The festival kicks off with a tenth anniversary screening of the multi-award-winning documentary ‘You’ve Been Trumped’ on Friday March 18.
Suzanne Kelly updates her piece Trump Menie: Wildlife Shot, Carcasses Dumped in Hole with quotes from experts, and shows how this destruction of wildlife fits the pattern of business at the club.
NatureScot told Aberdeen Voice it has concerns at Trump’s decision to kill wildlife and leave it rotting in open holes, saying:
“the disposal of carcasses in a water-logged, open burial pit is not in line with good practice.”
In early February 2021 a concerned member of the public who discovered a stink pit on the Trump Menie Estate alerted Aberdeen Voice. They sent us photographs of the ‘worrying’ pit filled with deer and birds decaying in oily, stagnant water.
For a resort given a ‘Six Star Diamond award’ for its excellence (Donald J Trump was on the award body’s executive board coincidentally), and given Trump’s infamous ‘sh*thole countries’ remark when he was president, this disgusting, wildlife destruction is beyond the pale.
The practice of having stink pits is, shockingly, not illegal.
The pit is used to destroy wildlife. Animals are killed, then the rotting carcasses are left exposed to attract animals that feed on carrion. Those animals are then destroyed too.
There are reports of area pet cats that went missing and never returned. We await comments from Trump on this point.
A Police Scotland spokesperson said:
“We have been made aware of the matter and no criminality has been established.”
The spokesperson from NatureScot also said:
“We cannot tell from the photographs provided whether an offence has been committed. However, the disposal of carcasses in a water-logged, open burial pit is not in line with good practice… we would urge anyone who suspects that a wildlife offence has taken place to report their concerns to the police.”
John Robins of Animal Concern commented:
“From the photographs I have seen it is obvious that deer and several species of bird have been deliberately dumped in this pit. I have dealt with cases before where animals have been killed for scraping at the grass on golf courses in order to find worms to eat.
“There is absolutely no good reason to kill animals on a golf course.
“Indeed I’m sure most golfers would appreciate catching a glimpse of a deer or seeing some birds while they are out on the course.
“I hope the Trump organisation give a full explanation for the presence of this mass grave on their land and then make a commitment not to allow any further persecution of wildlife on all their landholdings in Scotland.”
A spokeswoman for the RSPB found nothing amiss; they said:
“.. what is shown in the photographs does not appear to be illegal, despite how unpleasant it is, so we cannot comment on this.”
Trump’s long-running contempt for nature:
From the outset the Trump organisation did what it wanted to at Menie. Anyone wishing to ask the Trump organisation why it feels the need to destroy wildlife can contact the club by phone here 01358 743300, or by email here firstname.lastname@example.org.
Should any reader get a response from the Trump organisation, we would like to hear it.
The environmental monitoring was a sham. When the Scottish Reporters weighed up evidence on Trump’s proposed course, Aberdeen-based Professor Bill Ritchie said the course would not impact the environment if there was monitoring.
As readers of Aberdeen Voice may know, he led the environment monitoring group called MEMAG. MEMAG fell apart on Ritchie’s watch and no agency did anything to save it. Ritchie has never responded to any of Aberdeen Voice’s requests for comment.
Two SSSIs are gone forever. Further examples of the Trump organisation acting as if laws didn’t apply to it are many.
Menie’s two Sites of Specific Scientific Interest (SSSIs) had the highest level of legal protection an environment can get. The sites, the only moving sand dune system in the UK, were destroyed, and virtually nothing was done to stop it.
Planning permission was frequently ignored.
Trump has ignored/overstepped planning permission several times, and has at least ten retrospective planning approvals. From our observations, this is not the same consideration Aberdeenshire shows to others who fall foul of planning.
Countryside access is ignored.
The Land Reform (Scotland) Act 2003 gives everyone rights of access over land and inland water across Scotland.
Over the years, Aberdeen Voice reported numerous ways this was ignored at Menie to Aberdeenshire Council’s relevant officers. Nothing we reported was ever remedied.
Gates are permanently locked shut, such as the one between Trump’s parking lot and Leyton Farm Road.
Plants have been put in place which block peoples’ access around this gate and elsewhere. Anyone with a bicycle, pram or disability is not getting through or around that gate.
Waste management has been irresponsible.
Chemical containers, plastics blowing across the land and the scale of the waste was staggering.
Animals are being destroyed; chemicals are used on the greens (per previous AV articles), the SSSIs are destroyed. None of the promised benefits (thousands of permanent jobs, tourism money) appeared.
How long can it be before the area is entirely destroyed and housing springs up?
I dedicate this piece to my sources to whom I am grateful. In particular there are three wonderful dear friends who bravely fought to help the situation at Menie and made a difference, but who can no longer fight.
- Comments enabled – see comments box below. Note, all comments will be moderated.
Shocking scenes of decaying dead birds dumped in an open hole on the Trump International Golf Links Scotland course on the Menie Estate, have been sent to Aberdeen Voice.
Our source claims they also saw ‘at least two’ deer carcasses.
Plans for the course and related construction were in part predicated on respect for the environment and wildlife.
The two SSSIs (Sites of Specific Scientific Interest), unique moving sand dunes found nowhere else in the UK were destroyed beyond hope of remediation.
Professor Bill Ritchie was responsible for the environmental monitoring group, MEMAG, which was simply allowed to disintegrate, partially because the Trump organisation failed to attend meetings.
Aberdeen Voice will investigate further and report back when the Trump organisation, wildlife protection groups, and relevant authorities take the opportunity to respond.
The course has permission for clay shooting.
- Comments enabled – see comments box below. Note, all comments will be moderated.
“Crazy how white Republicans got other white Republicans scared of Muslims and Mexicans when all along they needed to be scared of other white Republicans…”
– Cyrus McQueen, author, Tweeting Truth To Power: Chronicling Our Caustic Politics, Crazed Times, & The Great Black & White Divide.
“Anti-vax conspiracy theories and COVID-19 denial are gateway drugs that introduce well-meaning people to the far right. Before they know it, large numbers are hooked on QAnon.”
– George Monbiot
Trump spent decades inciting violence, culminating in rioting and deaths in Washington DC on 6 January 2021. Now he says he won’t condone violence (or is that what he’s really saying?)
Suzanne Kelly, Aberdeen Voice contributor and campaigner explains why the leopard has not changed his spots.
Armed, angry white men and women were invited by Trump to a rally in DC. Trump told the mob to march on the capitol and he’d be with them (he wasn’t).
The warning signs were ignored. The violence was pre-planned, orchestrated. The National Guard was held at bay. Five people are dead, more were injured.
Trump watched the violence unfold on TV; he would not speak to aids or answer requests to stop the forces he invoked.
His after-the-fact denunciation of ‘political violence’ is perversely being taken as a call to arms by the extremists – who are openly calling for more such events. His impeachment is essential; he is a danger to us all.
Signs of his disordered mental state, his contempt for people and the environment were visible at Aberdeenshire’s Menie Estate before his election. Aberdeen Voice, Tripping up Trump, Aberdeenshire councillors including Martin Ford, Debra Storr, Paul Johnston and film maker Anthony Baxter all could have attested this man was the last person to be put in charge of a multicultural country.
Aberdeen Journals Ltd told you Trump was going to bring 6,000 permanent jobs and millions into the local economy annually and ‘enhance’ the irreplaceable environment.
Fast forward, and there are less than 93 permanent jobs, the course is permanently in the red, and the unique SSSI areas are destroyed.
Aberdeen Voice’s many calls over the years to local and national officials and official bodies as to where he got the money for the purchase from fell on deaf ears.
Here are some of my thoughts on why Trump is in power, why people still believe him, and what we need to address in order to stop more carnage.
Trump: the most damaging, divisive president ever.
It takes honour and integrity to own mistakes and Trump has neither quality. His youth included allegations of draft-dodging (he was healthy enough despite alleged bone spurs to play collegiate basketball) and sending in ringers to take exams in his stead.
He is credibly accused of preventing non-white people from obtaining leases for his Manhattan properties. He wanted the innocent, framed ‘Central Park Five’ to be executed.
His fondness for capital punishment saw him reinstate the death penalty; as rights watchers will tell you, many US death row inmates were denied due process, have mental health issues, and some have been found to be innocent after their execution. Some were black – convicted on circumstantial evidence by all-white juries.
Trump has invoked violence many times, whatever he may be saying now.
Trump told an assembly of police that it was OK with him if they harmed suspects.
He called for hecklers at his rallies to be ‘roughed up’.
He called journalists – the very people tying to tell the truth about the man –‘enemy of the people’ and said they should be ‘roughed up’.
When I spoke on The O’Reilly Factor about my petition to ban Trump from the UK under our hate speech laws, I was cut off before making many of my points and with no warning: but the last point I got in was that Trump planned to execute terrorists and their relatives. I still can’t believe this didn’t shock more people.
America is supposed to stand for justice, not ex-judicial execution of innocent people.
Trump is a racist (the KKK endorsement of his 2016 bid for the presidency is a clue); he lacks empathy, and will deceive without remorse. He has no regard for law, fairness or human life. He frequently calls for violence and fails to speak out against it when it comes from the far right and the white supremacist: his lack of condemnation encourages them.
Hate speech, racism, neo-Nazism: how the ignorant, angry and easily-led are funnelled
Claiming Muslims should be banned from air travel ‘until we figure out what the hell is going on’, Trump threw unjust suspicion on Muslims, including the seven to 14 million Muslim Americans.
This was not a dog whistle; this was Trump prejudicially linking all Muslims to terrorism. Those who thought my desire to ban him for hate speech might do well to remember his ban which unfairly harmed many. And as any observer of American terrorism can confirm, most of America’s terrorists have been white males.
