaryTally ho, and apologies for the late running of this service. There’s been so much going on in the Deen that I haven’t had time to put finger to keyboard until now.

BrewDog Bar had its 5th birthday – hard to believe it’s been that long. Beer and brownies were served (in moderation).

I’m doing a speech there this Thursday when they launch a show of Bibo Keeley’s artwork. This feminist artwork was just too much for the Aberdeen College up the road, as per this Aberdeen Voice article. If you’re free, drop in before 7:30pm.

The controlled explosion on Aberdeen’s Fun Beach this week seemed to have caught press attention. If the local journalists like this kind of thing, they need only come to Torry close to Bonfire Night.

By close to the night, I mean 6 months before to 6 months after. In fact, someone’s exploding something just off Victoria Road right now. I guess it just goes to show that our safety people really are on the ball. If they’re not banning pets and plastic chairs from events, making people queue for hours to get into an event, or putting people barriers across roads, they’re blowing things up. Great stuff.

The Harbour Board still insists that it wants only to take complete control of Nigg Bay so we can have cruise ships coming in.

These cruise ships full of rich tourists must be the same hordes of rich tourists which failed to materialise at the Trump golf course. The place is nothing like capacity, and losses are expected to be around £2,000,000 this past year. But the cruise ships; I can see it now – ships pull in full of wealthy tourist, their bulging wallets clutched in their hands as they make their way through the barbed wire keeping us Torry loons and quines away from their ships, down Victoria Road.

The millionaires will stop for a quick sandwich in SPAR or to place a bet before making their way to Union Square Mall, the Rodeo Drive of the North East. Spending their money, enriching the multinational shops’ coffers, they’ll saunter back down Victoria Road, through the dirt, dog dirt, overfilling dumpsters, and wave fondly as their ship pulls out. It’s almost too good to be true.

But at this rate there won’t be any room for definitions, so I’ll get on with it. Sadly, we have a crime problem, and unfortunately, organised crime exists. People team up to rob the unwary or the vulnerable, to steal, to trick, to exploit for profit. Here are some of the schemes they use.

Numbers Racket/Numbers Game: (Modern English Slang compound noun).

Definition 1 – to use statistics / numbers deliberately slanted with the intent of deception to win an argument.

Old Susannah includes this definition just for completeness, there aren’t any examples of this kind I can find in our area. I tried to think of examples the other day as I sadly walked through Union Terrace Gardens, lamenting the £18,000,000 the Granite Web could have made every year as 6,000 permanent jobs were created, and tourists (possibly from the cruise ships coming to Torry) flocked to see the granite ramps.

I was still trying to think of any examples of a numbers racket when I found myself at the Trump International Golf Links Scotland last week. I struggled to fight my way through the hordes of millionaire golfers queuing up for a £200 round of golf as the permanent Scottish staff struggled to accommodate. Should I think of any examples of this definition of a numbers game, I’ll let you know.

Definition 2 –  (North American in origin) A lottery based on unpredictable numbers in the results of races, sports games, lotteries, etc.

I’m sure you’re as excited as I am about the new form of the National Lottery. It was great when they doubled the ticket price, but now that they’ve added an extra ten numbers, that means you have more choice! Result!

You can now choose even more numbers than before. Of course, your odds of winning are apparently as good as the chances of Donald Trump admitting that he’s got the world’s worst syrup on his head, or of a certain local billionaire paying the tax he actually morally owes. You have more chance of being hit by lightning than of winning a Lotto jackpot now. But it’s a nice little earner. For Camelot. And the government.

Some unkind folks call Lotto a tax on the poor. That’s nonsense. Besides, we’ve already got lots of taxes on the poor. There’s bedroom tax, fines for the homeless in some parts of the country, and a whole swathe of recent benefit cuts. Lotto’s really just a wee bit of psychological temptation for the poor. When I see people who barely have any money spending it on scratch cards, I’m as sure as they are that that one big win would make everything fine – if one or two people start gambling more than they should, it’s hardly the State’s fault, is it?

Protection Racket: (Modern English Slang compound noun) Practice of paying money in exchange for either not being directly attacked, or for getting assistance when it is needed. Often the person or organisation collecting the protection money will not come through when they are supposed to.

A modern version works like this. Jack works a 9-5 job and takes home £300 a week. The State says Jack has to pay for a scheme, called National Insurance. This is in case Jack ever gets sick, or needs help, or if he wants to keep eating when he is old. National Insurance is not classed as a tax by the way, so the racketeers can pretend they are not raising taxes if they raise National Insurance.

Jack gets sick. If and when he’s lucky, and if he lives in the right post code, he’ll get a great deal of medical help from dedicated professionals. If he’s in the wrong postcode at the wrong time, it will be a different story.

But things are changing. A number of American mobs are moving in on the UK protection racket, and want to get even more money out of us, by taking over the operations – literally. There are think tanks* coming up with papers and reports proving that we need to privatise the National Health Service which should be funded by our protection money – I mean National Insurance. They know they can bleed Jack for just that little bit more money.

Sometimes it doesn’t go well. Jill was taken ill – but she was overweight/smoked/drank too much/ took an ecstasy pill. There are some doctors out there who have let quite a growing number of Jills simply die.

Basically, you pays your money and you takes your chance. This is why many Jacks and Jills are now paying a further protection racket to try to get better odds of fast treatment (or just treatment at all). This link gives you a nostalgic look at how things have slightly shifted: http://www.bbc.co.uk/newsbeat/article/10078062/why-do-we-pay-national-insurance

It’s not just a bad idea to get ill, it is a very, very bad idea to get old….

Pyramid Selling Scheme: (Modern English Slang compound noun) A financial fraud in which those who get in at the beginning are guaranteed benefit, but those who come in late – at the bottom of the pyramid – wind up losing out.

This National Insurance thing. It started out as a great idea, and it still is a great idea. Alas! The mob running it at present has turned the tables. They’d rather spend our tax and protection money ‘tooling up’ for when they have to go to war with the Middle East Mob, or wherever their gang warfare takes them next. Our money is not going on hospitals and pensions and protection so much as it is going on weapons. Lots of them. Billions of pounds worth. But that’s what the crime bosses want.

Anyway – you make the mistake of getting older. You’ve been paying into the pyramid scheme via your taxes and NI for decades. Not so fast: the bosses have moved the goal posts. You’re going to have to work a few more years. And as you get closer to that deadline, they posts move again.

The thing is – if the crime bosses keep buying all the lethal weapons and rockets they want with your money, and if people keep not dying but getting older – there’s not going to be enough money for your retirement. So they’re cutting back on what you were promised, little by little.

Decent place to live? Well, if you need a retirement home, they’ll take most of your money off of you before you can get into some kind of human (inhuman) warehouse. The people who are supposed to take care of you there are likely to be overworked, undertrained, and in some cases brutal. Your protection money is not likely to save you from the degradation, abuse or chemical coshing you are more than likely to receive.

So, we all keep paying in, we all keep trying to save. The goons that take our money and which will take those savings tell us they’ve got to rescue the banks or we’ll be in financial trouble. They say we need billions of pounds’ worth of weaponry to be safe. They say they need huge pay rises, incentive bonuses, and fat pensions.

Remember though, we are all in this together.

Next Week – probably a column of some sort from my prison cell.

Result!  Bonus Definitions!

* Think Tank: (Modern English compound  noun)– quick definition – a group undertaking research, often funded by those who want the think tank to reach a particular conclusion.

