Nov 172016
 

With thanks to Ian McLaren, PR account manager, Innes Associates.

michelle-ferguson-charity-manager-cash-for-kids-launching-mission-christmasA North-east charity has launched its annual festive gift appeal as it aims to ensure thousands of local underprivileged children receive a present this Christmas.
Cash for Kids has launched its Mission Christmas gift appeal which is once again being supported by The Wood Foundation, the philanthropic organisation founded by Sir Ian Wood.

Last year, Mission Christmas guaranteed that over 6,800 children living in Aberdeen and Aberdeenshire had a present to open on Christmas morning.

With recent estimates suggesting that 18% of children in Aberdeen and 13% of children in Aberdeenshire live in poverty, Cash for Kids anticipates a similar volume of applications this year.

The children’s charity is calling on north-east residents to purchase one extra child’s gift when shopping this Christmas and donate it to the Mission Christmas appeal or donate money which the charity will use to fill any gift gaps. Buying shopping centre vouchers is also recommended as this can provide teenagers with the freedom to choose items they prefer.

Over 120 donation points have been set up across Aberdeen and Aberdeenshire where people can drop off new, unwrapped gifts. The deadline for donating items is Friday, 16 December, however the public are encouraged to donate items prior to this to ensure all gift applications are fulfilled in time.

In order to cope with the anticipated volume of donations and number of applications, the appeal is being coordinated from a new warehouse this year. The modern facility has been donated free of charge by Knight Property Group and M&G Real Estate for the duration of the appeal.

For a sixth consecutive year, Aberdeen-based haulier Colin Lawson Transport is supporting the appeal. The firm is providing a dedicated driver and vehicle to collect the gifts from donation points across the north-east.

An army of volunteers will be giving their time to sort through donations and allocate them against applications to provide each child with three gifts with a combined value of approximately £50. With at least 20,000 items expected to be required to meet demand, the scale of the task ahead for Mission Christmas 2017 is clear.

To help raise funds for the appeal Cash for Kids is holding its Christmas Jumper Day on Friday, 09 December. The day encourages local businesses and schools to persuade their employees and pupils to don their favourite festive knits and donate £1 per person to Mission Christmas.

Michelle Ferguson, Cash for Kids charity manager (pictured), said:

“Mission Christmas generates a huge response each year and we are extremely grateful to everyone who donates a gift, time or resources. We are very pleased to have The Wood Foundation supporting the appeal once more, helping to highlight the issue and causes of child poverty in Aberdeen and Aberdeenshire.

“Gift and voucher donations are fantastic, but monetary donations can also make a huge difference. They allow us to purchase items for age groups where there are gaps.  A monetary donation of £10 is equivalent to foregoing two extra tubs of chocolates this Christmas or a week’s worth of take-away coffee and would help to ensure no child in the north-east goes without this Christmas. Every little help, really does help.”

Sir Ian Wood, chairman of The Wood Foundation, said:

“To know that there are children right now, living in the north-east of Scotland who may not experience the excitement of receiving a special gift on Christmas morning is incredibly sad. In Aberdeen city and Aberdeenshire, poverty is often not as apparent as in other parts of Scotland, with the result that it often goes unrecognised and unaddressed.

“By supporting the work Cash for Kids does with the Mission Christmas appeal for the second year, The Wood Foundation hopes that every child across the north-east will feel the magic of Christmas this year.”

More information on the appeal, including a full list of donation points and information on the Christmas jumper day, can be found at www.northsound1.com/missionchristmas.

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Nov 192015
 

With thanks to Ian McLaren, PR account manager, Innes Associates

Mission Christmas launch - Michelle Ferguson, Cash for Kids, and Garreth Wood, The Wood Foundation

Michelle Ferguson, Cash for Kids charity manager, and Garreth Wood, trustee of The Wood Foundation launch the appeal.

North-east children’s charity Cash for Kids has launched its annual Mission Christmas gift appeal, which this year is being supported by The Wood Foundation, Sir Ian Wood’s philanthropic charity.

Mission Christmas, the festive campaign of Aberdeen-based charity Cash for Kids, aims to ensure that all children in the north-east will wake up with presents to open on Christmas morning.

An estimated one in six children in Aberdeen City live in poverty, and many of their parents will struggle to afford to purchase presents for them this Christmas.

The appeal was officially launched this year by local philanthropist and trustee of The Wood Foundation, Garreth Wood, who sent a giant parcel off on the first leg of an enormous pass the parcel campaign, encouraging north-east residents to buy an extra gift or make a cash donation to the appeal this Christmas.

Last year, through the generosity of the north-east public, Cash for Kids distributed more than 14,000 gifts to 4,738 underprivileged children, ensuring they got to unwrap special parcels on Christmas morning. The total value of items donated was in excess of £210,000, with many businesses choosing to support the appeal.

Cash for Kids expects to receive a similar number of applications for presents this year.  It will once again aim to ensure that every child brought to its attention – from new-borns to 18-year-olds – will receive a gift.

In order to fulfil all applications, Cash for Kids is asking members of the public to purchase an extra toy or gift for the appeal when doing their own Christmas shopping.  Vouchers for shopping centres are also encouraged, particularly for teenagers who enjoy the freedom to choose a much longed for treat for themselves.  Cash donations are also welcome, which the charity will then use to purchase items to fill any gaps.

This year, around 80 donation points – more than ever before – have been set up across Aberdeen and Aberdeenshire where people can drop off a new, unwrapped gift until Friday, 18 December.  The gifts will then be distributed to those in need in time for Christmas.

The demand for items, and the subsequent overwhelming response from the public, has led to Mission Christmas outgrowing its existing headquarters.  A new larger distribution facility is this year being provided by Dunlop Oil and Maine. Local haulage firm Colin Lawson Transport will be providing the logistical support for a fifth year.  This year, the firm is providing a dedicated vehicle and driver to collect the gifts from the donation points.

Michelle Ferguson, Cash for Kids charity manager, said:

“The response every year from north-east residents to the Mission Christmas appeal is incredible.  Without their support and that of our volunteers it wouldn’t be possible to achieve what we do.  We anticipate demand for gifts to again be high this year as a result of the local economic climate, so will be doing all we can to ensure that demand is met.

“Last year we received donations through some very creative means, including one from a 12-year-old girl who had saved up 50 prizes she had won throughout the year at Codona’s and donated them to the appeal.  Some people also redeem their store card points or use three for two offers to purchase items at little or no cost.

“For those looking to raise money to support the appeal, we are running a Christmas jumper day on Friday, 11 December.  It’s a fun festive way to get involved in Mission Christmas.”

Sir Ian Wood, chairman of The Wood Foundation, said:

“To know that there are children, right now, living in the North-East of Scotland who may not experience the excitement of receiving a special gift on Christmas morning is incredibly sad. In Aberdeen City and Aberdeenshire, poverty is often not as apparent as in other parts of Scotland, with the result it often goes unrecognised and unaddressed.

By supporting the work Cash for Kids do with the Mission Christmas appeal, The Wood Foundation hopes that every child across the North-East will feel the magic of Christmas this year.”

More information on the appeal, including a full list of donation points and information on the Christmas jumper day, can be found at www.northsound1.com/missionchristmas.

Cash for Kids

Cash for Kids is Northsound Radio’s listeners’ charity.  It makes grants to individuals, families, children’s groups, organisations and projects throughout the Northsound transmission area.  All money is raised locally and spent locally to benefit local disabled and disadvantaged children and young people under 18.  More information on Cash for Kids can be found at www.northsound1.com/charity, or telephone 01224 337010.

The Wood Foundation

The Wood Foundation is a proactive venture philanthropy funder, focusing on creating economic activity to help people help themselves, providing business development and capacity support, in addition to funding. The team is located in East Africa and in Scotland.

The Wood Foundation, Scottish Registered Charity No. SCO37957, was established in March 2007 by Sir Ian Wood and his immediate family. The Wood Foundation invests into three portfolios of activity: Making Markets Work for the Poor – Sub Sahara Africa, Facilitating Economic & Education Development in Scotland, and Developing Young People in Scotland.

The Executive Chairman of The Wood Foundation is Sir Ian Wood and The Trustees are: Sir Ian Wood, Lady Helen Wood, Garreth Wood and Graham Good. For further information please visit: www.thewoodfoundation.org.uk.

 

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Dec 162014
 
GollumReds1

A creature with a bald pate and beady eyes sat at one end of an immensely long wooden table.

By Suzanne Kelly.

Damian Baits lived in a kingdom by the sea called the Shire; it had rolling green fields, sandy shores, meadows and hills. Deer grazed in fields, great birds flew overhead, and precious flowers grew.

In the centre of this great shire was a city of silver. Well, granite anyway.

In the heart of the city was a little green park in a valley, sheltered from the harsh winds and verily it was a trap for the sun.

The people had many ways to earn their keep, and young Damian was no exception. In fact, he had a calling in life for he was a journalist, and his newspaper was read by the town crier so people throughout the kingdom knew what the skinny was with the local burgermeisters at the town hall.

Alas! There just wasn’t that much money in the news business. Damian had high ambitions; he wanted to be like the lords and barons who lived in castles. He knew eventually he’d find a way to succeed. And it came to pass that his opportunity arose at last.

Now Damian had kept an old cow for some years; but he had grown tired of her (although some say it was mutual). He decided to trade her in for something new. Walking to the market with the poor cow to sell, Damian’s path crossed with that of a man in a suit.

“Good day sir, nice to meet you.” the man smiled at Damian. “I am an accountant with well-respected firm PriceHousewatercooper. Or, as the common folk would say, I am a bean counter.”

“How exciting that must be!” said Damian, for he knew that beancounters counted other people’s money, made wild predictions for the future, and got handsomely paid for it.”

“Why yes it is” said the suit, “In fact, I am just now doing some work for one of the giants, have you heard of Sirian of Wood? He is a giant in these parts, and I’ve just made some calculations for him on one of his projects. 

“Sirian says he can make the townfolk billions of gold dubloons every year, and that millions of visitors from around the world will come to buy the produce of our little hamlet. All we would have to do is put a few wee modifications into yon city centre garden. It will be nearly as wonderfully profitable as all the money I’ve predicted farmer Tesco will make this year.”

The stranger had a lopsided smile, and somehow didn’t seem to be that honest looking, but Damian was now thinking of dubloons. The stranger took a small pouch from under his three piece suit, and shook its contents out, revealing three little beans.

“Here are five magic soya beans – probably the most valuable thing in all the shire! I got them from one of my clients called Montsantto; he is a wizard who creates strange hybrid creatures. Says it’s all perfectly safe. I’m taking these beans to market to sell, wife says she won’t have them in the house.” said the stranger.

“But you’ve only got three beans there – look” said Damian.