Hate crimes are at their highest levels for 16 years according to the FBI.
Responding to Trump’s many calls to hate and violence, people like William Celli decided to build bombs to target Muslims. Trump’s comments about Mexicans and Hispanics have led to many assaults; in one case two suspects told police ‘Trump is right’.
Trump fanatic and would-be bomber Cesar Sayoc targeted Democrats and CNN. His defence lawyers wrote that:
“in this darkness, Mr. Sayoc found light in Donald J. Trump.”
Sayoc ‘Found light’ in Donald; sadly, so do many disaffected people, opportunist evangelical preachers, the NRA, GOP climbers, and racist groups like the KKK.
David Duke is the ridiculously-titled ‘grand wizard’ of the KKK. It endorsed Trump as their presidential candidate, and Duke said the Charlottesville rioting which took Heather Heyer’s life was ‘a turning point’.
From the time Trump said of the white supremacist march ‘there are fine people on both sides’, he’d given a clear signal he would condemn neither violence nor racism. He deliberately fanned those flames, even if he didn’t manage to overthrow the government.
It’s Christianity Jim, but not as we know it.
There is no doubt that MAGA rallies created a community of like-minded Trump followers. These events called together every person who wanted a saviour, and the extremist evangelists used the far-right version of Christianity that these Trump acolytes had been raised on.
Artwork showing Trump as a Christ-like figure (as if); photos showing Trump surrounded by adoring televangelists – all this helped those who were already trained to be obedient to their preachers be obedient to the man their preachers endorsed and called saviour. It made Sayoc a terrorist.
The lunatic hypocrisy of claiming to be a follower of Jesus while simultaneously toting semi-automatic weapons, chanting ‘lock her up’, assaulting rally hecklers, and calling for death to the press doesn’t occur to any of these people. Their preachers are asking for donations, not soul-searching.
Here is a hilarious take on her absolute madness of Paula White
Compliant? The evangelical child in some of these sects grow up believing by constant reinforcement they are the only people who will be saved, that the superior race is white, and the superior sex is male.
Home-schooling is prevalent, and I believe plays more of a part in the radicalisation of people than many will admit.
The girl children? Many are trained to be subservient like our rushed-through newest Supreme Court Justice Coney Barrett. For many extremist evangelists, girls are to get married, be servants and be fruitful and multiply. Sex before marriage is strictly out.
Arranged child marriages are common; tales of survivors of forced marriage can be found in harrowing accounts captured by Unchained At Last.
All these QAnon extremists protesting about invented satanic child abuse? They need look no further than child marriage, legal in 46 states. When was the last time a QAnon protestor targeted this abuse?
Do these evangelists and Trump really believe one of their key recruitment planks – that all abortion is wrong? Trump asked his girlfriend to get one. Trump also raped Ivana per her written statement by the way. Very Old Testament.
If I had my say, every school age person would spend at least a few months in a non-home-school setting to mix with children of other backgrounds. Ensuring no one is schooled only in a vacuum might help end the vilification of other religions, other races and nationalities.
If nothing else, the evangelical girl child could be shown it is illegal to be married off against her will, and she can have a career other than as a mother.
And if I ran the world, there would be no marriages in America for anyone under 18, and all parties under age 21 would have to be seen alone before the ceremony to confirm they are not being coerced, and offered support if they are.
Women used as cleaners and evangelical baby-making machines are what perpetuates this extremely closed, insurrectionist-producing system, in my fact-based opinion. And people like the Haushultz family would not have any children in their care ever.
Tele-preachers and the NRA also insist an AK is a ‘God-given right.’ The hell it is.
Gun culture: how the NRA fuels paranoia.
A Senate subcommittee declared the National Rifle Association to a Russian asset, awash with Russian money. NRA chiefs gave illegal operative Russian Marina Butina and Putin pal Alexander Torshin access to members of Congress.
What was once an educational tax-exempt organisation now pumps tens of millions of dollars into Congress, some of that from Russia.
It will not brook any changes to US gun law. NRA-funded Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell prevented the Senate from voting on bipartisan gun law bills. Did America’ founders know automatic weapons existed – yes, as the NRA says, claiming all guns should be legal.
Did the founders have weapons that could kill 58 and wound 527 others from a great distance as we tragically saw in Las Vegas? No.
Should every incel, every angry racist own an assault rifle?
The NRA says yes.
The parents and loved ones of the over 40,000 shot in 2019 and 2020 say no.
In terms of ‘cancel culture’ – gun deaths cancel thousands of voices each year, and Mitch McConnell cancelled the Senate’s right to even vote on the matter. If he were confident the American people and the Senate did not want gun laws changed, he would have let the two bills be heard.
There is supposed to be a well-regulated militia: instead we had teen Kyle Rittenhouse driven to a protest by his mother where he killed.
‘Do you wanna be in my gang?’ Psychological manipulation.
Lonely? Friendless? Not promoted at work? Involuntary celibate? QAnon wants You.
A whole world of similarly-damaged souls awaits and you will be welcome, whether or not you’re a preposterous self-styled shaman who live streams from mom’s basement. If you’re feeling the financial pinch, it can’t be because of people like Trump, paper billionaires whose many bankruptcies have sent small businesses to the wall; it must be because a woman or a non-white person ‘took’ your job.
It is easier and cheaper to get recruited by QAnon than it is to either get mental health help, get involved with making positive change, or make real friends in the real world. The USA needs urgent medical health care reform, the kind Trump has tried to dismantle.
I have done as much of a dive into this culture as I care to. In fringe websites the insurrectionists share whispers of violence to come on Biden’s inauguration day.
Some think Trump is the messiah. They are happy, some of them, to wear Nazi regalia – and in doing so align themselves with the horrors visited on adults and children alike, despite QAnon using the fictitious pizzagate child abuse conspiracy as a recruitment tool.
The message seems to be that Nazi concentration camps were either invented or the children abused and murdered on an industrial scale somehow don’t count (viz the detestable ‘Camp Auschwitz’ shirt and Nazi symbolism worn by the insurrectionists).
However, invent a child abuse scandal now 100% discredited involving Satan and Hilary Clinton, and crying people will take to the streets holding signs about pizza parlours and baby-eaters while sporting a swastika tattoo.
These people don’t seem aware Trump did all he could to catch teen beauty queens naked at his pageants, or that he’s accused of many cases of sexual assault. There is no logic, no joined up thinking.
These echo chambers that sprang up following Q Anon’s overdue defenestration from Twitter, YouTube, Facebook reinforce the camaraderie, the anger of these misfits. They goad each other into more and more extreme views and actions. Something needs to be done.
As I am writing, Reuters confirmed that the mob intended to ‘capture and assassinate’ members of Congress. We must find, arrest, try every single one of these people.
Enacting laws concerning hate speech – like the UN and many countries have will help stop the abuse which has led to violence throughout this country’s history.
This is nothing to do with freedom of speech. The right to free speech has many exemptions. The founding fathers foresaw some of the potential future misuses – but none of them can have dreamed of it being used to remind Jewish people of the horrors of Auschwitz.
Trump spurred me to try to ban him from the UK under our hate speech laws. As a New Yorker living in Aberdeen, watching this man being treated as a star made me feel ill.
I knew of his discriminatory policies, his greed, his xenophobia. I didn’t care if I looked like a fool. Over 586,000 people agreed with me and we got a debate.
Who knows? We might even have got the Home Secretary to apply the law to a billionaire that had already been applied to more than 100 other hatemongers.
In the end, the night before the debate, MP Paul Flynn, slated to chair the debate decided to call the press to slate my petition (without letting me know he was doing so). ‘We might make Trump a martyr’ he told me. Parliament did deliver a good smackdown – but the Home Secretary did not apply the law to Trump.
JK Rowling made a joke about the petition at a New York literary gathering.
I was invited to write a riposte piece, and I did so, even knowing all of Harry Potter fandom would attack me to support her. I wonder if she sees the difference between hate speech and free speech now; I’d like to hope so, having been the target of hate speech herself of late.
What I didn’t get is that in her books the magical government was being taken over and most people were afraid to stand up to the spread of hate speech, but there you go.
Every time someone flies a confederate flag; every town that has a memorial to a civil war figure who tried to preserve slavery is a declaration of hate to black citizens from white supremacists. Every glorification of those who slaughtered Native Americans is a hate crime. I can’t shake the feeling that while all this division rages, the billionaires are laughing at the rest of us.
Billionaires like Trump (wherever his money is actually coming from; happily, there are signs it may be drying up).
If a Native American child or an African American child cannot wear their hair in a way reflective of their culture in school, then why are we letting people wave symbols celebrating slavery or concentration camps in gestures designed to intimidate and provoke fear and anger? I don’t understand.
The speech turns to violence, and these symbols have power.
If anyone wants to cry how unfair it is Trump’s been removed from social media for repeated rule breaking, fake news and hate speech, think again. He’s deliberately gagged people with lawsuits, confidentiality agreements (even extending to cooks in Scotland) and used his massive press connections to mock and ridicule opponents from Biden through to farmer Michael Forbes.
Can we please make Justice blind again?
Some of the argument against doing so aside from Flynn’s Chamberlain-esque appeasement was ‘Trump may be president someday’.
This alarming use of future potential is seen in America, where it gets many privileged white male offenders released from serious charges eg Brock Turner.
What if we had banned him from the UK? Would the GOP still have seen him as being presidential material? Perhaps not. Would things have been worse had the UK banned Trump? Worse how? – I’d like to know.
We’re seeing more flawed illogic applied to the insurrectionists by their sympathisers in the GOP: ‘Don’t impeach Trump, it may make insurrectionists angry’.