There are more think tanks about the NHS’s future than I can possibly list. Funny – most of these think tanks that are paid for by US healthcare companies are of the opinion the NHS should be privatised and run by, er – US healthcare companies.

wank tankWank Tank: (Modern Aberdeen City Council compound noun)

My picture shows a document Aberdeen City Council’s Housing Department sent out a form to a resident, which reads: ‘Pipes overflowing from the wank tank, water pouring out from the loft overflow.’

Old Susannah is debating whether or not to ask Peter Leonard, head of this department, for help with a definition. If any readers can help, please do let me know.

At least it’s apparently only water coming out from the loft overflow.

Pictures not required in this instance, thank you; tanks but no tanks.

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Old Susannah No. 183 – A Pig and a Poke

 Opinion, Satire and Humour  3 Responses »
Oct 012015
 

Old Susannah makes a silk purse out of a sow’s ear with some timely political definitions. By Suzanne Kelly

Dictionary‘In a Pig’s Ear’, I thought upon hearing a recent piece of political gossip; ‘Someone’s telling porkies’. The story put a look on my face akin to the look worn by Milliband  in this photo from August.

Perhaps the tail in question, no doubt circulated by some squealer or other, was actually about the MP Richard Bacon? Perhaps a politician with their nose in the trough was behind the rumour? Doubtless some sow-and-sow was hamming it up to give us all a good ribbing. Truly, I never sausage a strange series of news headlines as those that were trotted out last week.

But it was true; Jeremy Corbyn is now Labour Leader.

Think of all that hard work that Tony Blair accomplished in modernising and improving Labour. What if it were all for nowt? All that creative writing that got the dodgy dossier ‘sexed up’ (not in the David Cameron sense of course)? What if we hadn’t got rid of Sadaam Hussein? What if Tony hadn’t been the Middle East Peace Envoy and had restored the balance of power we’re seeing the benefits of now?

No, Corbyn and his crazy ideas have to go.

Aside from worrying about someone who wants people earning decent wages, who wants to home these pesky immigrants/refugees, who wants to prevent nuclear war, it was a good week. I had a few lovely drinks down at Café 52 during the warm weather; and a few drinks in BrewDog. The BrewDog Jackhammer margarita remains my favourite beer cocktail, but Krakatoa has the tiki cocktail supremacy in Aberdeen sewn up.

My last cocktail there was a practically fluorescent purple delight, delicately flavoured with violets. As I can’t remember the name of it off hand, I’ll just have to go back and try some more of them. Nicely done Flash.

Under the Hammer has some of my artwork on show with the wonderful paintings of Neale Bothwell and some amazing prints from Graham, legendary contributor to Viz Magazine. His Black Bag, Faithful Borders Binliner’s escapades are on display and available as a limited print. Result!

But I digress. This Corbyn business has to be nipped in the bud. Here are a few timely definitions to show why there’s no room in Left Wing politics for a man who’s clearly Left Wing.

Trident: (Modern English Compound Noun) United States nuclear weaponry deployment system kindly gifted to a grateful UK and its taxpayers, keeping us safe from harm.

It was quite a political party for Labour in Brighton. According to the BBC Corbyn doesn’t like nuclear weapons:

“no way that he [Corbyn] would ever use nuclear weapons because they are “immoral”.”

Clearly someone who is so naive cannot be trusted to blow the bad guys up when it comes down to it. Now that they know that, they’ll be able to destroy the world before the West gets a chance to. Alas! We’ve simply got to win the last war, don’t we?

Some champion of the working man Corbyn proves to be – doesn’t he know lots of people work on Trident? What’s more important, making people retrain into other lines of work, or ensuring we can end the world? Keep those Trident jobs going; I hope the men and women who earn their living by ensuring our tax pounds are diverted from the NHS, welfare and education for this gangbuster guarantee of safety are as proud of what they do as I am proud of them.

Trident is a bargain at twice the price; first, we get to keep that ‘Special Relationship’ going with the USA. Makes me warm just thinking of that time Thatcher danced with Ronald Reagan. Secondly, it’s great at keeping us safe (even if those Russian jets which keep flying over England don’t realise it). Third – just think of the economic benefit.

There are over 500 civilians in Scotland employed because of Trident! Result!  What’s more important, ethics and the world’s ecological health and species survival, or economics? I don’t think I need to spell it out any more than that. Further, our defence budget is around 30 billion or so (at least that we know about), and you’ve got to keep that growing. There may be a time for beating swords into ploughshares in the future. This ain’t it.

Foreign Policy: (English Compound Noun) strategies and values applied to international diplomacy.

You’d think the guy would have learned a thing or two from Brown or Blair, but apparently not. Here’s what Corbyn has to say about foreign policy:

“I argue for a different type of foreign policy based on political and not military solutions; on genuine internationalism that recognises that all human life is precious, no matter what nationality; and solidarity with the oppressed across the globe from the subjugated Palestinians to the displaced Chagos Islanders.” http://jeremycorbyn.org.uk/priorities/peace/

Again, there is this childish idealism that the left should actually have something to do with left wing, socialist values and human rights. He should have been disabused of this idea at one of Labour’s long ago Brighton conventions. A terrorist named Walter Wolfgang (yes, I did write about him once before) was removed from the room for interrupting proceedings under the newly created Blair-framed terrorism act.

In point of fact, the ever trustworthy Jack Straw was apparently speaking at the time, telling us why we needed to bomb Iraq. For whatever reason, Wolfgang disagreed. Of course this heckler was a life-long Labour supporter, who in his advancing 80 years must have lost the plot and thought criticising Blair was still allowed. The arrest threat was dropped, but at least we taught this dangerous terrorist a good lesson.

What Corbyn needs is a profile and popularity boost, and nothing says popular like invading the Falklands or Iraq. Hope he’s got a good war up his sleeve somewhere. After all, at first we all trusted Tony ‘Things can only get Better’ Blair and his charmingly toothsome wife Cherie with her arresting smile.

Morality: (English from the Latin) relating to what is good or bad behaviour.

If you needed any further reason to distrust Jeremy, did you know he’s been DIVORCED? Just what kind of person would do something so immoral and still think they had a right to be the United Kingdom’s Prime Minister?

No, I for one am happy to stick to Right Wing, Conservative family values.

And there you have the case against Corbyn. Old Susannah is off out now to a pork roast. I hear that some of our best political leaders like pulled pork. Or something like that.

Until the next time I take pen and oink to paper, tally ho, cheerio, etc.

Next week: Definition of the phrase ‘to go the whole hog’

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Confessions of Old Susannah (A Northfield Special)

 Opinion, Satire and Humour  8 Responses »
Sep 182015
 

Old Susannah’s feeling sheepish about recent events, and has decided not to duck the important questions surrounding recent articles about Northfield Animal Haven.  Rather than going on the lamb or spreading any bull, here are some timely definitions should anyone think she’s chicken. By Suzanne Kelly.

DictionaryIf you’ve been reading the Voice, you may be aware of articles and comments concerning Northfield Animal Haven. Were all of its fundraising appeals transparent and accurate? Did all of the animals it purported to rescue actually exist? Not so much. Now that the dossier of Northfield’s activities has been turned over to the police, it’s time for me to turn myself in.  If Northfield were to be believed – and wny wouldn’t you? – then I have done wrong.

Here are a few related definitions to help unravel the Northfield saga.

Alias: (English noun) A false name, often used with the intent to conceal identity and/or to deceive.