“Och well, I’m an accountant” said the little man “we can’t always be expected to get all our figures right. Tell you what I’ll do – I’ll trade you these 8 beans for those two cows you’ve got there” the man offered.

“I’ve only the one cow, and you’ve only three beans” explained Jack.

“Done!” cried the accountant, and he disappeared in a flash of smoke with the cow.

‘Guess I should have asked whether I’m supposed to plant these or eat them’ thought Damian. To be truthful, he was not the most swift-thinking journalist in the land. He decided to take them home and plant them by his front door, which he did. He went to sleep that night, glad to be rid of the old cow, wondering what the beans would grow into.

Coins on white

Damian could not believe his eyes; overnight a beanstalk appeared where the beans had been sown, and the beanstalk was enormous! It reached higher than the highest Tree for Every Citizen by miles.

‘Forsooth’ Damian thought. ‘I will climb this beanstalk. Perhaps there are stories and adventures awaiting that the people should know of.’

Damian set out, using his best and most well-honed climbing skills. He paused once to look back and was astonished to see how far his climbing had taken him. He could see the green fields, the rivers and the beautiful sea shore of the shire. Two friendly peregrine falcons circled for a moment before flying back to the tower they lived in near the city centre park. Pausing for a moment to consider the shire’s great beauty, he then resumed his quest.

He climbed and climbed and climbed; the clouds grew thick above him, and an eagle soared far below. Suddenly he was aware that out of the clouds a small castle had appeared; there was a long drive leading up to it; misty vapour along this drive seemed to clear as he took his first steps along it.

‘My goodness’ Damian thought. ‘It seems to me that this driveway is heated! What wonderous magic is this?’

The drive led to the small castle; and two henchmen appeared. Damian was sore afraid, but they almost seemed to be waiting for him.

“This way Mr Baits, we’ve been expecting you.” 

The men wore dark suits and talked into small strange boxes; a voice seemed to emanate from these bewitched items.

“Is that Baits arrived? Bring him on in.” A man’s voice squeaked.

Damian was led into a main room where he feart the giant must be lurking. A creature with a bald pate and beady eyes sat at one end of an immensely long wooden table. But as Damian approached he realised this was no giant after all.

‘Why this wee mannie’s no giant after all’ Damian thought to himself., ‘In fact it looks like wee Stewart, the kitchen fitter. Is he wearing lifts? I wonder how he comes to be in this castle?’

The little mannie spoke:

“Fie Fi Fo Fum
“I want to build a stadium
“I may wear lifts cause I’m not big
“But honest gov, that’s me hair not a wig.”

Damian had no answer to that, and remained silent.

“Have a seat Damian – may I call you Damian?” The little man enthused. “I’ve been expecting you. You can call me The Chairman.” 

The henchmen pointed to a little chair; Damian realised that sitting in it would make him seem very small compared to The Chairman who sat on a throne with a booster seat. Damian sat, and so did his mysterious host.

 “How did you come to find your way to me then Baits?”

“Someone offered me some magic beans; I thought they’d be like the magic mushrooms I had the once, but a beanstalk grew instead. I climbed and climbed and climbed, and then through the mist, I saw the road to your castle. The steam and mist seemed to spring from the road as if by magic and it seemed to me I was meant to come done the path.” Damian explained.

At this The Chairman chuckled.

“That would be my heated driveway, don’t you know. Very ecologically sound. In fact, they let me re-design this castle. It may be vibrant and dynamic now, but it was terribly old fashioned before.” 

The henchmen withdrew.

“Now Damian, I’m really a very nice guy, but some of the peasants don’t like me. In fact I think the peasants are revolting. It’s been said I’ve tried to bribe the city planning elders one year with whisky – in fact this outlandish tale appeared in your very own newspaper. We’ll have no more of that I think.”

The man pulled out a small sack of gold and put it on the table. Damian’s eyes grew wide.

“The people also think I want to steal their lands and the lake at Loirston where the birds drink, swim and feed. Nothing could be further from the truth. They’ve also said that I wanted to steal the people’s park in the town centre for my own ends. Such lies! In fact, I merely wanted to enhance the lake and the fields – with a few hundred parking spaces, a stadium and the like. 

“As for the townspeople’s park, it’s not at ground level, and I’m sure a few layers of parking for their coaches and carriages would be preferable to the empty green space that is there now. It’s mere coincidence that I owned the lands across the great road, and needed space for carriages. As to those peregrine falcons that used to live in the ancient tower on my land, they chose to fly away. 

“Of course, I put in spikes and lights to ‘discourage’ them, but verily I never forced them to go.”

Damian looked at the sack of gold the whole while.

“Chairman, I should love to help you; whatever service can I perform to help?”

“To start with, there will be no more tales in your news that make me look badly in front of the people” The Chairman continued. 

“Perhaps some nice photos of me with my winning football team will make the people happy, and thus distract them from worries that would only trouble them. After all, I have used all my footballing skills these many years to build up the best team money can buy. If the stadium I built is apparently falling apart, and we need to move to a green field instead of rebuilding, that’s hardly my fault.” 

“And as a little incentive to you, for every good deed you for me to enhance my reputation with the good people, I shall send you advertisements and gold. Your newspaper needs advertisements, does it not?”

The Boss leaned forward at this point; Damian saw the gold reflected in his eyes. ‘Surely those are the most kindly and honest eyes I’ve ever seen’ thought the young reporter.

“Verily I thank you for your kindness to the people and myself – these souvenir autographed photos of you are lovely and so is that yon sack of gold. Forsooth! I am in. Call me.”

At that moment a high-pitched squawking started from a far corner of the room. A goose sat on a nest, and seemed in distress. A moment later, the henchmen appeared. Taking the goose off the nest, Damian thought he saw the gleam of gold, and in an instant, a bowing henchman placed a beautiful golden egg before The Chairman.

“Not bad, eh?” asked The Chairman.

Damian’s eyes were as wide as saucers now.

“My goodness – what magic is this?” he asked.

“That dear boy is my goose that lays the golden eggs. I call her Council. Council has given me gold many times and in many ways. Council found lands in the Western Hills for me, and gave them to me for a song; I then started to grow rich. Council did even better, and by enchantments I was granted three properties to develop for 10,000,000 coins of gold. 

“Had I not had the lands, I would not have had the leverage to be the lowest bidder among those bidding to develop those properties. Every now and again I am given further gifts.” 

As The Chairman continued, Damian was entranced.

“Council made a magic circle for me; it is called AXSEF. AXSEF is a few, well – like-minded people – people like you and me, Damian, who want to help the city and shire grow smart and successful. And AXSEF even made me its king for a time. 

“AXSEF does help – it’s helping me and my fellow giants as much as it can to get the townspeople on side and to bag that empty park the townspeople seem so fond of. and Damian, I think you may be able to help us with that too. Here, have a golden egg, and a free souvenir AFC coffee mug.”

The boy reporter was thunderstruck by the riches laid at his feet.

“I’ll be in touch soon dear boy” said the former kitchen-fitter, “do come back tomorrow; there is another giant who’d like to meet you and all.” 

The henchmen already had Jack to his feet, and were escorting him and his new treasures off the property.

‘Wow’, thought Damian, ‘What a nice guy; just a little misunderstood. I am sure I can get him out of the stew he’s in – and get a little gold in the process.’

Climbing down the beanstalk and back into his small but stylish home that evening, Damian filed a story or two about the shortage of coach parking and the need for more football stadiums before falling soundly asleep, golden egg secure beneath his pillow, and a fist full of coins in his tighly-clutched hand.

Coins on white

Damian could barely sleep that night. He thought more stories he’d write to say what a nice guy The Chairman was, but it was this next giant that fired his imagination. ‘I wonder who he is and what he has in store for me?’ Surely I will do what’s right for the townspeople – of course – but maybe this is just another misunderstood fellow too?’ – that’s what Damian thought as woke that morning, the gold warming in his hands.

The sun was bright and bonny as Damian wandered towards the beanstalk. He climbed and climbed and climbed. In truth he was turning into quite an accomplished little climber. Once more he turned to look to see the shire. But what was this? The great loch, once home to bird, beast and flower was covered in earth moving equipment, and fences were going up nearly as quickly as the skeletal iron building frames. The animals were nowhere to be seen.

‘Oh well, we can’t really waste space in today’s world, that’s not ‘value for money’ Damian thought. He climbed and climbed and climbed – he was getting better at being a climber every day. But no friendly falcon flew to greet him today ‘I guess the bird got ‘discouraged’ and went to live somewhere else’ he thought.

This time when he reached a break in the cloud he could see a far grander castle than the one The Chairman lived in. Despite having the right to roam in the shire, there were fences blocking Damian’s way. A great jaguar sat in front of the castle, an X type it was. A blonde haired woman stood in the doorway, a broom in her hand. She wore a black gown – and Damian was afraid she might be a witch.

Sensing his fear, the lady spoke.

“Greetings Damian – be not afraid; I’m just wearing my university gown for verily I have been put by my lord the giant in charge of a great seat of learning. I’m Jenny Claw” she said.

She was rather tall Damian thought, and he wondered what great academic qualifications she had for so high-powered a post.

She led him to a great hall hung with tapestries.

“These are scenes from my master’s life you see” she explained.

There were scenes of a tall, gaunt grey-skinned giant in a fishing boat on one wall hanging, for that had been the giant’s first line of work. In another wall hanging, a most curious illustration of the people’s gardens was depicted – but it was somehow changed. Damian could identify the gardens from their location in the town, but they were transformed by some form of sorcery or other. He recognised the town centre garden, but in this tapestry, the grass had been replaced by stone.

Strange nonsensical shapes seemed to arch out of the ground, rising to dizzying heights over the concreted garden, and then down to the ground they descended. The centre of the gardens had a statue which seemed to be the giant Sirian Wood.

‘What manner of witchcraft is this?’ thought Damian Bait; ‘these stone arches seem to have no purpose but to go up and then down again. Verily, it puts me in mind of the market stall where Farmer McDonald sells his hot beef sandwiches’. Noticing Damian’s blank puzzled expression the blonde witch Claw said,

“Interested in the garden project? You’ll be hearing about that soon enough I expect. Isn’t it just the most transformational thing you’ve ever seen?” 

“Er, sure it is.” said Damian, still a great deal perplexed.

The witch continued to escort Baits through the castle; indeed he thought she made a great escort.

Suddenly, a wailing woman’s voice was then heard elsewhere in the castle, and a man’s voice could be heard moaning as well.

“Whatever manner of horror is this??” Master Baits gasped

“Oh, that’s nothing” said witch Claw unphased, “that’s just my master’s wifelet taking her morning exercise with her gymnastics instructor.”

“Isn’t she your mistress then as well if she’s your master’s wife?” asked a puzzled Damian.

“There’s only one mistress around here – or there’d better be – and that’s me” said the witch with a wink.

They entered a great hall. And there sat the giant, Sirian Wood.