They are already angry. And armed. The law is not supposed to care how rich you are or if applying the law equally to all will make white supremacists angry.
The self-styled shaman is being given the organic meals in prion he demanded because of his ‘religion’. Meanwhile, as noted by various Native American groups, when Native people wind up in US jails, they are absolutely laughed at and ignored.
Symbols of hate belong in the trashcan.
The confederate flag shows the bearer approves of slavery, and wants it back.
Statues of confederate generals towering over parks and town centres show deference to the people who tried to preserve slavery and contempt for descendants of slaves.
A swastika patch or tattoo, or a ‘Camp Auschwitz’ shirt shows the world the bearer hates everyone who’s not a Nazi.
A MAGA hat suggests the wearer wants to ‘Make America Great Again’. It shows support for a KKK-endorsed white supremacist who ridicules minorities and incites violence against virtually everyone who is not a white male. It is the symbol of the Trump rally, a sign you would suspend your logic and values (if any) to be part of a mob.
The far right, the conspiracy believer, etc have also commandeered symbols of the crusaders, arcane symbols and invented symbols. This is all part of the ‘I need to be in a crowd and be one of the mob’ mentality we saw running through the Capitol.
Can we chuck these and other such inflammatory, hate-provoking emblems now? Other countries have.
We don’t need miseducation.
If there were a better, balanced system of education that also taught tolerance and life skills (I mean, we even have people who now believe you can fall of the edge of our flat world), we would all be better off.
It would not be so easy to convince people that Bill Gates is a reptile from another dimension who is trying to forcibly inject nanobots and trackers by unleashing a fake virus scare.
When I was in school, I remember ages devoted to names and dates of the Revolutionary War. About a quarter of that amount of time was spent on the history and culture of the rest of the world. Mistake. It was later I learned of the atrocities committed against Native Americans (including by Lincoln) and slavery.
When we studied slavery in school – and this I remember to my dying day: we read two different accounts of women who had been plantation slaves.
One was entitled ‘Lordy Them was Awful Days’ and she told of being whipped and salt being rubbed in her wounds. The other woman said slavery wasn’t so bad: I kid you not. And then we moved on.
It was as if every coin has two sides – a flaw seen in current day news reporting.
Slavery does not have another side. We also had in our textbooks the horrific photos of lynched black Americans, with white people standing under them socializing. Did my teacher explain how horrific this was? If so, their words are lost on me though that photo remains burned in my head.
Do the confederate flag-wavers even know what the reality was for so many? Do they even want to? A better, complete education that shows America’s many flaws could help. Teach logic, how to frame arguments, critical thinking, and how not to be a racist.
What are we going to do today? Pending violence.
As mentioned, I’ve been going on these twisted far-right sites to see what is going on. These people do think, as reported in the news, that Trump wants more violence and has sent secret messages to QAnon in his latest word salad of a speech.
They and others point to his saying ‘I cannot emphasise that there must be no violence…’ as a call to arms.
With Trump having established that he is barely literate, we don’t know what he actually meant. Hilariously, he says he can never condone violence, despite having called for violence on many occasions.
However, the conspiracy theory force is strong with these insurrectionists.
Some claim he tapped out in Morse Code the letter ‘Q’. Really? The man can’t spell ‘coffee’.
These people are looking for signs. If you look for signs, the brain will find them even where they don’t exist. A decent education could have taught the ‘I saw the Virgin Mary in my slice of toast’ brigade how the mind works to create images and patterns, but there you go.
These people want a violent, bloody revolution. They want to take over America. They are using internet sites to make their plans. Many of them are police and/or former armed forces members (we need a Venn diagram of white supremacists who have been in the police and who have needlessly killed non-white suspects).
Some of their helpers are congresspeople. They cannot win, but they can certainly harm and kill.
Ignoring them and hoping they will disappear is not an option. I am not an expert, but I think my suggestions have some merit for the future. The present needs to be the focus now.
In my opinion, we need to: immediately declare QAnon, the KKK, other hate groups terrorist organisations and remove terrorism supporters from Congress. Any congressperson/police officer who gave the insurrectionists help must be removed from office and charged.
No one gets into Congress without going through the metal detector. No guns get into Congress.
Every single insurrectionist from Trump down to the last one needs to be charged with all applicable charge from sedition and insurrection through destroying federal property.
We need to shore up what the 1st and 2nd Amendments mean.
We need to change the laws so there are no more Kyle Rittenhouses.
Anyone who is in QAnon or the KKK is not fit to be in law enforcement or law-making, and needs to be removed from office. We need more scrutiny of how these ideas are getting into the heads of the violent, and address the root causes (extremist evangelism, poverty, poor education etc).
We cannot just forget this happened and heal without cleaning up the source of infection and getting rid of the poison. We need to have Biden and Harris stabilize our country and Make Hate Hateful Again.
Unfortunately, we need to do this about 80 years ago at a minimum. But let’s start today.
- Comments enabled – see comments box below. Note, all comments will be moderated.
A Night At The Museum Storybook Glen.
Continuing a tradition stretching back nine years, Aberdeen Voice presents Suzanne Kelly’s annual Christmas-time satire covering the vibrant and dynamic goings-on in The Deen, the shire and the wider world.
Courtesy of Universal Credit, the acclaimed petrochemical engineer was ‘retraining’ as a security guard.
He was at a wooden bus stop waiting for his bus to Story Book Glen. Nearby hung a poster – ‘Fatima’s Next Job Could Be in Cyber, Only She Doesn’t Know It Yet’ read the kindly, helpful advert, featuring a ballet dancer who obviously should give up her dancing to become a government computer spy.
If Angus got lucky, he too might be retrained in cyber. But first, he had to prove himself to Universal Credit to get that £80 a week payment. His bus arrived after an hour or so, and off he went.
It was getting dark as he got off the No. C-19 bus on the outskirts of The Deen; the city lights were coming on, showing how vibrant and dynamic the city looked. From afar.
Wandering through the Maryculter streets he arrived at his work placement. ‘WELCOME TO STORYBOOK GLEN – no dogs allowed’ read the sign at the entrance, where a man sat waiting for him. There was a papier mache castle wall with an archway; it was as pretty and as well built as any of the Barratt Homes he’d been walking past.
The little old man, smelling a bit like Buckfast Angus thought, thrust a flashlight and some keys into his hands.
“Hullo! Ye must be thon work experience loon, Aye? Weel, welcome tae Storybook Glen,” he said, gesticulating around him as the sun continued to sink.
“Ere’s yer keys.”
The wizened old man led Angus to a little wooden hut; in it were a wooden chair by a solitary window, a tiny fridge, and a heater. Before they went in, Angus looked around and in the distance he could see the figures of several nursery rhyme characters as the sun continued sinking, like the feeling in his stomach.
“Did ye tak yer passport like we tellt ye tae?” the man asked; he seemed a little tipsy.
“Sure, have it here.” Angus replied, assuming it was needed for tax or ID purposes.
“Good, good – keep it on ye fer noo. Noo ye micht get some tresspassers; some n’eer do wells were through the ither year, paintin punk rock slogans on oor statues – caused a fair stooshie,” the man warned.
“Aa ye hae tae dae is tak a walkie roon’ noo an again, an hit onyhin ye see o’er the heid wi yer flashy, ken? And bide oot o’ trouble!”
‘What trouble could I possibly get into around here?,’ wondered Angus ‘this will be a boring but easy way to earn ma minimum hourly wage so I can pay my council tax off soon.’
The man thrust a paper bag with a bottle in it into Angus’ hand.
“Noo, fae time tae time ye micht hear some funny stuff gan on, aye, and see even funnier stuff” said the old man.
“Tak a scoof ‘o this an’ athin will be fine. There’s some o’ ma homemade mushroom pate in tha fridge along with half a bottle o’ Fred Wilkinson’s Tullos Hill Red – help yersel. Ahm awa noo; see ye in the mornin’ – if ye’re still aboot.”
And laughing to himself, the little old man hobbled away through the fake castle entrance away from Storybook Glen and out of sight.
An owl hooted. Angus looked in the bag at a bottle that read ‘Tactical Nuclear Penguin.’ ‘Ah fine; this job will be a breeze’ he thought, and with that he set himself down in the chair in the tiny guard’s booth. He helped himself to the amazingly delicious homemade wine and pate, had a swig of Penguin, and started to doze off.
* * * *
Angus woke with a start some hours later; the owl hooted. He shivered and got up to turn on the space heater. As he turned to go back to his chair, his eyes glanced at the window and he froze.
Looking back in on him were a pair of giant reptilian eyes. He dared not move.
Angus blinked, but when he looked again, the thing was still there, and was trying to open the door to the guard hut.
It had a round face. It looked like – but no it couldn’t be –
“Onywye. Fit Like? Ah’m Barney” the thing said. It stood in the threshold now; a giant lizard that looked like –
“You’re Barney. Barney the -the-“ Angus stammered lost for words
“Dinosaur, aye, it’s often been said” said the beast with a chuckle an swish of its tail.
Grabbing Angus by the arm (Angus had just enough time to grab his flashlight and bottle) Barney took Angus out of the hut. An eerie green glow illuminated Storybook Glen now, and Angus could see Barney was wearing a chain of office.
“You’re a talking dinosaur. You’re Barney the dinosaur. And – you’re purple – how is this possible?”
“Why am I purple? Well, when ye start oot as Labour, but form a coalition with the Tories, the red and the blue get a bittie mixed up, and ye get purple.”
(Angus had actually meant how had a Barney the Dinosaur statue started walking and talking).
“Weel ma loon, let ma lead ye doon the Storybook Glen gerden path and Ah’ll tell you aa ye need tae ken, and introduce ye to the rest o’ us.”