Did you know that Old Susannah is actually an alias, and my name is Suzanne Kelly? Well, it’s worse than that.

“She calls herself SueKelly10 on Twitter”, tweeted Fiona Manclark.

Before you judge me too harshly for this subterfuge, please allow me to explain. ‘Sue’ is a name I’m using to try and throw people from thinking I’m Suzanne. I really am amazed that Fiona figured this out. Alas! I cannot ask her how she sleuthed this one through, she and Northfield have me blocked on Twitter and Facebook.

However, should you wish to ask for her opinions about how Suzanne Kelly has the gall to call herself ‘SueKelly10’, tweet to her at ‘Mummyalfi’. Hope this helps.

As an aside, when I first started writing for Aberdeen Voice (some 400+ pieces ago), I was going to only be known as ‘Old Susannah’ and stay anonymous. I thought that might help give me more distance from people who might not like being investigated.

Alas! While I had said to AV editors that my pen name was going to be ‘Old Susannah’, the first column came out with the heading ‘Old Susannah’s Dictionary Corner – by Suzanne Kelly’. With the cat out of the bag, the decision was pretty much made for me that I’d continue investigating and not care whether people knew my name. After all, what was the worst that could happen?…

Death Threats: (English compound plural noun) To threaten to kill someone or a group of people

In various social media locations, Northfield’s Kelly Cable and her father Eric have stated that Kelly’s had death threats. I suppose this could be from The Vegan Conspiracy (see below), militants, etc. But death threats are very serious. Cable claims these have been reported to the police. There isn’t anything funny about death threats – but it is funny that anyone should issue death threats to someone over the veracity of their interesting farming and fundraising frolics.  Or benefit fraud.

The family must be very upset by this. Death Threats are no joking matter. They are so upset at these death threats that dad Eric wrote on a Facebook Page about me and my articles that he should get an AK-47. But that’s OK, as he also wrote in brackets ‘tongue in cheek’.  He probably only meant he’d like to take me out shooting.

Threats are a tricky thing.  Old Susannah / SueKelly10/ I must work harder to understand when a death threat is a joke or when it’s sinister.

Clearly the threats to Kelly are very real.  In fact, I am quite convinced the death threats are as genuine as the rescue appeal for the six Shetland ponies she recently removed from Go Fund Me. For some reason, some people found the appeal a tad misleading.  It was illustrated with a photo of a cute pony  – rescued years ago in Wales.  The owner of the six ponies has never come forward, we’ve no idea where they are or what they look like.  But because Cable says so, we know that only she was going to be allowed to save them.  Otherwise they would be turned into meat. Kind of like the lambs on the other side of the Cable business, but I digress.

By the way, it’s important to remember that everything that happens because of my exposing Kelly Cable’s methods of operation is my fault and not hers.  I should have just let her continue to rescue animals (though I suspect some are probably more suited to rehoming in a Farmville game than on a real farm). I could have let her take donations, such as the £150 she got from a pensioner.  This generous person wrote in a comment that they couldn’t really afford their donation, but they didn’t want the animals to suffer.   What nefarious knaves would be making death threats? I have a theory…

The Vegan Conspiracy: (extremely modern English compound noun) Shadowy organisation that is trying to get people to stop eating animals

I am supposed to confess that my interest in Northfield’s inventive fundraising is due to my being part of The Vegan Conspiracy. This is mentioned here or there on Facebook by Northfield supporters.  I have a vegan agenda and I have cohorts.  As secret as our cabal is, I’m sure the boys won’t mind me telling you a bit more about our little initiative, The Vegan Conspiracy.

Every full moon, a bunch of hemp-clothing clad, tofu-eating, unshaven, unwashed pagans gather at Torry Battery to advance our inevitable world domination.

The nefarious agenda is to get people to realise that fluffy chicks, fleecy lambs, adorable calves should be petted, loved, given space and not shredded alive and un-anaesthetised on birth for being male (chicks), locked in pens so they can’t move (most other critters), or kept pregnant only to have calves snatched away and be re-impregnated again and again until worn out so we can have milk on our cornflakes.

After we paint ourselves in dayglow paint and dance to Morrissey, we strategise how to get people to be more compassionate and switch from meat and dairy to alternatives.

Alas! as I’m only a vegetarian, I don’t get more than associate membership. But I’m working on it, and one day will be a fully fledged Vegan.  Possibly.

Karma:  (Sanskrit noun) Fate

Happily Northfield’s owners have many friends around them in this difficult time.  Many of these are wishing that karma will get me / comment that ‘ karma’s a bitch’ and so on.  Needless to say, I am quaking in my boots at the idea. How will I be punished for what I’ve done?

It would be foolish of course to suggest that perhaps karma has paid a visit to New Pitsligo, and has started giving what is owed.

Alcoholism: (Modern English noun) A disease; those suffering from it are best ridiculed, outed and mocked

Fiona Manclark has let the world know I’m an alcoholic – so she says – and she and her witnesses have the proof.  These people claim I am often seen ‘falling out’ of  BrewDog.

I’ve a few friends who have this disease; and mocking the afflicted is always a great reminder to them of their weakness.

Some illnesses are quite serious.  Fiona, who has delighted in tweeting and posting about my alleged alcoholism, has now resigned from involvement with Northfield on ill health grounds.  I wish her a speedy recovery.

Also ill, but with nothing funny at all, is Kelly.  She’s let us know her  brain tumour is giving her problems again.  My sympathies.

As with death threats, Old Susannah is not sure which illnesses are to be mocked and which are to be sympathised with.  But I’m working on it.  Clearly alcoholism falls into the mocking category for Ms Manclark.

My lawyer and the entire staff of BrewDog don’t believe I’m an ‘alkie’ and that I should do something about these claims of Fiona’s but that’s a matter for another day.  I’m sure her repeated posts, comments and tweets about my being an alcoholic (and liar  AND keyboard warrior to my shame) were just meant to help me recover from a debilitating disease.  Otherwise, her behaviour might be misconstrued as a brutish, libelous,  ill-thought through attempt at intimidation.

Intimidation: (English noun) The attempt to subdue, silence, cow another person

Eric Cable, likewise, doesn’t want to intimidate me. When he posts on Facebook remarks to the effect he’s found interesting things on the internet, I tremble.  He probably just means he’s found cute looking pony photos to save for future reference or something. I know it’s not about me, but my heart still skips a beat nonetheless.  What if he found something out about me?

Could it be that time I jumped in the Trevi fountain fully clothed? There’s the time I streaked through the Queen of the South v Hearts game last February.  What if he found out that I was Cancer with Leo rising? Does he have the video from that incident with the ACSEF members, the double-sided tape, and AFC’s changing rooms?

We will soon find out. But until then, and probably even after then, I’ll keep doing what I do.

Tally ho!

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Vile Voice Vegan Troll – Staggering Revelations

 Creative Writing, Featured, Satire and Humour  4 Responses »
Sep 182015
 

feltchicksheep2By Pete Stevens.

Danger! Danger! Breaking News! There has been an unsettling development within AV. Most people think these initials stand for ‘Aberdeen Voice’ but recent reports, received by cable, have indicated that the initials actually stand for a secret organisation known as ‘Alcoholic Vegetarians’!

The aim of this organisation is simple. They will tackle the horrors of the meat industry and their first aim is to systematically end the trade of animals bred for meat.