Sirian barely noticed Damian’s approach, he was busy with a retinue of what seemed like lawyers and politicians. With a wave of his hand they withdrew eventually. The blonde turned to go as well, and Damian imagined that Sirian gave her a swift wink. Sirian the giant then spoke:

“Fie Fi Fo Fum
“If there’s money going, then I want some
“I know nothing about black fish
“The granite web is my dearest wish.”

Damian had no answer to that, and remained silent for a moment. Changing the subject seemed a good idea though.

“Wow, this is some place you have here” Damian enthused

“But surely you cannot fence in your property to the exclusion of the peasants; there is a right to roam in the land”

“Don’t you worry about any rights my boy; I never do.” the giant murmured.

“This place – ‘tis like heaven!” Damian exclaimed, thinking of the castle in the clouds and the huge mounds of gold sitting in a big pile behind the giant Sirian.

“Well, it is a kind of heaven; a haven if you will, a tax haven.” the giant responded.

The room was rather shabby, except for the pile of gold behind Sirian’s throne, which was enormous.

“You’re looking at my gold” the giant noted.

“That’s 50.4 million gold dubloons I’ll have you know. I’m keeping it for a very special gift which I wish the peasants in the city and shire to accept from me. Either that, or I’ll grow some tea in Africa, and help make the plantation owners richer, with my friend the Giant Saintberry. It will be a great gift to the city – as long as they do exactly what I say, when I say and how I say with my gift.”

“Wow!” Damian was awestruck, not fully understanding the logic of this ‘gift’ – but gold glinted in his eyes making him dizzy.

“What kind of tax must there be on this great wealth?”

“Don’t you worry about any taxes my boy; I never do.” the giant murmured. “Now let’s brass tack this.” 

Sirian leaned forward.

“I want to give the people a statue of me, an outdoor theatre to enjoy all year round, rain, sleet and snow, and some beautiful arches of the finest granite. The people will be able to walk up one end of the arch, and down the other. This way they will be able to get from one side of the parking lot – er I mean garden – to the other. I will give them all this connectivity, people from far off lands will come here to shop.

“My accountants at Pricehousewater Coopers have done all the calculations as I’ve told them to do, and will make everyone rich. All I want in exchange for the money, the arches and the statue is that the townspeople give the park land to my good friends Crosby, Smith and Massie to, er, take care of. Now, you can’t say fairer than that – ” 

The giant leaned forward close to Damian’s face.

“CAN YOU?”

Damian was swooning with thoughts of gold.

“If there were only some way I could help you.” Damian sighed.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you indeed.” said Sirian.

“Since you mention it, it would be very nice if the newspaper you write for could proclaim throughout the land my great generosity in making this gift, how great it will be, and how important those arches are – more so than a bunch of peasant owning a big grassy gathering place in the centre of town.” I’m sure you’ll come up with something – but just in case, here are a few dozen articles that my servants have prepared. Two a week ought to do it.”

A huge scroll of papers was put into Damian’s arms. He barely had time to think. Then again, thinking hadn’t really come into any of his adventures in a positive way so far. There was just one niggling doubt he had.

“So, these are then press releases? I should read them, then investigate, then write my own story?” a puzzled Master Baits asked

“No need for that dear boy; press releases, articles – why confuse the simple townsfolk and peasantry? No, it’s all researched; we even did a poll that proved they want some underground parking, shops and a web. My boy, I will give you some magic gold. Before you know it, you will be going to all the important balls and banquets that the town’s grandees hold. You’ll love it. You’ll be meeting more and more interesting people that you can help, and that can help you back. In short, just print the stories as they are.”

“Here is a tiny token of my thanks to you, you’ll be hearing from my people in due course.”

The giant drew out his sporran. It was covered in cobwebs. As he opened the clasp a great cloud of dust arose. He handed Damian a single gold coin. Damian tried to hide his disappointment.

The grey-skinned giant continued, “It is a great deal of wealth of course in and of itself, and there’s more to come, for this is magic gold. More gold will flow to the coffers of your newspaper as I advertise for strong men to work for me in the seas and in the office blocks we’ll keep building. But mostly, keep this piece of gold, and when people know you have had gold from Sirian, then they shall fall over themselves to help you, knowing how important a person you must be to know me. ”

The giant arose; the door at the end of the great hall opened, and there was that blonde witch again. She stood in the doorway, one hand stretched out to the top of the door opening, the other on her hip.

“Right, er, it’s time for my, er afternoon nap” the giant said; Damian thought he was perhaps blushing.

“Before you go, have you heard of the giant Trumpo? He is a great wizard; he can turn muck into money, and he can fly over the oceans. Where he goes, red carpets and pretty girls appear. He is also a great scholar just like me and my assistant Jenny – I mean Ms Claw. I know this, because I own the great seat of learning called Robbie G’s, and it coincidentally gave Ms Claw a great job, and gave Trumpo a degree, making him an honorary doctor. 

“You’ll love him. Climb the beanstalk tomorrow at the same time; you’ll be driven to his castle in the clouds. The Mary MacLeods to be specific.”

The giant waved his hand, and his servants appeared again, bustling Damian out of the hall. From the corner of his eye Damian thought he saw the giant wrapping his arms around his assistant Ms Claw, but before he knew it, Damian was back on the beanstalk, on his way back home.

That evening Damian had quite a bit to think about. When he arrived home, all sorts of invitations awaited him – dinners and parties and feasts galore. ‘I must be a pretty important guy’ he thought. He put his one gold piece from Sirian on his mantle piece, thinking ‘I want everyone who comes here to see this’.

He fell asleep while reading the many stories about the gardens which would be turned to stone. Words like “vibrant, dynamic, connectivity, transformational” circled around his head. Once when he was about to nod off he realised he hadn’t asked the giant how much it was going to cost to make this grand web – or what it was for. ‘I must remember to do that sometime’ he thought as he fell asleep.

Coins on white

Despite his many trips up and down the beanstalk, Damian was filled with trepidation about his pending audience with the Great Trumpo The Donald. Trumpo was greatly feart in the city and shire alike. His fierce temper, his bellowing voice and his giant sized face with cavernous mouth caused the people to tremble. Damian was awestruck to learn that Trumpo could indeed fly.

Some townsfolk whispered that Trumpo had also caused burgermeister Alex to fly as well, for Trumpo came from a faraway land and Alex visited him for great banquets. It was said by some that Trumpo the Donald was half bear and half giant. This explained the tufts of hair on his head, his roar, his slavering jaw, and huge appetite to get his paws on anyone and anything he desired. Then again, these traits might just as well be due to the fact he was American.

Damian wore his best kilt, and made his way up the beanstalk. Things were different. Was this a dark cloud he was passing through? No, it was in fact smoke billowing from one of the many motor carriages and wagons that lined the roads. A new great ring road was springing up, and Damian could see that the field where horses once pranced and played was now a construction site.

‘All for the best, or so the giants tell me. I’ll trust it to them for verily they are rich – and some even have fancy university degrees!’ he told himself.

He looked down. The fields of green weren’t so green now. The Hill of Tullos was barren – there were no deer, no dame’s violets, no foxes and no gorse. ‘Good’ thought Mr Bates ‘those animals were vermin, the dame’s violets were garden escapees, and that gorse was invasive, serving no other purpose than to shelter the deer, the birds and the foxes. Trees – now that’s where money is – or that’s what my new friends tell me anyway.’

But all he saw was glimpses of tiny fledgling trees engulfed by weeds. The other fields nearby now sported more construction sites or glass and concrete office blocks. ‘What did I ever see in those fields?’ Damian asked himself ‘grass is just empty space that does no good’ he reasoned. No pesky peregrines or irritating eagles came to circle him today either.

Damian did wonder what turning he would take through the clouds on the beanstalk to find Trumpo – but he needn’t have worried. As the clouds cleared, far off loomed the largest sign he’d ever seen, announcing ‘TRUMPO’S GOLF COURSE AND TEMPORARY CLUBHOUSE. THE WORLD’S GREATEST GOLF COURSE. CASH WELCOME.’

Damian approached.

The mist cleared; green grass and a road were visible – speeding down the road towards Master Baits was a white van. ‘Acme Security Company’ it said on its sign. Two men – nearly giants themselves – jumped out and raced towards him.

“Halt! Who goes there! Where’s your ID? What are you doing here? I’ll smash your camera!” said the first guard.

“Hold on a minute there – this is our expected guest to be sure, tis Mr Baits hisselff!” exclaimed the second, extending a hand of welcome. “In ye pop and we’ll take you to the boss himself.”

Damian was bundled into a van and sped down a beautifully smooth path. He was driven at speed past huge mounds of earth, topped by dead and dying fir trees. ‘Well, that’s different’ he thought.

The van parked by a mysterious gate. It was wood painted brown; it sat at the end of a huge coach and carriage park. Either side of this gate was neither fence nor barricade, just more mounds of earth. ‘I guess that access code business doesn’t hold much weight up here at the dizzying heights these giants live at’ Baits thought, as he realised only the fittest and slimmest climber would be able to pass that gate.

They got out of the security van, and there stood an amazing sight: it was the biggest clock Damian had ever seen. It stood 20 foot tall – perhaps Trumpo was so big he needed a big clock Damian wondered – either that or he was compensating for something. On closer inspection the clock seemed even more wonderous – it had four different faces. ‘Trumpo must be very wealthy indeed – and look, each side of the clock has a slightly different time. Perhaps that shows what time it is in the magical realm he’s from, and other realms too.’

The temporary clubhouse was not quite as grand as one might think the world’s greatest golf course’s clubhouse would be. A wooden and glass shack, with some round tables and chairs met Damian’s eye.

A voice boomed from far away.

“Bring in the prisoners!”

The voice struck fear in everyone’s hearts – the guards’ and Damian’s too.

Damian and the two guards entered the clubhouse. A gigantic figure of a man with something on his head sat at the far end of the room. Two of the town’s constables entered, each dragging a man in chains before Trumpo.

“Sir, we caught these two men talking to one of your managers” one of the constables started.

“It’s a breach of the peace, sir. They were asking when yon peasants in the farmhouse will have their water supply fixed – you know, the one we accidentally cut off the other week on purpose. This one’s called Anthony of Baxter; the other is Richard of Phinney. They claim to be journalists.” 

The policeman shoved the two chained men forward in front of the giant and stepped back

Trumpo’s face was like thunder. Aesthetically, this was an improvement. He stood and shook his fist. Surely now Damian would hear the kind of oratory and wisdom that a doctor from Robbie G’s school would be expected to employ. Trumpo spoke:

“Hey! Whaddya think youse guys is doing, comin inta the world’s greatest golf course and taking pictures and talking to my fellers. Wadddya two wiseguys tryin ta pull already? Jeez!”