“Rest of you?” Angus repeated weakly as Barney led him away from the hut.
* * * *
“Ye’re here on an affa special nicht” Barney said, elated.
“Ye ken, Storybook Glen Cooncil has won nae jist ane, but twa awards! The hale o the Glen is celebratin’ the nicht!”
Angus was being led down the garden path. Soon they came to a 6’ high wooden soldier which stood at tollhouse.
“HALT! Who goes there?” Demanded the soldier; it had very red cheeks and a mop of blonde hair.
“Passports out! Non-Storybook Glen characters this way – take off your shoes, belt, coat, take any computers out of bags, only one flagon of mead per person do you have any cigarettes to declare –”
“Ah Boris, it’s me – Barney,” the purple dinosaur laughed at the guard.
“We surely dinna hae tae go through aa that, div we? This is ma new pal Angus, oor new security guard.”
“Well OK then,” said Boris.
“I’m a tough negotiator.”
And Barney and Angus were waived past the checkpoint.
“Bleeping ~&!!&! bleep!”
Barney and Angus were approaching what looked like 4 tiny yellow cars driving around in a circle. Elves driving them were waving their fists, honking their horns and shouting at the other drivers.
“It’s a one wye system ya bamstick!”
“Ah’m only gan one way ya gluepot!” shouted another elf
An older elf was in her yellow car sobbing;
“Ah jist wanted tae dae ma shoppin’; I canna go a bike or walk, ken? Aa thon one wye signs hiv me gan roon in circles fer oors! Ah jis want tae ging hame!”
And sure enough, the little path they were on was covered with one-way signs, do not enter signs, and a sign which read ‘Storybook Glen Fun Beach next left. No left turn’. Dotted around were wooden bus stops and 136 wooden benches.
Barney puffed out his Devonian-era chest and said:
“Storybook Glen may yet win anither award for this An’ aa. Ah’m richt prood. Ess is how we fecht the dreaded plague here in the Glen. We canna hae fowk jis drivin intae toon an’ parkin’ cars tae ging intae shops; it’s nae safe. Abody should be on bikes. An’ it’s only cost £1.76 million pieces o’ gold tae get it sortit oot.”
Angus took a swig.
“Do you ride a bicycle then?” asked Angus, feeling sure Barney could not manage such a feat – knowing there were many others who could not either.
“Oh aye, yer yer a funny guy, eh?” Barney replied nodding his head,
“Me on a bike? Are ye wise min? Ah’ve got ma ain Barneymobile wi’ a chauffeur.”
Barney pointed to a large marquee in the distance; it was lit up, as were its customers apparently; the shouting and carrying on could be heard faintly on the air.
“At’s far we’re heidin,” said Barney, dragging an unwilling Angus along,
“Jist one mair stop tae mak.”
Heading down the path, Angus could make out in the green glowing light which filled the glen one brick house, a wooden house, and a big pile of straw.
“That’s …. surely not?” Angus stammered, seeing three little pigs; two were patting a sobbing pig on the back. Angus took another swig.
“Aye, yer richt enough. Come an’ meet some o’ ma constituents, The Three Little Pigs.” Barney replied, anticipating Angus’ question.
Wordlessly Barney and Angus now stood in front of the pigs. The sobbing pig looked up at Angus
“Stewart Milne Home, eh?” Angus commiserated and the pigs nodded.
“Come on an’ hae a drink lads, it’ll gee ye up a bittie” Barney said to the pigs, who immediately perked up.
And soon Angus, Barney and the three little perky pigs were heading to the giant marquee.
Angus could barely hear Barney, who was telling story after story, as a terrible din rose from the marquee, which Angus soon realised was a big beer tent. A huge roar went up; Angus peered inside.
The place was filled with storybook characters brought to life; swigging flagons of ale, Jaegerbombs, and Buckfast. There were banshees screeching; elves dancing on tables, screaming, laughing and hugging. Above hung a sign saying ‘Welcome to the Seven Dwarves Incorporated Trades of Storybook Glen Annual beer tent – An Inspired idea’
Dwarves mixed with trolls and witches; in a corner sat Little Jack Horner, eating a Christmas pie. Angus swore he’d never drink again as he took another swig of the Tactical Nuclear Penguin.
Beer flowed, shouts were heard, everyone hugged one another. Barney took Angus by the shoulder and they entered the crowded tent. A witch at a table stopped them at the entrance.
“Good evening. Do you have reservations?”
‘Quite a few’ thought Angus.
“No” answered Barney.
“Good – I hate all that red tape.” Answered the witch.
“Are you in a bubble?” she demanded.
“Course Ah am, Ah’m wi’ the Cooncil.”
Barney and the witch both laughed.
“Right then, have a great time, social distance or wear a mask if you feel like it, and hug the nearest strangers if there is a goal scored in the football match on the telly.
“We canna stop ye daein ‘at can we, ken?” She said, forgetting herself and lapsing into her default Doric.
Passing it off as humour to hide her embarrassment, she continued in her adopted, more ‘professional’ tone:
“We close at the stroke of midnight, except if we don’t. The big award ceremony celebration starts at 11”
“Come an’ meet some o’ ma fella cooncillors.” Barney said.
“Sit doon an’ A’ll get the drinks in – nah, dinna sit there –“ Barney said, grabbing Angus away from a tall bald man and plonking him in a chair next to a man in a suit.
Angus was introduced to him as being Wee Willie Wilkie.
Angus took another swig of his Penguin. And with that Barney started to make his way through the throng to the bar, using his tail to sweep the crowd out of his way. Angus was left at the table. ‘I am definitely asking for a pay rise’ he thought, taking another sip of Penguin.
“An then –” cackled the bald man,
“then when Ah wez on me holidays, Ah got them te gissies another suspension!”
He leaned forward on the table, and the others laughed and nodded approvingly.
“An then…” he continued, hushing the approving chuckles of agreement.
“Then Ah got them te postpone the hearing fre a furtha month. Another month on the payroll!”
He nodded confidently and the others smiled and cheered.
“What’s all that about?” asked Angus to no one in particular as the bald speaker polished off flagon after flagon of wine.
Wee Willie answered him.
“That’s Donnelly Wonnelly Puddin and Pies. He assaults the unwilling and always denies.
“He gets away with lots of things – like taking sex offenders fer drinks in shady bars in STorrybook toon, and taking cash fer upgradin passengers tae first class on Thomas the Tank engine trips an keeping their gold.
“Nothing touches him, he doesn’t even get his wrist slapped, and if he does get into trouble, the judges say ‘it’s just a one off’ or ‘it didn’t seem like an assault to me’, and away he goes on holidays. Unlike poor me.”
Angus felt revolted and was glad Barney stopped him from sitting next to Donnelly. Donnelly Wonnelly continued:
“Aye man, but get this,” he threw back his head howling with laughter,
“then at the hearing the convener sez the assault wez ‘a one off!!’”
The whole table – except Angus – erupted in laughter and they clinked their glasses and toasted Donnely Wonnelly.
Wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, Donnelly addressed Wee Willie,
“Ahm sorry aald mate, Ah divvent mean te celebrate me victories when Ah knaa yee hev yer problems. or should Ah syah ‘Wall te Wall’ problems!”
Everyone at the table laughed again – except Wee Willie and Angus. Willie shook his head and sighed.
At that several eyes silently met each other around the table, almost as if they didn’t believe Gertie was responsible.
“Yes, go on, laugh if you must. But it was not as easy as you might think to remember whether I owned the wall, whether I didn’t own the wall, whether I owned the wall with the wife, whether the city owned the wall, or me or my da or-“ Willie stammered
“Aye,” interrupted Barney, who was back with drinks, plonking a steaming tankard of something or other in front of Angus.
“Some of’ us drink tae ferget; but Wee Willie, you dinna need ony help at aa, div ye? How’s the amnesia? Cleared up noo?”
A few at the table laughed; Willie blushed.
“Dinna worry yersel aboot it Willie; that’s aa fergotten”.
“Handy though that ye didnae hae to pay 200,000 pieces o’ gold tae get it fixed. But this ither business needs tae blaw ower, then ye can come back in aboot the body o’ the kirk.”
“What has to blow over, Barney?” asked Willie,
“You mean when I told the peasants we had to build Marischal Square Castle or that they would have to pay a billion pieces of eight in penalty?”
“Nah, nae thon” said Barney.
“Ye mean that I’m in the Labour party but support the Tories?” asked Willie.
“Nah, ‘at’s nithin; hisna stopped the rest o’ us.”
The table laughed.
“You mean when I didn’t know who owned that wall but I gave verbal permission for the repairs, that I sent and got emails aboot it using my council email and held meetings in my council office aboot it?
“Maybe you mean when I accidentally leaked some information about yon Marischal Sq? Or-”
“No Willie – Abody likes to mix a wee bit o’ business wi’ council business” said Barney
“Ah mean this fortune cookie Covid-19 racist cairry on. We hae tae hing fire til ‘at aa blaws ower. Ahm thinkin we’ll get oor pals at Inspired tae dae some’hin in the Storybook Glen Press. Gie fowk some’hin else tae spik aboot. Mibbee some good news aboot the ‘Inspired indoor Christmas fayre’.
“We’ll hae thoosans o’ fowk come in aboot tae shop – and they’ll be gled we stopped them gan intae aa the wee shoppies. Some’hin’ lik ‘at. But dinna worry Wee Willie; anither wikk or twa, and it’ll be aa business as usual again.”
Everyone at the table chatted to each other, growing increasingly drunk. Angus, who was feeling somewhat left out of the conversation, decided he really wanted to do the rest of his security guard rounds – and to get some fresh air out of the stifling, noisy, crowded tent.
After he finished whatever was in his tankard that is. Soon he was ready to go, but feeling somewhat worse for wear.