We are told by a source, beyond repute, who advertises the huge medicinal benefits of marijuana on their personal face-book pages that their first target is to tackle the 8,000,000 sheep bred in Scotland each year.

Rather than focus on any of the major farms in the area, this evil group have decided to concentrate their efforts on a small producer. Their master plan was to gain maximum public sympathy by targeting a local animal rescue charity and discrediting them, thereby endearing themselves to animal lovers everywhere.

How they did this is unclear, but somehow they managed through an operative, a well known alcoholic animal abuser known only by her initials as S.K. (Sheep Killer?) Was to plant true information in the public domain.

Her first cunning plan to discredit them was to inform the public about their secret background. It appears that their so called ‘animal haven’ was simply a front for a small scale sheep rearing facility which raised 20 or so sheep each year raising hundreds of pounds possibly reaching as much as a staggering £1,000.00.

By highlighting the history of the havens owner, a known fraudster with a criminal record she made her second blow by targeting this poor unfortunate, who suffers from a range of disabilities including a brain tumour, emphysema and some other stuff, by attacking her fund raising campaigns to save animals!

Having managed to obtain copies of her public twitter accounts and go fund me adverts she discovered that most of the photos in these appeals displaying ‘animals in need’ were in actual fact other peoples pets, either living happily, or whom had been put to sleep years ago in foreign countries, or even in one instance a real animal somebody actually wanted them to take!

Pictures on their face-book pages also revealed happy healthy animals at their farm, but sadly these proved not to be rescues but simply other innocent animals bred for either slaughter or the public’s pleasure and enjoyment in seeing pictures of cute young baby animals.

S.K. and her many, no doubt drunken vegan cohorts, are seemingly responsible for endangering this ‘safe haven for all farm animals’ by printing facts and therefore responsible for causing public resentment resulting in Death Threats not only against the owner, of this safe haven (now suffering fits as a result) but are also responsible for threats against a group of 6 rescued unknown, unseen Shetland ponies with their babies held, despite all odds, in safekeeping at a secret location somewhere, by somebody who nobody knows!

Feltiesheep1However, all is not lost and support continues for this brave band, against the evil cohorts of ‘anti carnivores’ and the cry has gone out, (no doubt tongue in cheek) for an AK47 to fight off this evil troll who carries a vendetta against honest farmers simply doing their job producing animals for us to eat so that they can save some other animals which we might or might not want to eat….but deserve not to be eaten because they just don’t!

It seems that the will of this ‘not for profit’ but ‘just the same as a charity’ group has decided to hand back the funds they have raised, (just like they handed back the money they defrauded before being found guilty of benefit fraud and sentenced to 180 hours community service, which they ‘only did to save the farm’) has been broken along with the heart of their AK47 loving father who is left pining after the sudden ‘re-homing’ of some of their rescues back to their original owners and no doubt other local rescues.

We can only wonder what they will do with the many donations of goods and services ranging from cctv cameras used in the lambing shed and incubators for raising chicks which were of course only used for the rescue and care of the animals in their safe haven and which had no practical or commercial use at all for the farm side of their business.

We can only hope that the real victims in this sad situation are not the animals, real or imagined, and that justice will prevail and the truth ‘be out’.

Meanwhile we have been informed that during the past two weeks over 300,000 sheep have been slaughtered……but hey! We all gotta eat…Don’t we?

Photo Credit: Fred Wilkinson. Permission granted to photograph animals by new owners Mike and Pat Rae even though the pics were taken before they bought these animals from Fred Wilkinson. The animals depicted have gone to good, loving, permanent homes and their condition will be monitored by the previous owner whenever the new owners invite him round for a booze up … which may be frequent.

Note: All proceeds from the sale have been donated to Newarc animal sanctuary.

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Old Susannah No. 180 – Good Migrations

 Opinion, Satire and Humour  1 Response »
Sep 072015
 

Voice’s Old Susannah takes a look over the past week’s events in the ‘Deen and beyond. By Suzanne Kelly.

DictionaryApologies for the late running of this service. One or two little non-Aberdeen Voice responsibilities have kept me tied up. I’ve got about 12 days left to get artwork ready for a group show at Under The Hammer, and there’s much to do. If anyone has experience making talking Donald Trump and Friends dolls, I could use a pointer or two.

This will be as respectful and tasteful a collection of art as befits our presidential candidate; the man who ‘is the evidence’ against windfarms, and who is, as he puts it liked by ‘the blacks… the Latinos… and the educated blacks…’ We women of course love ‘em. But I digress.

I had a little visit to BrewDog’s Ellon factory bar, and enjoyed a nice chat with Stephen, one of the brewers. He’s even given me one of his own home brew ciders which is ageing nicely in my beer/brew library. Thanks Stephen.

Could things get any more vibrant and dynamic we wonder; I don’t think I’ve written since the astonishing development on Belmont Street. Fashionable Café Culture has Belmont Street! Result! Even if only until 6pm.

This development has made us the envy of Europe, not least for the festive warning signs we’ve put up to let motorists know that there are tables and chairs out in force. Not even some Inspired bunting could add further festive cheer. Do our city safety officers know something about chairs the rest of us don’t? Chairs – specifically those dangerous plastic ones – were on the list of forbidden items back when the Commonwealth Games torch festivities overwhelmed us all.

We’ll look back on the people barriers, list of banned items (pets, chairs, food, drink), the hordes of security forces outnumbering the punters, and happily tell our children’s children what a safe event it was.

While we were all clamboring to get into the gardens, for some reason people are clamouring to leave their own countries to come to seek new lives in Europe. What’s going on? What are we to call them? What’s caused this? Perhaps some definitions may help

Migrants: (English plural noun) – Human beings; men, women, boys, girls infants trying to find a place to live.

A nice little collective noun, useful for dehumanising humans – just a group of faceless individuals on the move.

Refugees: (English plural noun) – Human beings; men, women, boys, girls infants trying to find a place to live.

Another nice little collective noun; avoids any collective responsibility we have for how they got there.

Cockroaches: (English plural noun) – vermin insects

Now we’re talking – large groups of the hungry? Cockroaches it is then. Dehumanising people into something less than human is a great propaganda tactic.

It’s been used by the greats: Hitler, and the folks that brought you genocide in Rwanda used this word – so did our dearly beloved Katie Hopkins. (Ah Rwanda – genocide, famine, aids, other epidemics, lack of schools. And our very own Ian Wood is holding onto some £50,000,000 to this day, until he figures out how to help the existing Rwanda landowners grow more tea. That’s what I’d do if I had a few spare millions).

We’ve even seen the word vermin used here in Aberdeen by our fearless office Peter Leonard when describing the Tullos deer he wanted shot of so he pushed to have them shot. He called these herbivores vermin so often that even the SNH had to tell him to cut it out.

Propaganda is just a useful way to tell people what they should be thinking. Have a look at old columns, Old Susannah #72 – Propaganda Special and Old Susannah No 172 – Propaganda 101 Part 2 for a helpful guide to the dark arts of persuasion.

Katie Hopkins: (Improper English Noun) – Scholar, Renaissance Woman, empath, philosopher, writer

Hooray for people who tell it like it is. People who aren’t afraid to stick to their misanthropic, far right wing ideas are just what this world needs. At least someone had the guts to call these migrants cockroaches.

It’s a courageous thing to stand up for what’s right. Katie famously wrote this some time back:

“No, I don’t care. Show me pictures of coffins, show me bodies floating in water, play violins and show me skinny people looking sad. I still don’t care.