The tall slender man in chains answered,

“We’re journalists. We want to tell the townsfolk what you’re doing here. You can’t treat people like this – cutting off their water supply, and arresting journalists! Journalists need to be free to let people know what’s going on in the world, you can’t bribe us, you can’t silence us. And by law, you can’t arrest us!”

The man was either brave or foolhearty – or indeed he was a journalist and therefore a little of both.

Damian took a step back. After all he was a journalist on the most popular newspaper in the land. Something seemed wrong to him somehow – was he doing a good job as a journalist? He felt vexed.

“Boss, you can’t arrest ‘em it’s true to be sure” said a security guard. “But I’ll bet you can throw them in the prison for a day or so, and teach ‘em a good lesson. If we give ‘em a caution, that’ll shut ‘em up.”

“All right, all right – just ged ‘em outta here, I’ve got an appointment with a real journalist guy any minnit now.” Addressing the two writers, with his hair flopping in his beady eyes Trumpo said.

“Youse two, you keep outta the joint – this is the world’s greatest golf course after all.”

“Oh no it’s not!” said Anthony and Richard

“Oh yes it is!!” said Trumpo

“OH NO IT’S NOT!” said the defiant journalists

“OH YES IT IS! NOW GED ‘EM OUTTTA MY SIGHT.” 

Baxter and Phinney were dragged from the clubhouse in chains.

“Now I’m in one of my rare bad moods!” roared Trumpo the Donald.

“There’s only one thing for it – bring me my golden harpie.” 

The fearful giant clapped his plump hands.

The security guards returned with the most beautiful thing Damian had ever seen: a beautiful harp with the face of a beautiful girl. ‘Hold on, I know her!’ he thought. The giant Trumpo spoke:

“Fie Fi Fo Fum
“She’s rather pretty if rather dumb
“Useless for golf, but good arm candy
“A girl like this comes in handy.”

“Hey Sarah honey, I think you know my visitor Damian Baits here, dontcha?” Trumpo asked his harp.

“Why yes, when I was but a girl, he plucked me –“ she started.

“I’ll bet he plucked ya sweetheart! Yuk! Yuk! Yuk!” the giant said, roaring with laughter at his own double entendre. 

The guards looked at each other for a moment, one nudged the other in the ribs with his elbow, and they started laughing loudly at their boss’s joke as well.

The harpie blushed.

“Oh er, I mean he plucked me from obscurity, and crowned me ‘The Fairest Face of The Shire’” the harpie explained, hastening to add “It was truly a great honour – but not as much an honour of course as working for you. It’s real fun planning 900 homes, two golf courses, hundreds of homes and a clubhouse.” the harpie hastened to qualify her answer.

“Tell us whatcha know about golfing and project management, honey.” Trumpo demanded.

“Well, there are little balls. There are little holes, and er, you build stuff and then sometimes ask to get permission for the stuff you’ve already built, and… well it’s the largest sand dunes in the world out there.”

“Oh no they’re not!” Damian said before he could stop himself. Counting on his fingers he continued, “There’s the Sahara, the Empty Quarter, Death Vall-”

“OH YES THEY ARE! ARRRGH! Did you not see my plaque what I wrote by the dunes! It says the world’s largest dunes, sos that’s what they are gottit?!” 

The giant rose from his seat, knocking the fake flowers out of the fake porcelain vase onto the fake wooden veneer floor.

Damian was frozen with horror at the faux pas he’d made; the whole room went silent. Thinking quickly (for him that is) he replied.

“Oh, yes, now I see what you mean of course these are the largest, greatest, bestest dunes ever anywhere – please forgive me, I need to do some more research on your beautiful golf club, and I’ll tell all the world – well everything you tell me to tell all the world” Damian stammered.

“Now that’s what I wanna hear!” the giant said; he seemed placated.

“G’wan, have my golden harpie, take her home with you, I’ll bet you can play her like a violin just like I have. Haw! Haw! Haw!” Trumpo sniggered.

“Now I’m sure you’re gonna wanna help lil Sarah harpie here arentcha Damain, and here’s some gold to keep her good looking”

Trumpo put his hand to his mouth and whispered to Damian,

“She’s a bit high maintenance, needs some work done – just like my other exes, Har! Har!”

Trumpo thrust the harpie at Damian; Damian was smitten. So this then was him reunited with the face of the Shire. He looked at her lovely G string, and thought to himself how clever he’d been to get rid of his old cow before taking home this lovely trophy.

“Now Damian, c’mere” said The Donald, putting a giant arm around the young reporter.

“ I want we should forgets all about those two guys what you saw before – not a word about them or journalism in your little newspaper going forward, got it? Sarah here has written some great stuff about golf and the billions of pounds of investment we’re gonna have using all her brain power – she’s smart as a whip, isn’t she?” said the giant, nudging Baits in the ribs

“We’ll help you write some great stories. Here’s our first one.” 

Trumpo yelled to his minions again.

“Bring in those traitors!”

Several councillors were brought in by the security guards, chained together. They looked defiant.

Trumpo the giant turned to Damian.

“These wiseguys thought they could vote against my development plans – vote against ME! Well, you know I’m a giant, but I’m also a magician. Watch this.” 

As Trumpo spoke he waived his hands and a great purple smoke appeared. When it cleared, everyone gasped for to their amazement, the councillors who voted against Trump had been transformed into giant turnips.

“Damian, you’re gonna take some pictures of these knuckleheads, put ‘em on the front cover of that little evening paper ya got, and in giant letters call them ‘TRAITORS’. That’ll show the townspeople what happens when ya try and cross me. You get turned into a neep – that or you get a bit of a granite overcoat. Haw haw!” Trumpo laughed heartily, his booming voice filling the temporary clubhouse.

Damian thought he saw the beautiful harpie shudder. He too felt uncomfortable. Surely the purpose of a newspaper was to present the facts, and make clear what was an opinion and what was a fact? Surely a newspaper had to report the truth despite however much gold it was offered by industrial giants?

“Oh Damian, can we go home soon?” The harp was singing now, and Damian couldn’t remember exactly what, but a moment ago something had bothered him.

He was quite contented to listen to Sarah’s voice. Everything seemed fine.

“There’s a guy I’d like you to meet as well Damian”, Trump spoke, clapping his hands and a wizened little old man with a red face came out of the shadows.

“This is my scientific adviser, say ‘hello Bill’ – it’s Professor Bill Ritchie, from the other shire university, not the one that made me a doctor. Bill tells everyone how green and environmentally friendly we is at the world’s greatest golf course, dontcha Bill?” 

Trump grabbed the little man by the back of his neck and shook him a bit. The professor seemed little more than a puppet.

Damian was astonished: this was the little old professor who proclaimed far and wide that Trumpo’s golf course would be a great place for wildlife. The professor was supposed to record for the shire all of Trump’s great environmental accomplishments, and keep an eye on things. Alas! The professor had long since stopped receiving carrier pigeons or messengers; everyone thought he was dead. And here he’d been hiding all along, with the giant.

Damian wondered for a split second as to the famed professor’s supposed impartiality.

But it dawned on him: ‘I used to think the fields and creatures were good, but now that I’ve met these three giants with such great plans for our future prosperity, I see that the animals can go find somewhere else to live, and those pesky peregrines can flock off, too. I guess Professor Ritchie just figured that out before I did. I wonder if Sirian gave him a special honorary doctorate too – or some other giftie?’ Damian realised all was fine in the realm.

“Now before ya go, here’s a little bit of gold for you, and two very special gifts.”

Trumpo seemed very pleasant as he spoke. He reached into a shiny bag that lay on the table.

‘Would it be more gold?’ Damian wondered, ‘Perhaps a wonderous gift like the harpie or the goose that laid the golden eggs?’

“This is one of my personal Trumpo the Donald neckties, made in a faraway magical land called China. And this is my book, and I’ve even signed it.” Trumpo explained.

Sure enough, inside the book ‘The Art of the Devil’ was a big letter ‘X’.

“I’ll come see you next time I fly in, my granny was from Scotland land ya know.” 

Trump was off, henchmen at his side. Damian took his swag and left.

Unbridled joy was Damian’s. With the harpie on his arm like arm candy, another sackful of gold, a polyester necktie and some great stories to print, he headed down the beanstalk one final time, knowing he was truly now the success he always knew he would be.

Coins on white

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Dec 052014
 

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

DictionarySeason’s Greetings! Tally Ho! Sale now on! 25% off! I’m sure we all love this time of year – a time to reflect… on how that new lowcost dress looks on us in the changing room mirror. It’s a time to take stock – and have a sale to make room for seasonal merchandise. A time for sharing – if you have a 2 for 1 coupon that is.

All this fuss and greeting about what’s going wrong in the Third World is unseemly at this time of year. I’m sure we’d all like to help the less fortunate around the globe. They want the same as absolutely everyone wants in Aberdeen: jobs creations.

Remember, no patch of ground, seashore or Site of Specific Scientific Interest is so important it shouldn’t be swept aside for jobs creation.

We can help create jobs abroad too. This might help keep those pesky foreigners out of the UK as well – bonus!

All we have to do is keep buying cheap goods from multinational stores that are sewn by people working in foreign sweatshops – sorry – meant to say foreign factories, and they’ll happily work day and night (literally) to meet our demands (unless the factory falls to bits, as happens). Such places are equal opportunity employers – no one is too old, too young or too weak to work.

From our mobile phones (no doubt bought on cyber Monday) to our our new Primark outfit, to the cheap designer knock-off we buy on the street corner – we are engaging in jobs creation. Well done us!

Then again, you could consider buying handmade goods from craftsmen in the UK, but these guys are always expensive, and more often than not are layabout subversive types. Even worse, if you get something from a craftsperson, it will be unique. How will you fit in then? No, it’s best to make sure you find out what the right colours are to be seen in this week, and make sure you have the right words sewn on your shirt. Check with your friends; no sense in standing out from the herd.

And with that it’s time for some December definitions.

Acts of Charity: (Compound English noun) to actively perform work to help others.

But this is a time for giving as well. Some people take it just that bit too far, and dabble with charitable acts, a rather unseemly kind of exhibitionist practice. Take for instance a man in Florida, who at the age of 90 should know better. Arnold Abbot has been feeding Ft Lauderdale’s homeless and poor for ten years – and he knows about this new law that says he can’t. He was already told by the police not to do it – but he’s not respecting their authority.

Jail’s the best place for people like him.

Two pastors were with him as well – what’s the world coming two when two churchmen are using funds to feed the poor? Who did they even get such a zany idea from? Church money is best tied up in real estate, paintings and gold.

So here’s to Florida’s new law against feeding the poor. Perhaps they’ll get round to prohibiting helping the sick as well. By the way, in the land of the free, it’s also now illegal to feed the hungry in a few other places too, which is fine, as there can’t be many hungry people in Seattle, LA, Dallas and Philadelphia (Philadelphia’s the place with the ‘Liberty Bell’ – ‘let freedom ring’ is the American cry. I’m sure there’s no symbolic value to be found in the fact the bell is cracked).