“Barney, ladies an gents; I really must go do my rounds” Angus said.
“Maybe I’ll be back here though before closing time.”
“Cinderella will arrive around 11pm; myek sure yee are heor fre tha – she’s got summat ta celebrate – we’ve won awards – and that’s why so many of weh are oot the neet – though Ahm not heor in me official capacity, yee knaa” said Donnelly, and the table laughed.
Angus got up, wove his way out of the crowd, and found himself in the night air once more. He had another hit of Penguin. Somewhere an owl hooted.
* * * *
Angus felt dazed; ‘Well, at least things can’t get any stranger’ he prematurely told himself as he wandered down a further path.
He heard a whirring noise, and stumbling towards it, found himself face to face with an imp hard at work on a spinning wheel. On the creature’s left was a huge pile of sh*te and straw which he placed on the spinning wheel; on the right was a tiny pile of gold, falling from the wheel. There was also a giant pile of books.
“I’ll bet ye canna guess ma name!” The creature said in a smug, satisfied conceited manner.
“Err, yer Damian Bates, disgraced news editor who used his job to further his wife’s business aspirations.”
“”$!”%!!! ye little sh*te” said the outraged creature,
“I’ve rebranded! I’m Trumplestiltskin!” said the thing angrily, spinning harder than ever.
Angus picked up a book; the cover read ‘Shirk in Scotland: Thon Real Deal, Ken’; over it was a sticker saying ‘SALE NOW ON: ONLY 1 GROAT OR 2 EGGS’
“Ah’m a Spin Doctor! If aince on a blue moon Shirk says or daes some’hin’ that could be taen the wrang wye, it’s ma job tae spin his sh*te intae gold.
“Like, fan Shirk cages immigrant bairns -he micht be cooking them fer aa I ken- I spin for him an’ tell fowk that nasty trolls fae abroad are tryin tae sneak intae Storybook Glen.
“Hiv ye nae read any o’ the stories I wrote aboot fit a topper o’ a boy Shirk is? Did ye nae hear aboot thon time he rearranged some o’ his paintins in Turnberry Glen Castle? Amazin! Fit a guy!
“Anither time, he tellt me personally – he likes eatin ornery grub like hamberders and cofvefee! Can ye believe Ah got these amazing insights! I really ken the loon! He’s ane o’ wer ain, ken?
“Ah’m ees best pal! Lik Brithers! He took me tae farawa lands in a flying machine aince.
“Ah hae a Ferrari. Ye needin a copy o’ ma book? It’s chock-a-block wi smashin stories lik thon. A could gie ye a signed copy fer jist one egg if –“
“Wait a minute” Angus interrupted “Just who is this Shirk guy?”
The imp was astonished and stopped his monologue. Jaw dropping, he said:
“Well if ye dinna ken, jis follae the path on the richt. Tak a far richt turn, an’ hud gan as far tae the richt as ye can. Ye’ll find Shirk. He’s wi ma bonny wife richt noo – She’s ca’d ‘Fee-earner’. Just tell them Ah sint ye!
“Then I ken ye’ll be back ta buy ma book!”
Angus, feeling a desire to be away from the imp, made his excuses and headed away down the right-leading path, taking one further swig of Penguin from the now half-full bottle.
After a time, Angus saw a clearing up ahead on the extreme right. As he got closer, he heard bellowing- then a golf ball whizzed past his ears.
“ANOTHER HOLE IN ONE FOR ME, FEE-EARNER – I’M MAKING GOLF GREAT AGAIN!”
An enormous ogre stood in a golf swing pose.
Its skin was bright orange with bright pink lips on a misshapen mouth.
White circles were around its beady black eyes.
It was as wide in the stomach as it was tall.
Before Angus could recover himself, an ear-splitting shriek went out, and an ogress grabbed Angus by the arm.
“EEEEK! FA ARE YOU?” the ogress shouted.
“FIT YE DAEIN HERE? ARE YE FAE THE PAPERS? THEY’RE AA OOT TAE GET ME AN SHIRK, KEN? AND IT’S NAE FAIR!”
She had brown hair teased up into a ridiculous do, wore impossibly high heels, which kept sinking into the grass, and from her shoulder hung a banner which read ‘FACE OF THE GLEN – 2010.’
Angus found himself dragged in front of the Ogre, who wore a red baseball hat with the initials MSGGA.
“Look fit ah’ve foon, Shirk” she said to the golfing ogre.
“WHO IS THIS GUY? WHADDYA WANT? AN AUTOGRAPH? A MSGGA HAT? GONNA VOTE FOR ME AGAINST THOSE COMMIES?” it bellowed.
“Er, my name is Angus, and some guy named Trumplestiltskin told me I should come and say hello.”
“WHO? OH YOU MEAN FEE-EARNER’S HUSBAND, THAT WRITER GUY -WHAT’S-HIS-NAME. HE BETTER BE SPINNING ME SOME GOLD.”
“Aye, too richt boss”, crooned the ogress, pointing to her oversized feet spilling out of her high-heels,
“Thon ‘Jimmy Choomaker and the Elves shoes’ dinna come cheap.”
Angus’ curiosity got the better of him, and taking a swig from the bottle in his tightly-clutched paper bag asked:
“Why de they call ye ‘Shirk’?”
“BEATS ME!” Bellowed the ogre, lining up another golfball
“SOME PEOPLE HAVE NO IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO BE AN OGRE. SOMETIMES THEY EVEN WANT ME TO LISTEN TO SECURITY BRIEFINGS. DON’T THEY KNOW I’M BUSY? DID YOU WATCH FOX LAST NIGHT?” he asked while swinging at the ball, which flew off into the sky,
“ANOTHER GREAT SHOT! MAKE GOLF GREAT AGAIN! MAKE STORYBOOK GLEN GREAT AGAIN! MAKE ME A HAMBERDER FEE-EARNER!”
Angus felt a strong desire to get away, but what to his wondering eyes did appear but Santa Claus, a team of reindeer pulling his flying sled, which landed on the edges of the clearing.
Santa was not what Angus expected: he was tall and thin, and looked a bit like Sir Ian. Santa approached.
“Shirk, wonderful to see you again, and you too Fee-earner. I’ve got a few presents for you,” Santa said, pulling some brown envelopes out of his sack.
“Ah, just look at all these trees, glens and glades.” Santa smiled, waving his hand towards the trees and a sand bank.
“Isn’t it a pity” said Santa slowly,
“that the Sandman no longer has environmental protection on his sand dunes? Who could have seen that coming?”
“Between that ‘unfortunate’ loss of protection, my connections and your, errr, obvious charisma, this will all be Stewart Milne homes before you can say ‘Jack Swinney be Nimble’.”
“THANKS SANTA! THIS IS MUCH BETTER THAN THAT DIPLOMA THINGY YOU TRIED TO GIVE ME A FEW YEARS AGO. DID YOU BRING ME ANY KFC? HUNGRY!”
“Yes, well. I wanted to-” but before Santa could finish his thought, shots rang out from several directions.
Donner and Blitzen fell over dead in their tracks. Dasher was wounded. Angus took a big sip.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” said a little donkey clutching an AK47, “Daddy I killed them! I’m a hunter daddy, a big scary macho hunter!”
“JUNIOR, THAT’S NICE NOW RUN ALONG AND PLAY, DADDY’S BUSY.” Said Shirk as his son, the ass, who was visibly crestfallen, “NOW THERE’S A GOOD BOY, GO RUN ALONG AND MAYBE FIND SOME SHEEP YOU CAN SHOOT TOO.”
“I got one! Kill! I got one! A Tree for every citizen! Kill!” Another hunter emerged from the glen. She was a tiny little witch with a pointed hat.
“Damn those deer! They eat plants! Kill! Kill!”
“JUNIOR, TAKE YOUR FRIEND AILEEN MALICE WITH YOU AND GO KILL STUFF SOMEWHERE ELSE, I’M BUSY”
Shirk dismissed the pair who wandered off together. Soon other shots rang out as the pair disappeared into the trees.
“Don’t worry about those deer” said Santa coldly,
“No one is irreplaceable. I’ll just be off now though, plenty of ‘gifts’ to be delivered at the Awards Ceremony, not least to the people behind the Storybook Glen incinerator and the Storybook Glen harbour expansion. Shouldn’t we all be heading there now?”
And as everyone always obeys Santa, off they headed back to the beer tent. Angus had some Penguin.
* * * *
Shirk, Fee-earner and Santa all headed back down the path towards the beer tent. Angus followed behind.
“PSST!” Angus heard a voice,
“Come here fer a second”
Angus found himself face to face with three fish. What three 2-metre-long fish were doing in this place he had no idea.
“Ye must be the new security guard” said the first fish.
“Ok, I’ll bite – who are you?” Angus asked.
“Ye see we’re actually the legendary Black Fish. Ye ken? – fish that were caught and landit, but nivver declared tae the Storybook Glen tax mannie. A big ‘net profit’ ye micht surmise. There wis heaps o’ gold in that back in the day.”
“Still is” said the second fish.
“T’wis the Crookit Man fa steert thon up, Ah’m tellin ye.” said the third fish, which inexplicably wore a bowler hat.
“Them fa land black fish ayewis say it’s by accident – but we ken it’s daen on porpoise.”
Angus, who found himself transported from Universal Credit minimum wage security guard to grown man talking to three giant hat-wearing talking fish who was about to catch up with ogres and Santa, found himself finally lost for words. He had another swig from his bottle.
“Ye ken the story” said the first fish: “There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile? That guy. Affa fishy indeed.”
“Need tae watch thon crooked mannie lik a hake” said the second fish “He’ll come bearing gifts an’ acting like yer best pal. Ye’ll fa’ for him hook, line an’ sinker if ye dinna look oot.”