 “Make no mistake, these migrants are like cockroaches. They might look a bit ‘Bob Geldof’s Ethiopia circa 1984’, but they are built to survive a nuclear bomb. They are survivors.” (newspapers ad nauseum – literally)

However, not all the migrants/cockroaches got the memo, because 800 of them drowned within days of her penning this great, well thought out column. Untold thousands died since. Maybe they could have withstood a nuclear bomb, but thousands aren’t making it past the people traffickers, the waves, and the squalor of the refugee/cockroach camps. (I am just jealous you see; after all, she’s blonde, she’s been on TV, and she gets paid to write her column).

I think she’s on to something there though – nuclear bombs. I wonder if Iain Duncan Smith isn’t thinking along those lines? I know he is doing his best to keep these things out of the UK. Here’s how:

Detention Centres: (English compound plural noun) – holiday resorts for migrants, refugees, cockroaches

Anyone who gets this far ought to be grateful if they make it to a detention centre. There are lots of activities to participate in. The centres even have nice names, like Yarls Wood.

Channel 4 did a bit of filiming inside: this was very, very wrong. No one – not even the UN’s expert on violence against women – is allowed to film. I think this must just be a case of respecting the refugee/cockroache’s privacy, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Channel 4 is pretty left wing anyway, and their slant on this would have you believe that detainees (a kind of refugee, don’t worry about it) don’t get good medical care, are abused, and wind up with psychological problems evidenced by self-harming. Probably just some kind of cultural phenomenon thingy, I wouldn’t worry. The kids, instead of being grateful for the lack of schooling, are said to be at serious psychological risks.

Anyway, if you can be bothered, here’s a link to some Channel 4 propaganda – I’m sure it’s much more fun than it might look

Those that make it through get to live a life of luxury inside detention centres. The kids don’t have to worry about school much – then when they turn 18, they get a free one-way ticket back to where their parents tried to leave behind in the first place.

Some of the people being returned object to having to leave the luxury camps, and make wild claims like they will be tortured if sent back to countries where torture takes place.

Now, how I wonder would third world dictators get the equipment to subdue, kill, torture, gas and otherwise deal with their civilians?

British Arms Export Sector: (Modern English compound noun) – Area of enterprise responsible for selling UK produced arms, ammunition, chemical weapons, restraints, chains, etc. to countries outwith the UK.

The UK sold £12 billion pounds’ worth of weaponry and restraints abroad last year. You’d get quite a few granite webs for that kind of money, I can tell you. It seems completely ungrateful that with all that lovely hardware floating around the third world, people aren’t staying put and enjoying how much safer we’ve made things for them.

Where have we sold the goods?

“Britain has supplied £12bn of arms to some of the world’s most brutal dictatorships and human rights abusers, including Iran, Saudi Arabia, Zimbabwe, China and Belarus, a report by MPs has revealed.

“Almost half of all exports were sent to Israel.

“The UK also sent arms to countries who have tense relations with Britain, including Russia, which still supplies weapons to Syria’s President Assad, and Argentina, despite its threats over the Falklands.

“Sales to Sri Lanka raise “very serious questions”, the report by MPs says. Three licences still remain valid for Syria.

“The UK sold arms to almost all of the countries which the Foreign Office blacklisted as human rights abusers.” http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/07/17/uk-sells-arms-to-worlds-w_n_3608760.html

It’s not as if this were some self-interested British cartel enriching itself off of human suffering and making countries uninhabitable for the citizenry. We don’t sell to North Korea, so I think we can be proud of what we’re doing.

But somehow, I can’t occasionally wonder if there might be a link between selling guns, shackles, tear gas and weapons to despots, and people trying to get to the UK.

I even once wondered if sending all this hardware abroad instead of sending teachers, books, farmers and seeds and medicine, etc. might be a better way to get a secure world than torturing people into submission. And if you can believe it, there was this time I wondered if resentment in the third world for the UK could somehow be connected with our arming the despots that keep things in order.

Happily these thoughts faded as soon as I started being a devout reader of Hopkins.

One thing I don’t get, is why don’t these people just stay where they are? Palestine has some nice scenic areas. ISIS keeps law and order maintained (as long as you do exactly what you’re told and believe as they do, and aren’t Christian, gay, or heaven forbid Jewish or a woman with ideas of independence). Then there’s Syria. Why are these migrants/cockroaches migrating out of Syria?

Climate Change: (Modern English pseudo-science) – Idea that we are somehow changing our planet’s climate

As far-fetched ideas go, this climate change is quite a piece of propaganda. There’s no evidence for it, and no evidence that it’s got anything to do with Syria. Sure, a bit of land known historically as ‘The Fertile Crescent’ is drying out, laying waste to thousands of Syrian farms. Sure, there’s famine. But that’s no real reason for migrants to migrate away like cockroaches in to the cities, is it?

It’s all nonsense, but I thought I’d bring it up anyway, just to show you that for every reasonable columnist like Katie H, there are a few crackpots out there. Here’s a quote that might entertain you:

“Syria sits in a band of relatively moist and productive land in the Middle East, known as the Fertile Crescent. But between 2006 and 2010, the region was hit by the worst multiyear drought since 1940…

“Syria gets almost all of its rain during its six-month winter, from November to April. In 2007-08, winter rainfall across Syria fell by a third, with some areas receiving no rain at all….,

“As the drought continued, farmers and their families abandoned their land and headed to urban areas for work. Around 1.5 million people migrated to Syrian cities during the drought, adding to the high population growth and recent arrival of 1.2 to 1.5 million Iraqi refugees…

“The growing urban populations resulted in overcrowding, unemployment and crime, but the worsening situation was neglected by the Syrian government, the study says. This growing unrest, the researchers say, was the trigger for the uprising…. “

“Dr Peter Gleick, an expert on water and conflict at the Pacific Institute, says the evidence for the impact of climate change on security is mounting:

“The war in Syria has many causes, from ancient enmities, religious and ideological disputes, economic and social pressures, and political tensions. But there is growing evidence that pressures on water resources associated with poor management, increasing populations, and human-caused climate changes are now influencing regional security in new and disturbing ways.”
http://www.carbonbrief.org/blog/2015/03/scientists-discuss-the-role-of-climate-change-in-the-syrian-civil-war

I wouldn’t put much store in this ‘Dr Peter Gleick’s’ opinions anyway – that’s a pretty foreign-sounding name he’s got there, don’t you think?

Pretty much, these people brought their problems on themselves, just like the Oklahoma farmers did in the 1930s. In true American style, most of the displaced farmers had a jolly time of it seeking work and lives elsewhere. A guy named Steinbeck has a little comedy booklet on this happy episode called The Grapes of Wrath, if you’ve got enough time after reading your daily serving of Hopkins to want to read any further.

Just remember back to World War II, when England decided to send its children to live abroad. We did the world a favour by sharing our English youth. Let’s not let anyone use the evacuations as an excuse to let these migrant/refugee/cockroaches in here. Some things just don’t cut both ways.

So there you have it. As an aside, some well-intentioned I’m sure Aberdeen folk have been collecting clothes and goods to send to the migrants. Many of the migrants are off on holiday in France in a place called Calais.

The people behind this campaign are really too numerous to mention – but a few include Iain Richardson and Pat Ballantyne (both musicians, so probably left-wing types), The Café 52 Bothwell clan (trouble makers with form), a lady named Shelley Milne, ACT Aberdeen, The drama school and its students (obviously left wing). Clearly Katie Hopkins still has her work cut out for her.