The bravery of the American policeman is often overlooked. Often faced with unarmed men, or 12 year olds with guns, they selflessly put their lives on the line to make the world a safe place. Of course this often means the kind of safety where you’re liable to be shot dead for no just cause at the hand of an untouchable force, but I guess you can’t have everything.

Well done Ft Lauderdale police – good to know that of all the laws you could be enforcing, you’ve gone for the rogue 90 year old. The Independent’s article has a fetching photo featuring three police officers sent to get this guy. One gendarme is a woman, you might wonder if she is perhaps there to show the sharing caring side of stopping people feeding the poor in public, but surely the police aren’t into patronising, sexism, or attempts at PR coups.

Not one of these three officers questioned the importance of this law, and happily went about the business of upholding the law. The future will need more such brave police I’ve no doubt.

The Independent article advises:

“Mr Abbott set up Love Thy Neighbour in memory of his late wife Maureen in order to continue the humanitarian work they both did by regularly making and sharing food at Holiday Park and Fort Lauderdale Beach.
http://www.independent.co.uk/ninetyyearold-man-faces-jail

To comply with the law, all they’d need to do is to rent premises (no more than one per city block, mind) and spend their overheads on rent, insurance, etc. instead of food. It’s all a bit unseemly, seeing poor people eating; this sort of thing is best done behind closed doors (if done at all). Or so it goes in Ft Lauderdale. Let’s hope no irreverent types access this Love Thy Neighbour charity’s site and donate funds.

On this side of the pond Sir Bob Geldof is resurrecting his Feed the World / Do they know it’s Christmas thing, this time Ebola is the cause celebre.

Love or loathe the man, he’s doing something. Cynical marketing and PR exercise? Saintly means for feeding/saving/vaccinating the world? I leave that with you.

However, since the original Live Aid single raised £8 million, and the Live Aid concerts raised some £65 million, I do have a suggestion that should save time, money and effort. Let’s get Sir Bob to do a concert for Sir Ian. If Wood stumps up some of the £53.9 million languishing in the Wood Family Foundation’s vaults, then that would nearly cover it. Result!

That’s food for thought – which is more nourishment that the people who could use this money are getting. I’m afraid the Boomtown Rats don’t do much for me, but I do prefer them to other kinds of rats.

Season’s Greetings: (English compound noun) A warm form of address usually associated with the Christmas period.

Since you’ve taken time out from your important shopping activities, here’s a heartwarming image to remind you about the people who have suffered, worked and fought so hard to get things right in the world.

Yes, I mean Tony and Cheree Blair. Tony’s very proud of his faith and the work he’s doing to bring peace to the Middle East (let’s overlook pride being a sin for the moment and all that nonsense). This photo brought a tear to my eye. ‘Season’s Greetings’ it proclaims – and greeting is just what you’ll be doing when you look back on the ways in which Tone has helped to make the world what it is today.

Old Susannah quite likes this photo; it does seem to capture the essence of the couple. However some unkind people have made comments on it which include

“Why is this year’s card so secular? For a man who decided to go to war inspired by his faith, this card is particularly non-descript. It doesn’t even say Christmas.”

“Why is Tony looking at us like we’ve just spilled his pint?

“Is this is all part of an evil plan to make us unable to sleep forever?

“Of course, it is possible that this is just the card he’s sending to all of his enemies.”

But do have a look at the lovely card and see what you make of it yourself.

Recycle: (English verb) to re-use or reclaim something which would otherwise be discarded.

Christmas is coming earlier and earlier these days; we’ve had Black Friday, Cyber Monday, and sales since Halloween. I thought I’d get in on this trend, and if you don’t mind, here’s something I wrote once before. Have yourself a merry little Christmas, or whatever you choose to celebrate.

Right, well it’s Christmas again.

I think by now we’ve established that not everyone looks like a supermodel, can afford hundreds of pounds of food and presents, and not everyone will be having dozens of close, equally-beautiful friends dashing to their homes in open sleighs to sing around 12’ tall, perfectly decked trees.

Don’t buy into a picture that doesn’t exist. But do, if you’re feeling stressed or unhappy about anything at all at this time of year, talk to a friend.

If you can’t talk to a friend or a family member, talk to one of the many services out there that will listen to you without judging you. Stress is particularly bad for people at this time of year, and it’s important to remember that worrying about things outside of your control will never solve anything, but will make you anxious or ill.

If there are things you can change and want to change about your work, life, home, then stop, figure out what you need to do, and start to make a plan for change. Don’t let your problems grow out of all proportion.

If you need a little bit of perspective, do some volunteering, fund-raising, join a group – do something new. You’ll be glad you did. There are people out there far worse off than you or I; be glad for what you’ve got, and don’t be tricked into thinking you need more material things to keep up with some imaginary Jones.

Sorry if this all sounds a bit obvious/preachy/oversimplified – but at the end of the day, it is definitely within your power to take stock, realise what you do have to be thankful for, and to fix what needs fixing. Please be happy, be safe, and have a Happy Christmas or whatever you might be celebrating. – OS

Stop press: on Saturday 6th December the Rucksack Project will be meeting at 2pm at 62 Summer Street in Aberdeen to give rucksacks of essential goods to our city’s rough sleepers. Please see www.rucksackproject.org – hope to see you there.

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Oct 102014
 

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

DictionaryHope you’re enjoying the weather. The trains Stopped running further north, streets are flooded, and it’s chaos. Thankfully, none of the building we’re doing in the remaining greenbelt will have a negative impact on the ability of the soil to soak up the rains.

A mere 3,000 new homes in Countesswells  on what’s currently open land won’t make much difference to the environment and flooding; congratulations to the planners and developer (S Milne). Don’t worry about any additional road traffic either, the AWPR will have us all sailing down open roads very soon.

I wish an artist would make us a rendition of what the granite web will look like when it rains hard like it did on Tuesday. No doubt the levels of underground parking replacing the soil wouldn’t cause any  flooding.

In fact, the granite web would be great fun when the ground and ramps are frozen over, and we’d all sitting outdoors watching open air theatre.

Make no mistake, as sure as it will rain again, a certain billionaire hasn’t forgotten that web, and neither has his equally kind-hearted, socially-minded altruist friends. As long as the web story continues dominating the local printed press, the web  won’t be forgotten here. either.

Many other developments are afoot here in the dynamic Deen. The plan for the city’s museum to have its marble staircase hacked up, and a giant box put on the top of the building is going ahead. I guess those developers and architects who think this looks wonderful went to different art schools than I did. I’m sure it will be iconic.

Funny, London’s Tate decided not to ruin its beautiful original building; instead it renovated a disused building when it wanted to expand. If only we had some brown field land in the city centre that should be regenerated to really bring the city back to life. Can’t think of a single site though.

And it’s farewell to Victoria Road School in Torry. Councillors met in secret to vote on axing the site; so no real change in transparency there. Let’s see who buys the site, what they paid for it, and what will take its place.

The Harbour Board are so very keen on turning Torry into an extension of the industrial harbour may well have a hand in this. It will be for our own good when Nigg Bay is taken off our hands, and more lorries travel our roads. It will be a breath of fresh air. Or maybe not. But no doubt it will mean more jobs, the rallying call of all local development.

Never mind the fact we have plenty of work and low unemployment; if you want to build anything, just say you’re creating jobs, and permission arrives on a silver platter.

Some had the temerity to register to vote in the referendum

Moving vibrantly and dynamically along, it’s wonderful to see that everyone’s getting along so well after the referendum. People are respecting each other’s opinions and positions; and intelligent debate continues to dominate the social media sites.

Perhaps the only thing that Old Susannah finds more heart-warming than the post-referendum bonhomie is the riveting, electric Lib Dem party convention. And do those guys know how to party!  Nick Clegg was so cool that he wore dungarees one day!  I guess that sort of thing impresses most of you young people.

However, Kyle Joseph Wagner, a local writer and bon vivant had this to say:

“Nick Clegg delivering his conference speech yesterday in jeans and a navy-blue shirt with the top two buttons undone is funnier, sadder and more pathetic than any attempts I could make to take the p*ss out of him.”

I think Kyle is just jealous, but there you go. More on the wonderful work the Lib Dems did at their conference shortly, especially the important news that Clegg wore a suit on Wednesday – how dynamic is that?  He can be both cool/casual and businesslike and strong. I may yet swoon.

With all the excitement – party conferences, glass office buildings and so on, a few timely definitions seem called for.

Tax Evasion: (modern English compound noun) – the use of legal or illegal means to avoid paying duty on income.

I can’t possibly express how happy I am that poll tax dodgers may yet be called to account for their crimes against humanity. Some had the temerity to register to vote in the referendum. Thankfully, this might lead to these hardened criminals being found and forced to pay their just dues to society.

Perhaps these unwashed lawbreakers could learn a thing or two by looking to our betters for a good example and moral guidance.

Sir Ian Wood is a prime example of a man who pays his fair share. The Wood Group may be saving a few million by paying some of its workers via offshore companies, but that’s just good business senses.

SIW has £50 million sitting in a charity bank account free, but that’s going to eventually help Africans, who as we know need to grow more tea (perhaps he can help clear some of that pesky rain forest in the process). We’ll wait and see what he does.

Stewart Milne still has contracts worth some £10 million with the city

Good thing there aren’t any pressing issues in the African continent that could use any of his ‘venture capital (ist)’ brand of assistance. There’s little glamour in disease or starvation, and if you feed people, you probably won’t get much of a return on your venture capital investment. – if there’s no eventual return, why donate money?

Another shining example of paying one’s fair share can be found in Stewart Milne. No word yet on whether he’s paid the city back the money he owes. Like me you’re probably thinking it’s we who should be giving Milne money, but in fact he owes us some £1.7 million.

I’m sure he had a great reason for this transfer, even if to us less wealthy people it seems like a transparent ploy to avoid paying what he owed the city. Actually, after he appealed all the way to the highest court in the land, even the law couldn’t see why he needed to do that transfer, and he was ordered to pay the city some profit and interest.

I’m sure that with this newly-found enthusiasm for cracking down on tax avoiders, the police and local government mandarins they’ll be straight onto the rich who owe us a few million pounds eventually. But let’s go for the poll tax dodgers first; there’s no sense in upsetting of our wealthy worthies.

Since we’re on the subject of how cleverly the police can find the poll tax avoiders, I thought I’d let you know that alas!  They are unable to find any trace of the investigation they were meant to do when the Kate Dean administration sold parcels of land for peppercorn prices. Audit Scotland couldn’t decide if it was incompetence or fraud at work; the value was c. £5 million pounds, and the police were going to investigate.