“Aye,” said the second fish, “he stitched ma mate up like a kipper.”
“What’s your names?” asked Angus.
“Ah’m Gil” said the first fish.
“And this is Finn, an’ Ray.”
“Well, thanks for the warning and all, but I think I need to go get a drink.”
“Sorry we canna jine ye.”said Finn.
“Gil drinks like a fish, an we’ve aa been barred. Thinks he’s the life and sole o’ the party.”
“Always legless” said Ray,
“And Ah dinna like pubs; Ah aye feel oot o’ plaice – lik a fish oot o water.”
Angus, who feared he had a haddock coming on, had had enough.
“Bye then chaps; I’d best get my skates on. Bigger fish to fry. Sea you later.”
“Whale meet again!” chimed the three fish.
And off Angus hurried to catch up with Shirk and his party, taking a quick sip from his bottle on the way.
* * * *
The Seven Incorporated Dwarves tent was heaving. A space had been cleared in the middle of the tent when Angus arrived. His friend Barney sidled up to him and thrust a further tankard of drink into his hands.
“Been haein a fun wi Shirk an’ Suntie Claas Ah hear” smiled Barney, who was now clutching a brown envelope.
In fact Santa was working the room, handing out brown envelopes large and small. Just then, to Angus’ astonishment, Santa pulled off his beard, which had been a disguise, and his Santa hat. He put on a tall, black hat, which was crooked.
“The crooked man” muttered Angus to himself.
“What wez tha, Angus?” asked Donnelly Wonnelly tucking something into his suit jacket pocket.
“Er nothing. I-“
But Donnelly wasn’t listening and a sudden blast of trumpets made even the drunken revellers hush.
“Ladies, Gentlemen an’ Cooncillors” Barney addressed the room; he was now in a spotlight talking on a mic.
“Here she comes noo; the fairest in aa the land: Give it up fer SNOOOOW WHITE!”
A hush fell over the room as Snow White glided to the centre of the room.
‘She looks just like Melania Trump’ Angus thought, although he didn’t recognise her at first with so much clothes on.
“Ladeees and Gentlemen. I am Snow White. Whiter than White. White Power. Obama he had never been born – no birth certificate. My husband Shirk is going to make Storybook Glen Great again! Be best!”
Huge cheers rang out in the tent. She continued, but it was clear she was a bit tipsy. Suddenly as Shirk tried to take her hand, her mood changed abruptly.
“I really don’t care do you? F Christmas! Who gives a F about Christmas! I-“ Snow White growled, as she was suddenly being dragged away by footmen.
“I have more to say! I am brilliant like Shirk! I have Epstein Visa!” she bellowed as they took her away.
Barney swiftly recovered the event.
“OK, Movin richt along noo, here she is: oor ain Cinderella, an’ AWARD-WINNING COUNCILLOR OF THE YEAR! Welcome Jeanny Ling!”
The crowd shouted wildly and applauded as a pumpkin coach drawn by six hydrogen-powered cars pulled up next to Barney, who helped the beautiful award-winning Cinderella out.
“Well, this is the best thing that has ever, ever happened!”
“I WON! I won an award as best councillor!”
The crowds chanted ‘Jea-nny! Jea-nny! Jea-nny!’ as she held the shining golden trophy aloft.
“Ah micht nae be Labour richt noo, but Ah’m an AWARD WINNER!” Jeanny told her admirers,
“Aye, thon prestigious, fee-charging, private thinktank, the LGIU decidit to mak me – ME! The top cooncillor!”
Barney handed her a bouquet of flowers; Angus thought he saw a bulging brown envelope inside of it.
“Tae show oor gratitude, Ahm hopin ma fella Storybook Glen cooncillors will be a-signing up fer some o’ the LGIU’s braw workshops – there’s a bargain course ‘how to deal with difficult people’ for jist 540 pieces o’ eight. Some o’ ye micht need ‘at if yev hid ony doins wi Donnelly Wonnelly or Wee Willie!”
The crowd guffawed except Wee Willie, who was busy live-tweeting the event, pretending not to notice the slight.
Angus started to have his doubts about the integrity of his new-found pals.
“Ah hope ye’ve aa got yer memberships; maybe cometime ye’ll win an AWARD as weel – jis think foo happy the peasants will feel aboot ‘at – or think they feel, Ah should say. Costs Storybook Toon Cooncil next tae ni’hin for the annual membership fees – but we canna tell ye foo muckle.”
“And this prestigious LGIU award is sponsored by CCLA. And fit’s the CCLA?” Jeanny trilled,
“A charitable investment fund! AND..” she waited for cheers to die down.
“Last year CCLA had a turnower o’ 33 million gold coins!”
The applause was thunderous; streamers and balloons fell from the sky. Brown envelopes were flying like confetti. The Crooked Man had left the Santa suit he’d been wearing across a table; he was now talking to a few men in suits.
Angus felt a touch on his arm. It was the witch from the table at the doorway.
“Here dearie,” she crooned,
“Ye look a wee bit peaky. I’ve something tae mak ye feel better.”
“Is it a magic potion?” Angus asked.
“Well, dearie in a wye it is” and she pressed a small but thick brown envelope into his hand.
“Time ye wis back doon tae yer guardhoose.”
She snapped her fingers.
* * * *
With a jolt Angus was awake. The sun was coming up.
Next to him on the desk was the now-empty dish of home-made mushroom pate and the empty wine bottle. There was still a slug of Penguin left.
The old man who’d helped him last night was knocking on the window of the guard hut; his face was beaming.
“Ony bother last nicht?”
Angus took a few moments to recover his senses.
“Err, all fine last night, nothing to report.”
“Smashin,” said the man with a twinkle in his eye.
“Morn’s nicht again then, Aye?”
“Err.. sure” said Angus, gathering his things.
“Mind if I take the rest of this Penguin with me? I’ll bring you some ‘Sink the Bismarck’ tomorrow.”
“Ach, ‘at would be affa good o’ ye”. said the man patting Angus on the shoulder.
“Ah think me an’ you’s gan tae get on jist rare.”
Angus turned to leave and was walking away when the old man caught his arm.
“Ye fergot this, pal.” said the old man, and he thrust a brown envelope at Angus, who swiftly put it in his inside pocket.
Angus took a further swig from the bottle, patted the envelope through his jacket and headed to find the bus back home. Somewhere a sleepy owl hooted.
* * * *
From Aberdeen Voice, Old Susannah, and the fictitious, unrelated to any plaice, place, person or persons, Storybook Glen and its fake inhabitants – MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY 2021, and Good Health! Wear a mask.
- Comments enabled – see comments box below. Note, all comments will be moderated.
By Suzanne Kelly.
Tally ho! Lockdown is bringing out the best in people; I’m getting more email than ever from lawyers of dead relatives in the Gabon and Bolivia than I never heard of, all wanting to give me money.
This is particularly heartwarming, as I’ve been singled out from the scores of relatives we apparently share in common.
All I need to do is reply with my personal details and a few hundred pounds and they’ll wire me millions. What a great thing the internet is.
Along with these generous offers I have email from people like ‘Claudia Hayman’ who emails saying I must pay her invoices immediately.
There is usually a ‘PAY NOW’ comment in Claudia’s subject line, and an invoice number – which means it’s genuine.
Funny though, she never says what service or item she’s invoicing me for, and Old Susannah must be getting forgetful, as I have absolutely no recollection of buying anything from her.
In the interest of saving time, I forward Claudia’s emails to people like The honorable Doctor Abraham Naki, who represents my deceased ancestor in Nigeria and who is about to transfer billions into my account. I tell Claudia that Dr Abraham will pay her invoices, as he apparently has US $8 million of mine.
By allowing them to talk to each other directly, I’m sure I’m making everyone happy while I stay well out of it.
Either I’m about to come into lots of money, or these people are scammers who have mistaken me for a run-of-the-mill Covidiot.
It’s ages since I wrote an Old Susannah column (thank god some may say), but I wanted No. 200 to be a landmark issue. I nearly wrote about poor misunderstood councillors Alan Donnelly and Jennifer Stewart.
He bravely continues to represent Aberdeen and won’t let a trifle like his conviction for sexual assault stop him collecting his remuneration – I mean bravely voting in favour of the ruling majority – I mean going to functions – er something like that.
And Jennifer; well, despite going to the newspapers with tales of her being bullied by unnamed councillors to the point of her being mentally ill, she didn’t let that stop her going to the press to stick up for Donnelly, questioning whether the sexual assault conviction was really a sexual assault (let’s hope the victim won’t find her remarks bullying).
But we are in lockdown, and it is time to write Column 200.
I’ve been doing lockdown, because I’m an overly-cautious, paranoid person who is too thick to realise I’m a sheeple, sleepwalking into giving government and vaccine companies my freedom for the rest of my life.
I’m clearly a stooge for following the ‘Stay at Home Save Lives’ NHS request when I could be throwing bar-b-ques and going to house parties. Or so some would have me think.
My lockdown has included BrewDog just as past columns have. I usually open my column with a quick look at what BrewDogs I drank in which BrewDog pubs.
I did this before I bought shares, I own shares now, and so do some 131,000 others. I bought shares because I wanted to see where James Watt’s and Martin Dickie’s dreams would go. They went large. Then Covid19 struck.
This is what they did next.
This photo shows me in my home-made BrewDog Neon Overlord costume (this being one of their brews a while back), which I made for the BrewDog Open Arms online pub.
Is it childish to dress up? Hope so. I will never stop enjoying such challenges when they come my way.
Like so many other businesses, BrewDog has lost a lot of income – c 70% since lockdown started. The Dog was not about to roll over and play dead though.