If you want to give, there is still time – just of course to get on the band wagon and not because you actually care about these migrants, mind. Details of remaining collections here and here.

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Old Susannah No 180 – The Beautiful Princess Part II

 Creative Writing, Satire and Humour  1 Response »
Aug 072015
 

Old Susannah gets to grips with Grampian gripes normally; this week the focus is on the Face of Aberdeen, and a shy retiring golf magnate. By Suzanne Kelly

DictionaryTally ho! There is quite a lot going on in the Deen, such as Dr Kennedy’s new book (interview and review to follow). BrewDog has some new beers coming out, and the BrewDog Jackhammer margaritas continue to delight.

An 87 year old man was put on the sex offenders’ list for kissing a shop assistant on the cheek while at the same time a man who lifted a woman’s dress over her head while she was using a cash point was dismissed as being just good fun. In fact, she was put on trial for giving chase and hitting him.

Sounds fair to me.

With the weather a bit dreich, and things not quite as vibrant and dynamic as they might be this summer, I thought I’d revisit an Old Susannah column from two years ago, The Beautiful Princess. The Beautiful Princess still stands as shining example of what happens when your looks are in the driving seat.

Sure, in her case the brain may not have actually made it into the vehicle, and ethics must have jumped out at a red light. In fact, a former co-worker has just told me that this princess is ‘thick as mince’. However, for the young and pretty girl, the sky’s the limit as to how much money you can make.

So Tally Ho! instead of the usual news round up, diary, and definitions, it’s time to re-visit the well-loved fairy tale of The Beautiful Princess. Definitions and normal services to resume shortly.

The Beautiful Princess. By Suzanne Kelly.

Recapeth:

There once was a beautiful princess; all around her marvelled at her great beauty back in the day. Was she as kind, good and honest as her looks implied? Alas! Not so much, as we well learned.

Proud of her great beauty, in her youth she entered a beauty pageant to find the fairest face in the land, and naturally, she won, for she was the most beautiful maid in all the highlands. The fame this brought her went straight to her head.

Verily when she was crowned fairest face in the land, the dashing young newspaper executive who had coincidentally run this august competition fell madly in love with her, and she with him. Forsaking their previous partners, they soon wed, for beautiful people must stick together. And ambitious beautiful people even more so.

Around this time, a tyrant-ogre named Trump from a faraway land had come to the Princess’ kingdom, and set out to make the world’s greatest golf course. Fearful he was, with the hair of a wildebeest (and the wildebeest was glad to get rid of it). This ogre had the roar of a lion (possibly one of the lions his two brave manly sons had courageously shot with high-powered muskets while tracking animals down using iron horses and 4x4s.

This hunting, in the words of one of the brave boys, was verily a largess on their part which enabled the poor Africans to have shoes, but I never did understand how that worked and I digresseth).

Who should the ogre tyrant choose to build hundreds of homes, two golf courses, a country club, kennels to keep the slaves in, and giant clocks showing the wrong times? Why the Beautiful Princess of course.

Her work experience consisted previously of hanging around at the Gordon Highlanders’ museum. She had tired of this job indeed, as many of the school children oft mistook her for one of the display dummies. Imagine her great joy when her great beauty won the heart of the tyrant King!

‘Forsooth! He may not be very pretty to look at, but his gold will keep me in all the Jimmy Choo glass slippers I could ever want, which truth be told is the lot of them’ she mused.

‘Surely I will have to spend a day or two learning about ‘golf’ whatever that is, and I already know about houses for I have lived in some. Verily, Master Bates and I his Mistress Princess are quids in’.

And the rest was history.

….. But things change, ken?

The Story Noweth:

Now the Princess was on a nice little earner, and in between rants the bellowing ogre-tyrant Trump taught the princess much. She learned of faraway lands and customs.

Near Trump’s American homeland was Mexicoland. Savage beasts called Mexicoans lived there – but were always trying to move to America to rape, pillage, sell magic potions and taketh over.

“As soon as I make the world’s greatest golf course here in Scotlandland, and am made King of America, I will build a wall shutting all those Mexicoans into their Mexicoland forever.” the tyrant told her.

There were also apparently Black people, though Princess Sarah had met precious few such people, and hardly ever did any black people appear in her husband’s Ye Press & Journal newspaper.

“A well-educated black has a tremendous advantage over a well-educated white in terms of the job market. I think sometimes a black may think they don’t have an advantage or this and that… I’ve said on one occasion, even about myself, if I were starting off today, I would love to be a well-educated black, because I believe they do have an actual advantage.’’ Trump would joke with the Princess.

But his infamous moods began to swing even more erratically with the passage of time.

Construction of the second golf course was put off because of something called wind turbines. Whatever these were, the Princess understood they were hideous to look upon, and no one would come for a match of golf if there were any turbines to be seen on the water.

By a happy coincidence someone with the same surname as the princess was in a position in the shire such that he had a vote over whether building such monstrous turbines should be allowed on land or sea; his name was Tom, and never did he cast an ‘Aye’ in favour of the wind machines, which happily suited ogre-tyrant to a tee.  Verily though, the people decided that their energy needs were at least as important as golf, and these turbines got ye go-ahead.

So the second course was off. Then it was on again. Then Trump went to the court of King Salmond to proclaim ‘he was the evidence’ and no turbines should be built. For some reason, King Salmond disagreed. He was later succeeded by Queen Nicola, but alas, I digress again and seek thy pardon. And to the astonishment of many, Trump did buyeth a share in a wind farm company. ‘What’s he liketh?’ the peasants wondered.

Anyway, it seemed to the Princess that the tyrant was becoming more and more confused by the day. His rants against black people and Mexicoans were joined by rants against this group, that person, television networks, countries – in truth, everyone was subject to a fearful, slavering Trump slaggeth – except for the Ice Queen Sara Palin. It was said she had a musket, killed many a moose (whatever a moose is), and lived in the frozen north.

Upon hearing of the slaughter of fearsome lion Cecil, Trump said he’d pay the legal costs for the dentist-lech-hunter who had done the deed, and Sara Palin said:

“there are plenty of lions in zoos; what’s the big deal yous guys?”

As was well-known in the shire, Trump suffered from many bewitchments. One of these was of course his delusion of competence. Another spell he was under was that although he looked like a particularly unattractive bloated jellyfish with a gaping maw (why his mouth never assumed a normal shape was undoubtedly another bewitchment upon him – pardon for yet another digression), he thought he was beautiful.

He in turn had an enchantment of his own and was able to make fair looking maids think he was the very knees of the bees. Beautiful maidens with names like ‘Ivana’ and ’Melania’ threw themselves at the hulking mass which was the ogre tyrant, marrying – nay – even mating with the beast. This attraction he held over them was whispered in hushed tones to be in some way connected with bags of gold.

However, while The Donald, as Trump was also knowneth, showed scant sign of possessing any actual gold. But there one hath it.

Anyway, one summer day Trump flew his iron bird and came to visit the Princess and the club of golfs at Menie. Afraid of incurring his wrath, the Princess decked herself out in her loveliest clothes.

While Princess Bates had been a wee slip of a girl, there was a wee slip in her looks as the years progressed. The year before, Trump flew in a team of witch stylists, who put an American glamour on the Princess. While she was not best pleased at this turn of affairs, Princess Sarah thought ‘why fighteth it? If I am to look like an American for this gig, so be it, and I will just dress in my lovely clothes when out on the town with my Damian.’