Doubtless there were excellent reasons why our cash poor city was slashing services while doling out real estate parcels like sweeties; I’m sure it all made great commercial sense. To someone. Note: Stewart Milne still has contracts worth some £10 million with the city, awarded just around the time he was given that valuable land. Something about ‘leveraging’ comes to Old Susannah’s mind, but that can’t be right.

The courts are so stretched that we’re considering lopping off a few human rights and old legal rights that are way out of date (corroboration, evidence, little things like that).

The police claim to be so stretched they couldn’t possibly implement any form of control over air rifles, wildlife crime, burglaries and so on. Still, there is time to spy on private people’s emails and calls, and to infiltrate protest groups. I guess you have to figure out your priorities. But we’ll find time and money to go after the poll tax avoiding rabble.

of course nuclear energy is a big part of the solution

So let’s name and shame the people who didn’t chip in all those years ago. We had a fair taxation system, based on everyone paying a tax based on the value of the place they lived in.

This was also a great way to get those pesky older people out of valuable houses that they’d saved up for and bought; if they had been silly enough to buy a great home then the poll tax was going to make them pay for it.

Perhaps we should bring this tax back? Our council tax is great as far as it goes, funding all the great schemes we’ve paid for over the years – but I think that extra few drops of blood could be extracted if we went back to the poll tax. No tax payment, no vote. Now that’s democratic.

Clean Energy: (Modern English compound noun) Forms of energy which have little or no elements of waste, pollution health risk or environmental damage from their extraction through to their end products and waste materials.

One thing we can all be proud of is how we’re tackling our energy problems, and of course nuclear energy is a big part of the solution. We have had great successes around the world in Russia and Japan for instance, and if the odd trace of radiation from Chernobyl wound up in the Scottish Highlands, that’s no big deal.

Here in Scotland we have our own Dounreay plant a shining example of clean energy at its finest.

Granted, at present, a ship carrying ‘intermediate level’ radioactive waste from Dounreay caught fire, and is drifting around. An oil rig has been evacuated. But no fear: Police Scotland are monitoring the situation. (I particularly like the energy efficiency in sending these concrete-encased blocks of radioactivity sailing round the world, down road networks, and over rail lines. I’m sure this is all quite green).

Some detractors might have a criticism or two of this great plant; for instance the MOD was accused of covering up information on radioactive leaks. I’m sure they’d never do such a thing; here’s an article that I find very reassuring.

And here are some further articles that are nothing to worry about from Rob Edwards. So a few trucks were carrying radioactive waste when they were meant to be decommissioned, no harm done. And if further information is being kept secret, why worry. If we needed to know, they’ll tell us.

Remember, nothing can go wrong with nuclear power. Neither the police nor the MOD would lie to you; there’s no reason to think they would. But just in case something does ever go wrong, we can always ‘duck and cover’.

A Man For All Seasons: (English Idiom) a person who is very successful in a variety of activities / situations. See also Nick Clegg.

Nick Clegg is surely our man for all seasons. This week he’s been leading his party’s conference with stirring speeches and setting the tone. He’s been making pledges for people with health problems to be seen more quickly – if only he had some power and could implement changes like that now.

But not only is he going to buy more with less tax money, he’s shown a few attractive sides to his personality that we’d not seen before.

Earlier this week, he shown us that despite his talents and position, he’s really one of us. He’s not just the unshakable, constant tough and attractive guy we all think he is. As mentioned earlier, he actually appeared wearing jeans. Some of the buttons on his casual but smart top were unbuttoned as well; he really knows how to let his hair down, and is just like us.

Then just when you think you know the man, he comes back to speak wearing a suit!  It was as if he was taking control; it was a very masterful moment, and I’m glad I’ve taped his performance to watch again and again. It’s amazing someone can have such diametrically opposed sides.

Then again, it was the same Mr Clegg who promised there would be no tuition fees when he got voted in as part of the LibDem/Conservative coalition that’s steered the nation to the great place it’s in today. I guess he doesn’t like to brag too much about his past successes. Either that, or there were too many to mention.

He told his party conference in Glasgow he would not “seek to distance” the Lib Dems from the coalition’s record. Well, he wouldn’t, would he?

And then, just as you think Nick is happy to be associated with the coalition which he is in, he makes a wee remark  that make you wonder if that’s true. Case in point comes courtesy of the guardian:

“Nick Clegg has instructed his leading ministers to “brutalise” the Tories …In a sign of how coalition relations have descended into trench warfare in the run-up to the election, the deputy prime minister has told senior Liberal Democrats to reach out to “soft Tories” by saying that the chancellor is taking Conservatives back a decade to the era of the nasty party.

“The instructions from Clegg, who accused the Tories of “beating up on the poor”, came as the opening of the Liberal Democrat conference was dominated by speculation about future coalition partners if voters elect another hung parliament in May’s general election.”

I’d be the last person to say that Clegg changes his positions as often as he changes his clothing, particularly as he looked so cool in those denims. Still, I sometimes wonder if the Lib Dems are every bit as consistent as they seem to be.

But all this talk of Nick is making me overheated. I’ll be off to BrewDog for some liquid refreshment to cool down a bit. But happy birthday to the Aberdeen BrewDog bar, and many more.

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Sep 262014
 

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

Dictionary

Tally Ho! For a city with no beating heart and collapsed lungs awaiting a granite web transplant, Aberdeen is somehow managing to hold its own on the cultural front. The Techfest 2014 events are very impressive and are still ongoing. Aberdeen gets ready to welcome Billy Connolly next week; if the city isn’t rolling out the red carpets, it should be.

The Big Yin will be at the music hall; tickets sold out instantly. Post referendum, this will be quite a show. That underused shady green garden is going to have an Oktoberfest. It’s all happening.

Referendum fallout is everywhere, and shows no signs of abating. Both Yes and No camps still cry foul; queens are accused of purring; political parties are accused of breaking their promises, something I can assure worried readers will never happen.

Two years on, and Aberdeen’s own referendum on Union Terrace Gardens show no sign of abating, either. The P&J, Tom Smith, ACSEF and Sir Ian Wood are still banging on about how a granite web is the city’s only salvation and how it must be built over our only existing city centre green space (coincidentally owned by you and I, and worth tens of millions).

The canals of Venice. The Eiffel Tower.The Taj Mahal. The granite web to nowhere. Yes, that would have worked. These tenacious people of course have no selfish interests as they campaign on and on and on.

In the news this week are various movements – various ‘isms’. Women are bleating on about wanting rights. Campaigning journalists closer to home are drumming up support for their advertisers’ projects – sorry – important local causes. Time for a look at some of these ‘isms’.

Feminism: (Modern English movement) – belief that women and men should have equal opportunities, equal rights and equal pay.

Well, I am just a weak, helpless female, so I got one of my male colleagues to explain to me what’s wrong with this feminism business. Apparently, it’s all about unshaven women who want to look like men, or something like that. It’s just too complex for me.

On the other hand, I did some research. You will be surprised to learn that there may indeed be instances where there is a small amount of discrimination.

For reasons known only to herself, actress Emma Watson – actress and academic scholar is trying to tell us that feminism isn’t a dirty word. For some reason, she thinks that women are not treated as well as men. I wonder why she’d come to such a wild conclusion; she’s probably just looking for headlines.

Of course Watson may object to a few inconsequential facts. Women around the world do not earn as much money as male contemporaries for the same work. Women are being forced into marriage around the globe including here in the UK. There is also the small matter that in the western world, a mere one in 4 women can expect to experience some form of sexual abuse or violence.

Women are being trafficked against their will to be used as prostitutes. Police routinely ignore women’s pleas for help with domestic violence, and yet another woman in the UK was killed by a stalker the police had been warned about many, many times before.

That ought to prove that women aren’t subject to exploitation

In short, I’ve no idea why Emma thinks that campaigning for equal treatment of women in society is something we need to do. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if she turned her efforts to something worthwhile, like backing the Aberdeen City Garden Project?

To disprove Watson’s case, some charming, anonymous people have started a countdown online as to when they plan to release nude photos of her. That ought to prove that women aren’t subject to exploitation to everyone’s satisfaction. Releasing any photos will also put her back in her place, intimidate her, and then we girls can forget all this silly feminist stuff.

For further examples of the fair treatment the fair sex gets, the 25/9 P&J carries a tale we can all have a good laugh along with.

Offshore worker Andrew Thomas has unfairly been put on the sex offenders’ register for a whole year, and will have to do some community service. He was just being a lad after all when he snuck into his female offshore co-worker’s room, set up a phone to spy on her, and saved photos of her changing and washing. It’s even funnier because he pretended to be her pal.

Any red-blooded offshore worker would have done the same. Spoilsport Kerry McKnockiter doesn’t get that this was just good fun, and somehow feels she’s been violated. Go figure. At the same time, a man who grew something called ‘marijuana’ at his home has rightly been locked up for 12 months, a splendidly fair sentence, and a great use of taxpayer money. Good on us.

As to this equal pay business that feminists want resolved, what do you need money for once you’ve got a husband, hopefully the richest one you could snare? I’d recommend pretty young girls enter beauty contests – look at the great catch Sarah ‘Face Of Aberdeen’ Malone landed when Damian Bates married the lucky girl?

Still, some women insist on working, taking jobs away from our boys. It’s only right that girls don’t get the same money as men do; after all, they’re not as strong or as smart as men are. All public sector pay was meant to be levelled out years back; this is still in progress. In fact, Torry was once asked to sell huge tracts of land it controlled to help Aberdeen City level out its pay issues.

If Old Susannah recalls correctly (remember, I’m just an old woman) – the city made a fine job of equalising pay – by lowering the salaries of some men, rather than raising women’s pay. Sounds pretty reasonable to me. More on all this here. Of course pay and pension are still wee problems (well, if you’re a girl anyway) today. All I can say is ‘calm down dear, it’s only your living wage.

We’ve had wimmin academics heckled, threatened with rape and other forms of violence.

It couldn’t be that the ‘writers’ are slavishly regurgitating whatever press releases it gets

I guess when you have extremist feminists like Caroline Criado-Perez (a foreigner, note) who wanted Jane Austin put on a bank note, then trying to frighten the weaker sex is a good strategy to get them in line.Perhaps a nice cup of tea and a pat on the head is all that these feminist type ladies and Emma Watson need.

That, and perhaps a box of chocolates and a new hat.

Yellow Journalism: The use of sensationalism, bias, and exaggeration in order to attract and/or influence readers.

“There are no concrete plans to breathe new life into the heart of Aberdeen – two years after the city Garden Project was controversially scrapped.”

– So wrote the P&J’s Dawn Morrison this week for the P&J’s Wednesday cover story, dramatically illustrated with an ornate gold picture frame with nothing inside of it. I’m sure this factual, un-emotive opening sentence will have us girls weeping into our ice-cream tubs.

I’m equally sure that, coincidentally of course, some of the P&J’s biggest advertisers do indeed have concrete plans for Union Terrace Gardens.