They immediately started making hand sanitizer in conjunction with the NHS. BrewDog has donated huge quantities of it to the NHS. Thanks BrewDog.
Elsewhere BrewDog has helped entertain, motivate and engage with people during lockdown that has reaffirmed every great thought I’ve had about them.
The online pub is a great place to virtually hang out with hundreds of others. On Fridays at 6pm there is normally a hilarious, frenetic quiz, a few words from Martin and James, and lots of silly dancing.
During the week there are other pub events too – eg beer yoga, virtual tastings, and (my favourite) art tutorials from the amazing Fischer whose art decorates BrewDog bars and bottles www.brewdog.com.
This photo is my feeble attempt at doing one of his iconic whale creatures – the tuition was fine, my execution not so much.
I’m isolated at home with my cats (nb just Sasha now; Molly passed away), but when the BrewDog Open Arms is open, I sing, dance and laugh along with others, and I dare say many of us feel connected.
I’m currently drinking my favourite readily-available BrewDog, Jackhammer, but I recently discovered their delicious Zealots Heart gin. Juniper, angelica; the smell is divine – divine to the point I’ve broken out my home perfume-blending lab and am making my own version of the scent.
But I digress, and it’s time for some definitions.
Covidiot: (noun) person who displays traits of gullibility, illogic, selfishness and/or good old-fashioned stupidity. Collective nouns for group of covidiots include: a Brian of covidiots (see photo below), a pandemic of covidiots, a murder of covidiots.
Never before in history has so much factual information been available to so many for free. Never before has it been so easy to corroborate information and separate fact from fiction. But for many, where’s the fun (or profit) in that?
Here is a look at some of the sub-species of covidiot:
‘I’m a Genius’ Covidiot:
We’re all of us so stupid, listening to the NHS, the WHO and the CDC. We could be taking our health advice from Kevin in Stockport’s sister’s friend who knows someone who’s a nurse.
Genius Covidiot posts go viral, they feature audio recordings of an unnamed, unseen self-styled ‘expert’ who tells you that Covid-19 is just the ‘flu or that if you shine a UV light in your mouth, you’re invincible.
Then we have the even smarter Genius Covidiot.
They are bravely protesting against the lockdown with a breath-taking array of signs. In America, many are financed by the far right, including the charming Dorr brothers, who like guns and want freedom (unless you’re a woman needing an abortion, or a person who wants gun law reform).
Here are some of my favourite Genius Covidiots.
(Moran, if you’re out there, hope you’ve got a Brian now. I recommend May, Eno or Cox)
It’s Pennsylvania, by the way – something most people who live there know. And… it’s ‘people’ not ‘peaple’.
Personally, I don’t think we’re paying frontline NHS enough to flip burgers let alone deal with Covid19.
Imagine taking the time to make such a kindly sign, but not knowing how to use an apostrophe or the difference between ‘there’ and ‘their’.
We see the Paranoid Covidiot in its natural habitat on both sides of the Atlantic, huddled together in protests. Many of them in the USA need guns because, well, rights.
To the Paranoid Covidiot the lockdown and coronavirus is all a government/Bill Gates/5G/Elon Musk/Leftist/Communist/Socialist/Illuminati/Vaccine company plot to permanently take away our rights and mandate that we be force-injected with poison, don’t you know?
If you don’t realise all this and protest, then you are not woke. On the other hand if you don’t attend mass protests, you may well outlive the Paranoid Covidiot all the same.
Also crawling out of the woodwork are the survivalists – a predominantly American type of covidiot.
They usually wear camouflage gear so they can blend into the background. They also wear unmissable bright red Make America Great Again caps so that they stick out to fellow Survivalist Covidiots.
Reading things like ‘Survival Times’ or emails from some guy named Sam, the Survivalist Covidiot should be able to survive every disaster known to man.
If you had taken their advice, you would now have an underground concrete bunker filled with canned food, turmeric and krill capsules, radiation suits and protein bars (and lots of guns and ammo and toilet roll).
If you had acted on some of their bulletins, you’d have stocked up on enough tinned Cheeetos and dehydrated tacos to last 15 years. Their missives warn that those who didn’t stockpile would be in terror during a crisis but the survivalists would be smugly safe.
And now that they’ve been asked to stay indoors for a few months to stay alive? The Paper Survivalist Covidiot is freaking out.
The ‘It’s all about me’ Covidiot:
This genre of Covidiot is typified in Kristin from Hastings:
“I’ve been going out and I don’t even have a sniffle,” she boasts online, advising that since she personally doesn’t know anyone who’s had it, then it is just a big joke.
If it doesn’t impact Kristin personally, it can’t be bad right? Kristin doesn’t know anyone who died? Let’s all go back to normal then. Thanks Kristin.
The WTF Covidiot:
The WTF Covidiots are the ones who’ve taken being a covidiot to new levels.
The ‘My Body My Choice’ covidiot has taken a pro-choice slogan, which would be fine, if not for the fact the highly-contagious virus can live for days on some surfaces, and a single infected person can infect scores, hundreds, even thousands in the case of South Korea’s Patient 31.
They are often American, almost always far-right.
This person supports Trump, who with his evangelical preachers oppose the ‘My Body My Choice’ mantra when it comes to abortion.
Thank you, mystery woman, for fighting for our right not to wear facemasks and freedom to infect others at large gatherings and all those they come in contact with; your contribution will not be forgotten.
Face Masks are controversial even among experts. Can they pose risks if used wrongly?Apparently.
Can they stop an infected person’s droplets infecting others? Seems so.
But dang, they’re just so uncomfy – and unflattering.
Thinking outside the box, a Kentucky woman has solved the problem.
No need to thank me for sharing this tip.
PS: do not agree to pull a bank heist with this woman.
The Head of State Covidiot:
I cannot express how I felt when Boris Johnson announced he had shaken hands with Coronavirus patients. Then he got criticised and said he hadn’t.
Then he fell ill.
Now he’s making speeches again. Thanks Boris. Where would the NHS be without you?
But in this pandemic, the greatest head of state covidit is undoubtedly Donald J Trump. I admire how flexible he can be – not afraid to change his stance from ‘zero cases’ and ‘just one person from China’ into recommending specific, as-yet untested drugs (which may add profits to the Trump family coiffers) and recommending that people ingest bleach.
You first Donald.
At the time of writing the valet who serves POTUS diet coke, Kentucky Fried and hamberders has tested positive.
I’m not worried for The Donald: evangelical preachers tell us Trump is God’s man on earth, and they’ve prayed for him. Bleach and prayers, that’s all you need – if you’re Trump.
The ‘I’ve found a new expert’ covidiot:
In times of pandemic, nothing’s more important than being the first person to push a radical theory or wacky pseudo expert.
So if your google search comes up with one chiropracter who has a radical theory about the disease, if you find a video from a woman denounced in her profession because she can’t run experiments properly – by all means share these peoples’ views on every social media page you can.
Join new pages, tell everyone how the world’s greatest minds are wrong/corrupt/in a conspiracy, but Dr Bloggs from Dumbarton or Muskeegee has the solution to the pandemic. That’ll help.
And if someone takes dodgy advice you’ve shared and falls ill because of it, well, that’s not your fault, is it?
I think that’s enough Covidiots for now.
Please isolate yourself from idiocy, please take any non-medical advice with a pinch of salt, do not buy all the toilet roll in the asda superstore, and please – don’t go to mass protests against lockdown, even if you do believe you have a right to a haircut or golf game.
Lockdown measures are designed to stop you joining the 30,600 dead in the UK and 279,000 dead worldwide – and taking others with you.
- Comments enabled – see comments box below. Note, all comments will be moderated.
Suzanne Kelly presents her annual Christmas tale.
Popular mythology would have it that the original Dick Whittington, born 1354 was born of poor parents; this simply wasn’t true.
Dick was wealthy and became mayor of London; that’s as far as it went.
Popular mythology would have it that Boris Johnson, born 1964, was born of average parents; this simply isn’t true.
Boris is wealthy and became mayor of London and PM: that’s further than it should have gone. Now read on.
A long time ago there was once a poor boy called Boris Whittington whose parents were so poor not all the children could go to English prep schools.
People at his school made fun of his great poverty and his foreign ancestry. He would learn from this.
Our hero was so poor he went to Oxford to study, well – maybe he studied less than some. He did however cut a fine figure for a poor foreigner in the Bullyton Club. He spent all his parents’ pieces of gold on the £3,500 outfit he needed to wear to go to Bullyton Club dinners.
Soon this awkward, sensitive outsider was accepted as being ‘almost one of us’ when he proved what he was made of, and burned a £50 note in front of a homeless person (who might have even been from ‘Bongo Bongo land’ as Boris called some countries).
Poor Boris wanted to better his life, and his fellow Bullyton club members told him of London, where the streets were paved with gold.
“Cripes!,” thought Boris
“I say, that sounds like the place for me, what?”.
So off Boris Whittington bravely strode to London town, carrying in a little handkerchief tied to a steamer trunk in a flotilla of moving vans all of his meagre worldly possessions. He was determined that he would go there and dig up enough gold from the streets to make his fortune.
One day he met a friendly hedge fund manager who was going to London who said he would give him a lift there, so off they went. When they reached the big city Boris couldn’t believe his eyes, he could see horses, carriages, hundreds of people, great tall buildings, lots of mud, but nowhere could he see any gold.
What a disappointment. How was he going to make his fortune? How was he even going to buy a four-bed flat?
“But corrr! Look at all this Totty!” He thought, and set off to better himself.
By then he had married a pussycat who grew up in a castle in Perthshire; she was called Allegra Mostyn-Owen. This was very useful for a time. They both toiled in the news business for a time. But Boris realised he was destined for greater things, so he sold her on.