So in came the hairdressers the stylists and make up artists. Sarah’s hair grew to twice its normal height and width, so big was it was that it nearly rivialled the main the giant himself sported. A jerkin with massive shoulder pads was put on her; she could barely walk in it. A tunic of American style was put on her. And to her great shame, she was photographed in this frumpy puritanical gear with giant hair, holding a giant certificate.

Forsooth! This was none other than the fabled ‘Five Diamond Award’. Now this was the most sought-after prize in all the countryside; even in Mexicoland. Trump was pleased greatly by receiving this great award. Result! By the oddest of coincidences, Trump was on the board of the great and good who gave this award out. But there you haveth it.

So the Princess kept learning about golf; apparently there were clubs that you struck things with (like Derek Forbes, who years ago in the shire saved himself from a giant fox that was after his sandwich by clubbing it half to death and leaving it to suffer. The people still to this day remember him – but again already this is another digression), and there were also clubs golfers visited to buy sandwiches for £20 a pop.

The Princess’ progress astounded all those around here, who had never known her to absorb so much knowledge before. And the ogre-tyrant would visit on occasion, at which times Sarah’s husband would bow to his wishes and spread stories far and wide about how wonderful Trump was.

Then it was time for another visit from Trump.

Warmly welcoming Trump and his entourage to his Scottish lands at Menie, Sarah curtseyed as per usual. When she looked up, she was aghast. Trump had never seemed a portrait in oils to her, but now he seemed positively terrifying. His face had turned the orange colour of oranges, and the skin around his beady eyes had turned the pink of the rose.

“Well, Sarah honey, now that I’ve done such a grand job here at Menie building the world’s greatest course, I’ve bought far off lands called Turnberry. I’ll soon do for them what I’ve done here!” Trump roared.

“I’ve even got another girl to help me with drinks and photo opps there just like you do here.”

Sarah tried not to shake with fear and revulsion when the monstrous Trump spake thus:

“Sarah honey, go get me and the guys some drinks will ya?”

Not accustomed to being ordered, she nevertheless left the elegant clubhouse room Trump was now ensconced in. Grabbing a passing servant by the neck, she hissed at them to serve Trump’s drinks. But could it be that there was someone else who knew about this game of golf who had been hired? Was she pretty? ‘Surely any new employee is not as beautiful as I am, for in truth I am the Face of the Shire.’ she thought.

Sarah was perplexed.

Trump and his court jester, Sorial, were laughing loudly. Sarah hid behind the statue of St. MacDonald, Trump’s grandmother from Skye, which had been cast in the finest concrete known to man (just like the fountain at the MacLeod house – ach, I digresseth again), and thus concealed, she listened to them speak.

“Dumb doesn’t come close to it, and I oughtta know!” Trump joked with Sorial

“Yeah, and did you see how doughy she was!” Sorial joked back

“Those eyes! those lines aren’t crow’s lines, those are San Andreas Faults”

The Princess heaved a sigh of relief. So – this usurper who was going to work at Turnberry was not a great beauty. This was good news indeed. Any insecurities she felt disappeared.

The servant girl with the drinks appeared; shaking like a leaf such that the goblets on her tray quivered. Serving as quickly as she could, she left.

‘Now that my great boss Trump has his drinks, I’ll emerge from behind this statue and dazzle him with my beauty AND my knowledge of golf’ the Princess thought. Sashaying over in her 6” heels, smiling from ear to ear, she heard the last line of their conversation:

“But at least if we keep the old bag of a princess around, we’ll still get good PR in Ye Press & Journal, and those rebellious upstarts like Forbes, Milne, Munro and Baxter will be closed out of the news, and verily their names stricken from the record.” Sorial laughed

“But for Chrissake, I’m going to get my makeup gal to fix the Princess’s complexion up just like she’s done to me – don’t I look nice and tan, Sorial?” Trump enquired.

“Er, sure you do boss” Sorial said, taking a big swig from his goblet.

Princess Sarah stopped in her tracks, her smile disappearing into the laughter lines around here eyes. Her chins dropped. Even beneath her St Tropez magic tan – which ironically made her look more like one of those hated Mexicoans than she could ever know – Sarah could feel herself grow pale as the blood drained from her once beautiful face.

Somewhere outside the beautiful clubhouse palace, a lonely seagull cried.

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Old Susannah No. 179: All Apologies

 Opinion, Satire and Humour  2 Responses »
Jul 242015
 

Voice’s Old Susannah takes a look over the past week’s events in the ‘Deen and beyond. By Suzanne Kelly.

DictionaryTally ho! Or not as the case may be. The SNP decided not to vote with the Conservatives on the proposed fox hunting amendment. This would have allowed people to resume the sporting life of chasing foxes to exhaustion to be ripped apart live by dogs. Some say this was set up as a test to see who would align with who on votes, and the Conservatives were outfoxed. Either way, it’s a sad day for good old-fashioned healthy tradition.

Elsewhere Denmark fights to uphold the Faroe Islands tradition of butchering far more whales and dolphins than can possibly be safely eaten (by those who’d want to eat them in the first place; I prefer puffin and swan).

Some find Denmark’s position a bit at odds with their EU obligation to protect marine mammals. But first things first, how’s a Faroese boy to become a man without a good hearty bloodbath on the shores?

Sadly, a collection of protestors showed up in London the other week to protest against Denmark, which seems to think arresting Sea Shepherd personnel and impounding their vessels indefinitely also fits in well with EU law. I joined them as I was there; it’s almost as if they all believed that culture was less important than animal welfare and EU laws. Funny lot.

I also visited one or two London BrewDog spots to try the local beer cocktails which vary from bar to bar. The finest cocktail remains the Aberdeen flagship bar’s Jackhammer Margarita. Perfect for these nearly warm Scottish summer nights.

Old Susannah escaped from the vibrancy and dynamism of Aberdeen for a bit and went to London and the south. At times I needed to use this cream called sunblock; apparently there are parts of the world where you might get too much sun on you. Who’d have guessed. I dropped in on Rock n Roll Rescue in Camden; the proprietor is my old friend Knox from The Vibrators.

If you have any old clothes, music or memorabilia, Knox would be delighted to hear from you. Contact him here: (The original Vibrators line up plays in London on the 31st July; am hoping for a tour).

Alas! Another culture/heritage icon is in a spot of bother. After postponement upon postponement, it looks as if the Pullar clan are in hot water over their convenient failure to remove leader nets from our waters, thus catching more wild salmon than they should have. They claimed that supposed bad weather made them break the laws 9 times in their favour, for health and safety reasons.

Oddly, there don’t seem to have been any days when it was too rough to go to sea to put the leader nets out; it’s only been too rough to take the nets back in.

While they claim the heritable, traditional right to net wild salmon, it’s funny though- they don’t use traditional nets. Where a small scale traditional operation once caught small numbers of salmon, the modern, non-traditional system of catching the poor creatures uses vast complicated systems the Pullar ancestors never dreamed of. Innovation is good, as long as it doesn’t make you give up your traditions.

what’s wrong with a little good-natured racist banter Trump might wonder?

“It’s our right/tradition/culture/heritage” seems to be the cry of the fox-hunters, Pullars and butchering Faroese.

When I was travelling, Donald Trump’s presidential nomination got off to a bang-up start.