Well, perhaps granite-clad concrete is what they want, but there are some people who just want that green space taken over, which will magically put the business rates in the area within the reach of local shopkeepers, will reduce the unfair advantages multinational competitors have over homegrown businesses (buying power, advertising, brand recognition, and of course the use of cheap if not slave labour abroad to create projects).

It’s also very reassuring that all P&J writers, off their own bats of course, use the exact same description for Aberdeen – breathing new life into it, its beating heart, etc. etc.

It couldn’t be that the ‘writers’ are slavishly regurgitating whatever press releases or directives they get. It wouldn’t be like helmsman Damian Bates to dictate to his minions what to write, what not to write about (Anthony Baxter and his Trump-related documentaries for instance) or how to write it.

A google search on ‘breath new life’, ‘heart’, ‘Aberdeen’ and ‘Ian Wood’ will give you all the breathing, beating and throbbing you could ever hope for. It’s just amazing everyone uses the same metaphors – not that these stirring words and phrases are getting at all tedious or worn out, mind you. This whole business may have started with Sir Ian himself; and a regular breath of fresh air he is, too.

The P&J is a bastion for free thinking, freely-writing intrepid investigative journalists whose high ideals lead to balanced articles such as this empty picture frame one. Some might think that such a blatant piece of editorial belongs tucked away inside the issue, but that’s another matter. Some also think that the press shouldn’t exist to serve its advertisers’ interests or indeed the financial interests of the people who edit the news. But that is, I suppose, nit-picking.

Alas, that’s all there is time for this week; I feel the need to shop coming on, and my weakly female constitution can’t possibly continue without a new pair of shoes to cheer me up. More next week.

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Dec 242013
 

ChristmasTwas the night before Christmas and all through the Deen
Nae een were stirrin, ye ken fit Ah mean?

ACSEF members were nestled all smug in their beds
Visions of brown envelopes danced in their heids
Lady Helen in her kerchief, and Sir Ian in his cap
Had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap

When out on their lawn there arose such a clatter
Ian sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to his window, he flew like a flash
Hoping no one would try robbing his cash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of granite to objects below
When what to Sir Ian’s beady eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer:

“There’s no right of access to land near my home
“I’ve got lots of money so you’ve no right to roam!”

Twas a little old man with a red suit and beard
“Could this be a communist?” Ian Wood feared.
Santa approached, getting out of his sled
Turning to Ian, this is what he said:-
Christmas

“Perhaps greed and age have made you grow thick
“For as any fool knows I am St Nick.
“I’ve come to the Deen to reward the good
“On second thoughts I could skip you, Ian Wood.”

“The thing is, with the greedy things that you do
“I just don’t think that I can believe in you.”

At this Ian faltered – he so wanted presents:
“Hold on now Santa, I’m not one of the peasants.
“Let’s talk for a moment so I can explain
“How you can maximise your capital gain.”

“Pay your elves’ wages from an offshore tax haven
“Hoots Santa – think of the dosh you’d be savin’.
“Perhaps you should start a ‘Claus Family Trust,
“And there’s ‘Venture Philanthropy’ – yes, that’s a must.”

“No taxes to pay and you’ll save lots of money
“Stop giving away gifts for free – it’s not funny,”
“Just because poor people put up a tree
“Doesn’t mean you should give gifties for free.”

Santa sighed, saying “Thank you indeed Ian Wood
Christmas“I think though that you just might be up to no good.
“If you paid your taxes, if you weren’t so greedy
“I dare say that others might not be so needy.”

“I’ll bid you good night; I’ll say no more.”
“But do say hello to your close friend, Mrs Craw.”

Donner, the lead deer, was slightly perplexed
“Well Santa, which house will we fly to next?”
“Let’s go to the Milne house since we are quite near.”
And off flew St Nick, the elves and the deer.

“Santa, this heated driveway is quite nice,
“It’s totally clear of all snow and all ice.”
Stewart Milne’s ‘eco’ house had some curious features
This driveway was welcome to Santa’s cold creatures.

“Just one gift for Stew, here, do have a wee look”
St Nick was clutching a nice brand new book
“What is it called?” asked a curious elf
“Football for beginners” – Santa laughed to himself.

“I don’t know that Stewart kens much o the game
“He cares more for money, still all the same
“In the spirit of Christmas and the spirit of Yule
Christmas“This book may help him ken the offside rule.”

Away the deer flew with the sled full of gifts
“Hey,” Comet said, “D’ye ken Milne wears lifts?”
All the deer laughed until it was clear
That towards Aileen Malone’s house they were drawing near.

“Don’t be afraid of that witch” Santa said
“Who as we know had your comrades shot dead
“Deer, if anyone needed the loo,
“We’re over Malone’s house. Yes I think this will do.”

Over Malone’s roof they arrived in a twinkling,
And soon every reindeer and elf started tinkling.
“There are those politicians who will tell you, by heck
“that really it’s raining as they pee down your neck.”

“So do your business – relieve yourselves here.
“In memory of 36 Tullos Hill deer.”

The deer did their business and some of them tittered
“With only 5 LibDems she must be embittered.
“At the election her side got quite trounced.
“Change course for the Bates’!” St Nick announced.”

ChristmasAnd soon Santa stood on the Malone-Bates roof
“No wonder that these newlyweds were so aloof
“No news in the press of their marriage was blurted
“To ensure their financial interests weren’t hurted.”

Perfect gifts for these lovebirds Santa had found;
Down their chimney Santa jumped with a bound.

But just as our Santa started to speak
He was scared by a monster which started to shriek.

Santa stared at the thing which wore a night gown
Could this be some kind of a beast or a clown?
Its hair was in rollers, its eyes were cucumbers
Its face was green mud: “You interrupted my slumbers!”

“You’ve got ash on my carpet! Turn around and get out!”
The hideous thing did shriek and did shout.
Santa twigged who it was, she normally looked fairer
It was ‘The Face of the Deen’, the lovely bride Sarah:

“In order for my great beauty to keep
“I need many hours of deep beauty sleep.”
“Oh Sorry,” said Santa, “my fair beauty queen
“I ken now why you are the Face of the Deen.”
Christmas

“From me you will not hear any further peep
“Clearly you’re behind on your beauty sleep
“I’ve just some small gifts for you two then I’ll go
“Back to my sleigh outside in the snow.”

“I’m amazed at the way you two work close together
“Let’s hope that there won’t be any stormy weather
“Like when the course fell into the North Sea last year
“And the cold’s perhaps wrinkled your sweet face my dear.”

Sarah said, “I’ve got an old man and he gives me  presents,
“My beautiful face put me above other peasants
“He pays me to run the world’s greatest course”
(Mrs Bates showed  not even a sign of remorse).

“Well then Sarah, I’ve two little gifties for you
“A gallon of wrinkle cream, och aye the noo,
“And a book you should read , it’s called ‘Golf can be fun”
(For she hadn’t a clue when all said and done).

“No need to thank me, I’m just here to serve
“And I do think you have got the gifts you deserve.”
As the sleigh left, its bells made a sweet tinkle
Sarah ran to the mirror to check on her wrinkle.
Christmas

“All these liars and cheats, they do make me cross
“But let’s pay a visit to Sarah  Bates’ boss”
The elves were astounded- “Santa don’t be a chump”
Santa answered “I do have one giftie for Trump.”

Donald was home, counting his money
And planning a trip to somewhere quite sunny:
“Where can I go next to get a good thrill
“With lions and tigers and bears I can kill?”

The Donald thought people loved him – the great hunter
But everyone thought: ‘what a horrible c*nt’ – (Er,
sorry ‘bout the language but thinking of him
Makes my blood pressure rise and me head start to spin).

The Don said “I built this course for my auld Scottish Nanny”
St Nick replied “Now just you listen here, mannie
“I’ve got a list of who’s nice and who’s naughty
“Or arrogant, scheming deceptive and haughty.
“No gift for you – no ifs, ands or buts
“But please take a voucher –it’s for ‘Supercuts’.”

Izon Security arrived on the spot
They’d been spying on locals – they do that a lot:
Christmas“Get out of that sleigh and let’s see your ID!”
Santa replied: “Are you talking to me?”

“Get stuffed you great b*stards” Santa said with a hiss
“Has the right to roam been reduced to this?
“You’ve no right to spy or to hassle good folk
“And this golf course is really one heck of a joke.”

With a jingle of bells St Nick and his team
Flew over the Great Dunes of North Aberdeen
“Come on deer and elves, there are good folk in need
“The ones who are victims of all this crass greed.

“The ones who are teachers and nurses and such
“They get paid very little yet do very much
“The children who don’t have enough food to eat
“Aberdeen may be rich, but some live on the street.”

“There are people who help the sick and the poor
“Some help animals too, and of this I am sure
“Those who help others with no thought of themselves
“They are the real saints, the real Santas and elves.”

Santa and his team spent the rest of their night
Giving out presents to good folks’ delight.
ChristmasAsk yourselves this “Am I naughty or nice?”
If you’re a bad one, take some advice.

Flaunting your wealth, and harming others
Ruins the chance that we have to be brothers
If you can help, then you should get stuck in
Greed, don’t you know is a terrible sin.

It’s never too late to fight the good fight
Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!

– Suzanne Kelly

– . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . – . –

Picture – Christmas Tree Baubles

Credit: Ian Britton. Freefoto.com
http://www.freefoto.com/download/90-04-66/Christmas-Tree-Baubles

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Nov 142013
 

By Bob Smith.

Union Bridge & Terrace 1900 flat

In een o Scotia’s bonniest cities
Live fowk fae fair git on yer titties
Wintin the toon tae chynge it’s wyes
Wi ugly biggins tae be the prize
.
Leuk at oor glorious granite face
Fou o character an fou o grace
Fin the sun shines on the steen
Ye ken yer bidin in Aiberdeen
.
Union Street biggins they jist micht
Be in great need o a gweed dicht
Tae reveal the silvery granite glint
Aat generations o fowk hiv kent
.
Bonnie parks an gairdens are aa aroon
There’s een in the cinter o the toon
Bit a local mannie fa his lots o cash
Wid Union Terrace Gairdens like tae trash
The toon it staans twixt Don an Dee
Twa rivers fa flow tae the sea
Throwe kwintraside they pass first
Syne feed the grey north sea’s thirst
.
A toon full o majestic spires
A city aat his some deniers
An wint the toon mair tae be
Like Houston or New York maybe
.
Bit Aiberdeen needs tae be Aiberdeen
Wi the couthiest fowk ye’ve ivver seen
Faa in their toonie tak great pride
An winna be takken fer a ride
.
So Widdie, Muse an Stewartie Milne
Tho’ fowk micht nae wish ye ill
Jist bugger aff an leave things be
In the bonnie toon twixt Don an Dee

© Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013

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Nov 012013
 

Old Susannah, Suzanne Kelly, gets to grips with Grangemouth, Granite Webs and Gardens. The revolution may or may not be televised, but almost everything else is being privatised.

DictionaryTally Ho! Well, it’s been a colourful week in the Granite City; plans for the city centre are being  drawn up, and that’s something you don’t see every day (unless you get the P&J). Apparently all our problems are solved if we let one Sir Ian Wood give us £50 million, and let him raise (or is that ‘raze’) Union Terrace Gardens.

If only we’d have known that before!  All we’ll have to do is hand control of Union Terrace Gardens over to a few committees, stocked with powerful people, Wood’s friends, special friends and relatives, and ignore the fact you and I own this land under common law.

Oh, and we are thinking about trams. No reason to think trams aren’t a good idea; I’m sure the successful tram programme in Edinburgh can be reproduced in the ‘Deen.

I’m sure whatever Ian wants for UTG is just what Robert the Bruce would have wanted when he bequeathed the gardens to you and to me. Bruce famously sat in a cave, feeling defeated when he spied a spider weaving a web. The spider’s perseverance and determination had a profound effect on the heroic Bruce.

He watched that spider, and decided that a web – made of granite – was what we would eventually have the ambition to build over the gardens.

For some reason architects Halliday Fraser Munro continue to make, free of charge, imaginative Escher-esque drawings of the city centre. These can’t actually be built, but they are pretty. Questions like ‘What will happen to the businesses on Belmont Street, which currently have pleasant vistas overlooking the gardens’?, and ‘How will the centre of town suddenly be pedestrianized’? are just minor details we can iron out once we agree to the plans.

Dame Anne Begg opened an exhibition on the history of witchcraft in our city over the centuries at the Tollbooth Museum.

I could have nominated some better candidates for the witchcraft lecture. Aileen Malone (known for sacrificing animals i.e. deer, in the hope of getting £££) and Kate Dean (famous for making vital support services vanish) each seem to have a fair amount of free time on their hands these days, and their undoubted personal knowledge of the dark arts and witchcraft would have been illuminating.

he must be out of touch with the average person, unlike our elected and unelected rulers

Speaking of witches, I saw some graffiti recently which I can’t quite understand. I was in London this past weekend. As my train made its way into the city, very large graffiti on a building caught my eye: “The Witch is Dead, but the Spell Remains”. I wonder who this referred to?  No doubt I’ll soon Iron out which Lady the words were about.

People are talking about a recent edition of Newsnight this week.

“[We] shouldn’t destroy the planet, shouldn’t create massive economic disparity, shouldn’t ignore the people” said comedian Russell Brand, “the [political] system ..  just administers for large corporations.”

Poor Mr Brand. Clearly he can’t appreciate how lucky we are; he must be out of touch with the average person, unlike our elected and unelected rulers. We’ve never had it so good, or so we’re being told. The Newsnight interview can be found here http://www.treehugger.com/culture/russell-brand-interview-revolution-planet-is-being-destroyed-video.html .

For Brand’s benefit, and to remind us all of our recent economic successes, Old Susannah offers a few timely definitions. So, as you snuggle up in your perfectly heated home, eating your lobster dinner, and lighting your Cuban cigars with 20 Euro notes, directing the maid to clean the second bathroom again, here are this week’s definitions.

Privatisation: (noun) to dispose of a state or publicly-owned institution by sale of shares.

Remember what a huge success the sell-off of British Gas was? Lots of people got to make money on shares when the government sold off British Gas, and that was great. For some reason, we seem to be paying higher prices for gas, but I’m sure there is no connection between this and the privatisation.

The recent sale of the Royal Mail is making us all wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. Result!

So what if the future for postal employees is a bit shaky; they’ve all been given a few shares in the sell-off. I’m sure that in 3 years, when they are allowed to sell their shares, it will more than make up for any job losses or pension devaluations. I’m sure we won’t see any cost increases, layoffs, or change in the quality of service.

The selloff must have been a success, because it was oversubscribed.

This of course helps stimulate the economy, as well as rewarding the long-suffering banking sector

The experts in the banking world who arranged the flotation may have made a teeny error in pricing the shares up, but since this hasn’t cost the taxpayer more than about £750 million in lost potential share sale revenues, it’s no big deal. Shockingly, shares were not sold to anyone who wanted more than £10,000 worth.

This sounds like discrimination against the rich to me. Thankfully, the many banks which were part of the consultation process got lots of money (about £17 million according to the Guardian) for arranging the sale. This of course helps stimulate the economy, as well as rewarding the long-suffering banking sector. Also, the many banks which had put in for shares largely seem to have been successful, to the tune of about £29 million.

This is quite a happy outcome for the banking sector, even if it seems like quite a coincidence they managed to get so many shares and so many individual investors were frozen out.

We’ve sold British Gas, we’ve sold our Royal Mail; we’ve sold off most of our water.  These have been huge success stories financially.

Operationally, there are one or two minor issues that crop up after privatisations, but I wouldn’t worry about that kind of thing.

Thames Water for instance, had a few minor teething problems after its sell-off.  There are pipelines leaking millions of gallons of water which go unrepaired. The new management choose to pay dividends to shareholders rather than worry about fusty, boring water infrastructure. They may have to pay the odd fine for polluting the UK’s streams and lakes, but this is just an operating expense.

Thames Water has only had a few fines for pumping raw sewage into the environment, with one fine coming in at £204,000. Thames water also cut its workforce; but on the bright side, the chairman’s salary went up by several hundred thousand pounds per year, no doubt he was doing extra work, what with fewer workers on the payroll.

The best part? Thames Water doesn’t pay corporation tax, which is great news for shareholders (if not the Treasury). http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2339282/Thames-Water-pays-corporation-tax-550m-profits

One such successful entrepreneur is the owner of Scotland’s Grangemouth, Jim Ratcliffe

But don’t worry – none of this is gives any reason to think the Royal Mail sell-off will have any negative consequences. A few job losses, a few thousand people out of work and/or with less valuable pensions, a few banks making tens of millions – that’s what keeps this nation great and competitive. There is no reason to fear the new owners of UK Plc. won’t decide to cut the water or gas.

Just keep the candles handy, stock up on fire wood, and get a rain barrel – we’ll be fine.

Union: (noun) A collective of workers organised and empowered to protect workers’ rights, health and benefits from employers who would seek to maximise profit margins at the expense of the workforce.

There is one fly in the ointment for those benefactors who kindly seek to own key British industries and companies – the Unions.

I’m delighted that private companies, often coming down to foreign governments, one family or even just one man, own crucial parts of the country’s essential utilities, resources and infrastructure. To the uneducated, this may just seem like either Imperialism or in the latter case like Feudalism, but remember how much better off we are. One such successful entrepreneur is the owner of Scotland’s Grangemouth, Jim Ratcliffe.

It may not seem like it, but Mr Ratcliffe’s had to make many financial sacrifices to keep Grangemouth and its employees going these past few years.  He’s not making as much money as he used to – there are rumours he’s down to only one super yacht, the 257 foot Hampshire II. Ratcliffe was shopping one day, had a spare £9 million to play about with, and bought Grangemouth from BP.

Since then he’s become kind of a father figure to those who work there. Rather than gratitude, these workers want to have pay increases and to keep their final salary pension schemes. Jim can’t afford this. According to the Daily Record, Jim’s not very rich at all anymore, and hardly rates:-

“Manchester-born Ratcliffe owns two-thirds of the company’s shares, giving him a personal fortune of around £3.5billion in 2008, when he was named the 25th richest man in Britain.”

With no choice, Jim announced he’d simply shut the facility, which is fair enough. Putting 800 workers, their families, the area businesses that depend on the custom of those workers in a bit of jeopardy probably just taught them a good lesson.

Such vital services I thought should be run without a thought to making money from them

Ratcliffe showed the unions he was boss. And by the way, we don’t really know how badly off Ratcliffe is, because the owner of arguably Scotland’s most important refinery keeps his businesses largely in Switzerland. If I hear of anyone starting a collection for him, I’ll let you know how to contribute.

Before Old Susannah was old, I naively thought we needed governments to tax us so they could protect our rights, help us when we were too ill to work, and provide services such as schools, hospitals, clean water and energy. Such vital services I thought should be run without a thought to making money from them, and were so vital they should be protected from any form of outside or private control, for the benefit of the taxpayer.

How I laugh now to think on this foolish ideology.

Pay your tax, work hard, and good luck. Where you can afford to live and what you earn will directly impact how your children are schooled, what drugs you’ll be allowed to have if you are seriously ill, and how your granny will be treated in a nursing home. Work for a public sector employer such as Royal Mail or oil refineries at your own risk.

Make sure you buy shares in whatever’s being sold next, and try not to think about the pollution caused by cost-cutting measures designed to improve profits, your spiralling energy costs, and the stealthy privatisation of the NHS.

Forget the train crash victims who died at Hatfield; cutting corners on safety for profit was seen by the privatised management as a ‘cost of doing business’. Forget your library closures, school closures and hospital ER closures.  If something starts to nag at you, then Old Susannah suggests getting drunk, getting wasted, or getting some engaging virtual world computer games to while away the hours.

Don’t wonder why you are paying more taxes when you no longer have to support these vital services once privatised, and don’t ask why the uber rich are paying no taxes. I’m sure everything will be just fine.

There we leave it for this week; but if you can suggest any other services that could be sold off, do get in touch. For some reason, I’m thinking of that bit of graffiti I saw again.

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Oct 242013
 

UTG long - Credit: Mike ShepherdBy Bob Smith.

Widdie’s noo back,wi mair bliddy cack
The fifty million is back on the table
Bit only ye see, if wi him ye agree
Aat there’s only ae horse in the stable

John Halliday’s plan, seems nae aneuch gran
The gairdens they still wull be sunken
Is it his fear, aat fowk they drink beer
In the airches wi an attitude drunken?

The plans need transformin, afore the mannie is warmin
Tae ony ideas the chiel wid see fit
If it’s nae tae street livel, t’is the wark o the devil
Onything else Sir Ian sees as shit

The P&J it dis cry, compromise wi shud try
Nae chunce o ess cumin tae pass
Sir Ian his a goal, tae fill in the bowl
An smore the gairdens en masse

Widdie’s “olive brunch”, fin it cums tae the crunch
Is nithing the sort if ye think
An ultimatum mair like, an een wi shud spike
Tho the eyn gemme is noo at its brink

So fa’ll raise the bar, in ess oot an oot war?
Wull fifty million bi seen as a bribe?
An concrete wull flow, on the girss doon alow
On champagne Sir Ian wull imbibe

Can the gairdens survive, fowks hopes kept alive
Or micht it dee in a nest o vipers?
Wull siller win the day, in aa ess affray
Help’t oot bi some ither snipers?

© Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013

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