He’s going to keep all those drug-dealing, raping Mexicans out of the US. He’ll even build a wall between the two countries. Some cynics think he wants to keep them in Mexico where they work making his luxurious clothing line. Businesses are dropping links with the hirsuit typhoon with alacrity. But not Aberdeen Sports Village.

Trump Golf International Links Scotland’s logo is proudly displayed on their page. I’d love to know how much money Trump gives them, and I’d love to know how much money we taxpayers give the Sports Village as well. Doubtless my request to them to end their sponsorship will be dealt with swiftly. In other words, a petition might be launched shortly. Watch this space.

So, what’s wrong with a little good-natured racist banter Trump might wonder? Unfortunately, the trouble with a little racist teasing is that people here are doing it to families travelling on trains. Men beat up women who speak with English accents and visiting sports stars get beaten up by yobs. So if Aberdeen Sports Village don’t see the problem with aligning with racists, they would seem to be in good company with some of our fine citizens.

Of course, this kind of light-hearted racism is no obstacle to keeping an honorary degree from Robert Gordon University, especially as it was handed over in person to the Donald by Sir Ian Wood.

It would be nice to think the Village will re-think its position. A sincere apology from Trump would also be nice, but there is as much chance of that as Sarah Malone inviting me for a round of golf .

Apologies, as long as carefully worded and checked with legal departments are wonderful things. They can help you keep your job. They can make for good press releases. The only thing they can’t do is undo what is done. And with that, herewith some definitions.

Apology: (English Noun) An expression of sorry or regret

Pity Sir Stephen House, head of our ever-changing Police Scotland force. He had the sad job of issuing an apology on the force’s failure to investigate a reported car crash. This had fatal consequences for a woman who lay injured for three days next to her dead partner. But Sir is sorry:

“Firstly I want to apologise to the families of John Yuill and Lamara Bell and to the people of Scotland for this individual failure in our service. Everyone in Police Scotland feels this most profoundly.

“Our duty is to keep people safe and we’ve not done that effectively on this occasion, with tragic consequences, and I want to apologise to everyone for that. 

I completely understand the level of concern being raised about the circumstances surrounding the handling of the incident of the crash near the M9 slip road at Bannockburn and, in particular, Police Scotland’s response to information received. That we failed both families involved is without doubt.”

So, it’s an individual failure, but everyone in PS feels badly about it. That’s nice to know. Just for the record though, the duty of PS is to uphold the law, do so equally and fairly. Not everyone is happy with Sir’s fanatical devotion to stop and search targets, his unilateral arming of police on patrols, or how data protection is getting just a bit lost in the sauce as spying on people routinely is on the up.

Must be hard to have to read out a statement. If only there were something Police Scotland and its head could have done to make sure its resources were robust and officers were employed where needed. If there had only been some warning signs that the new all-encompassing force and its local call centre closures were problematic, I’m sure the kindly, understanding man who issued that statement would have done something with his powers.

I’m sure the apology that Sir Stephen issued to the press is good enough

Of course it slightly weakens his apology that he says the new system and his leadership are not at fault; enjoy a lovely video clip of Sir Stephen here. He’s got a job to do, he provides leadership.

Just because the call centre system is failing, centralisation’s value is questionable or the leadership has failed it’s no cause for his resignation. He’s sorry – but not that sorry.

Denial: (Eng Noun) Negation of any culpability, responsibility or involvement.

Two young people are dead; one could have been saved. Two children are orphaned who didn’t have to be. Things happen.

It’s not the fault of Police Scotland, or its head Sir Stephen. They were told that a car had come off the motorway which they didn’t bother to follow it up –or even record. Three days later, a second call came in, and when they did bother themselves to stop spying on people and searching juveniles long enough to investigate, they found a dead man next to his dehydrated, dying partner.

I’m sure the apology that Sir Stephen issued to the press is good enough for all the people concerned and that should be the end of the matter. As he also explained, while they’re all very, very sorry, it wasn’t really his fault:

He said:

“We’re in the middle of massive change in our call-handling. It’s been going on virtually since day one of Police Scotland and it’s still going on and it has some way to go.

“I remain confident and convinced the reform we’re pushing through is the right way to go and provides a more efficient and more professional service. The tragedy is that I’m saying this against the background of two people who have died and that’s been our error which we’ve acknowledged.

“We do work within a budget. Our budget has reduced for the past two years and we’re working to an ambitious savings target for this year.” 

Ah, if not for the changes in the call handling and for the need to work within a budget. He’d love to help; but it was outwith his abilities to make the force he’s in charge of do its job.

I digress, but I wonder what the Tayside branch of Police Scotland were doing over those three days. It would be wrong to wonder how many children were stopped and searched as easy targets while that car spent three days off the road. An experienced police officer who will soon resign puts the huge increase in stop and search at Sir Stephen’s doorstep. This officer said:

“This guy [Sir Stephen] is a complete control freak. In the 20 years I have been doing the job I have never wanted to do another job until Police Scotland came into force… I am being honest, in all my time on the force I had never heard the words ‘stop and search’ in Scotland before Mr House arrived. 

“Up here we had policing by consent, this stop and search was an English phenomenon that he brought up from London. Mr House has brought a few of his cronies from down the road up to Scotland and they are ordering cops that they want ten searches every day. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realise that all these searches are coming up negative because the officers are just searching anyone they see to get the figures up.”

We continue to allow police to do this to children, despite the psychological expertise advising against it, and despite the presumption of innocence. In fact, the vast majority of people stopped (and a huge percentage are non white you’ll be surprised to hear) have broken no laws at all. Herald Scotland reported:

“Frontline officers have contacted The Herald to complain about new practices within divisions and among officers who feel compelled to “massage the figures”. In some instances, officers have been forced to search innocent people as they leave pharmacies and off-licences to meet targets, according to those who have aired concerns…. In the first six months of Police Scotland, officers conducted a record 310,784 stop-searches and recorded a 20% increase in motoring offences….” 

I guess stopping innocent people to get those target figures up to Sir Stephen’s desired levels beats actually following up on calls. (Emergency callers are reporting unacceptable delays as well).

It would be wrong to wonder how many man hours were given over to snooping on our private emails and phonecalls while that woman’s kidneys started to fail. Sir Stephen is going to provide ‘a more efficient and professional service’.

Hard to see how he can improve on his stellar record – but we will be watching him. Am half tempted to write to Sir Stephen to offer commiserations over his budget woes. Must be awful. And he’s got to get by on a salary that’s under £208,000 per year. If only he’d had some previous indication that the new call centre wasn’t working out.

I’m sure that the imposed searches, the routine arming of police, the target setting is all greatly enjoyed by the whole force, despite the fact they’ve taken 53,000 days off with stress.

By the way, Aberdeen will lose its regional call centre in September. Old Susannah had to call emergency services for an ambulance some months ago; even with regional knowledge and detailed instructions of where the injured person was, the ambulance nearly drove right past. I’m sure someone sitting in a call centre in Glasgow will know all about Aberdeen’s back streets, pathways and parks.

So – we can expect more of the same then. Get ready to accept more armed cops, more unnecessary stop and searches, more red tape, increased centralisation – and less legal and human rights. At least we’re all going to be safe. Result!

We’ve had the apology over this latest fatality, which wasn’t really anyone’s fault anyway, because they have to work within a budget. What more do we want? Let’s see what they need to apologise for next, as they continue to eradicate ‘policing by consent’ from our vocabulary. Tally ho!

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