Being a man of great character, he decided to start at the bottom and deigned to take a trainee job at Ye Times newspaper.
Alas! Boris thought he would add a little excitement to one of his stories, and surprisingly Ye Times took a dim view of this, so much so that they gaveth him ye sack. The Times then continued its unsullied mission of printing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: well truth as The Digger (who was a sorcerer from the land of Oz) saw it.
After a few days he was so hungry that he collapsed in a ragged heap on the doorstep of a rag merchant owned by two twins Barclay Dee and Barclay Dumb.
Out of the house came a crook:
“How would you like to be a weekly columnist for the Daily Telegraph? We can pay you £275,000 for one column a week – but it’s a start.”
Boris thought long and hard of the sacrifices he’d have to make.
“I’ll do it! Jings! Crivens!” he said.
He suffered. Boris even had to cover an event full of Lefties in 1996. Now the Lefties were not really our sort of people, don’t you know. Some of them weren’t even white; they even let girls be Lefties, and some of those girls ‘dressed up like letterboxes’.
Worse still – the Lefties allowed ‘bum boys’ to join! Cripes! What would Boris write for the Daily Torygraph about this horrible scene?
“The unanimous opinion is that what has been called the ‘Tottymeter’ reading is higher than at any Labour Party conference in living memory,” he wrote.
And the Torygraph readers loved him all the more.
Alas! Boris was notorious at the rag merchant for writing his column during a brief window on Sunday afternoons before sending it to the printing press only just in time.
This left little time for editors to make changes and fact-check his claims, but happily, fact-checking was not high on the Barclay twins’ agenda. So, on Boris toiled, dreaming of better days. He started to wonder if he wasn’t destined for better things and an easier life, like going into politics.
Boris was ever so grateful to the Daily Torygraph’s Barclay Dee and Barclay Dumb but, alas, the editor was always very bad tempered and, when no one was looking, used to beat and pinch him.
Now while Boris was slaving away day in, day out toiling at his demanding job, he acquired a pussy. Her name was Miranda.
London was full of rats and fat cats. Boris realised that the more rats and fat cats he could catch, the richer he’d get. But Miranda really wasn’t much cop for improving Boris’ social standing, so she had to go. Verily he got shot of Miranda, which opened the cat flap for lots of other pussies, and lo, they verily did make use of it; they were Petronella, Helen (with whom he had a litter of kittens) and most recently Carrie. Carrie and Boris are so fond of each other that to this very day, the sounds of cats screaming and breaking things can be heard from their happy home.
Soon Boris was attracting lots of pussies, fat cats and rats. And lo it came to pass that with the blessing of the Tories, the help of the Barclay twins, and a whole bunch of rats, Boris became Mayor of London.
But our story does not end there.
Boris spent millions on a garden bridge in old London Town; it was never built. The people didn’t care.
One day Boris met a very important fat cat – and the most true Brit in all of Britland: Nigel Farage.
Nigel hated the people from ‘Bongo Bongo land’, people who wanted to come to Britain (except Boris’ ancestors of course!), and the Lefties. And pretty much anyone who wasn’t a white British man.
Nigel made his fortune by representing Brit land in the Union of Europe. This Union of Europe was an evil organisation that allowed people to trade goods throughout European countries, work in other countries, live in other countries, and gave them something called Human Rights.
Worse still, it wanted to harm the fat cats and rats by not letting them give their money to seafaring merchants to take away to the lands of Island of Virgins and Bahamas and verily the lands where the Barclay Twins lived in the Island of Channels. Nigel took a big salary from Europe, and will take a big pension from Europe.
Nigel hates Europe. And so does Boris.
The two of them hired a great big red coach, and painted on it that Europe was costing 350 million gold pieces each week, which should be used to heal the sick instead. Verily the people who had read Boris’ wise words in the Barclay twins’ rag believed every word, and felleth for this hooketh, lineth and sinkereth.
Alas, it was not strictly speaking true.
How the people loved his racism, sexism, lying, propaganda and anti-Europe positions! Yes, Boris was destined for greater things still.
The evil, ageing hag-queen of London was clearly losing her ability to govern. Sometimes when she had to walk across a stage, she had odd convulsions that some mistook for dancing. The Queen of the May had held power for some time now, and had many accomplishments.
She buried news about a disastrous, expensive failure of the Trident rockets, had cut all services to the poor, and made the dying travel to centres where they were told they weren’t dying at all. Who could possibly pick up where she left off?
Yes, you guesseth correctly: Boris soon became the Prime Minister of all of England!
Now, being Prime Minister was even less work than being mayor was. There was always someone with a bag of gold or a perk or a pussy or two who wanted to help him out and do the work for him.
“Cripes! This is great!” Boris thought, as his collection of gold doubloons and totty continued to increase. But it was never enough.
Not long after, Boris heard the merchant twins and other fat cats he knew asking everyone in the Houses of Parliament if they wanted to send anything on board their ship, they thought they could sell. The ship was going on a long voyage to the other side of the world to a place called America and the captain would sell everything on the ship so they could all make some money.
Poor Boris, what could he sell?
Suddenly, a thought came to him
“Please sir, will you take the National Health Service?”
Everyone burst out laughing, but the merchant smiled and said:
“Yes Boris, just what I was thinking, I will, and all the money from her sale will go to you – and to all of us.”
After the merchant had left from the city Dick found there was a small group of peasants who were revolting because they were such smelly oiks.
They somehow objected to selling off the NHS, to Boris’ little white lies about the gold going to the NHS, to leaving Europe, to having their ill and dying being made to work, and their air and land being poisoned.
How would Boris deal with these rabble – especially as the captain of the guard had decided that Boris couldn’t just sweep them all away with the water cannons he’d ordered years before. So, he just closed Parliament down a few times instead.
Boris knew he had to do something to make himself more popular again, so he could keep being the Prime Minister.
He invented an immigration points system to keep the wrong sort out of the UK, threw people out who had come in the Windrush period, and this kind of thing made his peasant fans, Mr Yaxley Lennon and his mates very happy.
Verily, this distracted such peasants from caring about the honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five pound note the fat cats were sheltering in the Offshore Trusts. But it wasn’t quite enough, and Boris had secret plans underway.
One such plan would happen right here in England; the other was being put into action by the merchant captain at the fat cat’s bidding.
Boris had denigrated women, grabbed them (in an English way – by the thigh, not their pussycats so that was OK); and said women in burkas looked like letterboxes. Sure, he had also said that seeing groups of black kids made him nervous, and black people had watermelon smiles.
But here was the genius plan: He’d just say everything he’d ever said or done was satirical, and the real racism was in the Labour party. After all, the oiks in the streets wouldn’t know what satirical meant and wouldn’t care as long as white people – white men – were still top of the food chain, what?
His old friends the twins and his old newspaper jobs would be delighted to print this story, and so it came to pass. BoJo (as he was unaffectionately known) and his press baron friends painted Labour as being villainous racists, while Boris was made to look like a saint.
Unsurprisingly, this pleased his peasant fans – like Yaxley-Lennon who was also known for violent arguments with women, hating non-whites, and blatant lies. Success! Result!
Across the other side of the world, the merchant captain and his ship had arrived at their destination, Washington.
King Trump and Queen Melania (who had been so poor she could only afford to wear boots, handcuffs and guns before her rise to power) were so delighted that they invited them all to a feast.
The captain had heard that like Boris Whittington, King Trump was a self-made man. Set out into the world on his own with just six million dollars in the 1980s and a family Ku Klux Klan background, Trump had to fend for himself with just a few mafia figures to help him – and that all turned out OK.
Except for a few bankruptcies, people losing their homes and jobs when Trump went bust, black people not being able to own homes in Trump castles, and the odd rape accusation or two (including from his wife Ivana).
But, believe it or not, when the food was brought in none of the ship’s crew nor captain would eat it.
“Oh dear” said the king stuffing a chicken leg into his mouth and wiping his hands on his golf trousers,
“Dontcha like KFC and Chick fil a?”
“No offense your majesty” said the captain,
“but we don’t allow growth hormones in our beef and bleach in our chicken. We don’t allow ground-up bugs in our chocolates (well, not in as high quantities as you do), and we don’t put lots of non-food chemicals into our food. Nothing personal – we just like to live.”
“Not to worry!” laughed King Trump,
“Everyone is healthy here – I’m 6’3” tall and only weigh 185 lbs… or is that 185 stone?”
Chewing on a KFC family bargain bucket, Trump continued:
“To show our appreciation for your country, we’ve agreed to take on the NHS contracts, and as a bonus, when you leave the Union of Europe, we’re going to be your new food trading partner. Everything’s all arranged – just ask President Boris.”
And they all laughed, and the real feast of edible foods was brought out.
The merchant ship captain looked at the huge banquet dais where Trump sat, and behind his thrown was a curtain.
Behind that was an athletic chap, shirtless, sitting on a horse. He seemed to be pulling levers and strings.
Before the merchant ship captain could ask, Queen Melania hissed in his ear:
“Pay no attention to zat mehn behind ze curtain!”
“But it looks like he’s really the one running the show and pulling the strings!”
“I really don’t care, do you?” she purred.
Clinking his plastic cola bottle with a plastic fork, King Trump signalled for the room to be silent for one of his speeches. The captain thought some of the King’s aids rolled their eyeballs.
“Welcome friends from Englandland! We’ve decided to help you out of the NHS – I mean help the NHS.”
“Right, we have even more gifts we want to give youse guys in Englandland” Trump continued.
“The reason you have these terrorists is because you let people immigrate – that means come in – to your country. You gatta do what we do here – when they get to the border, put ‘em in cages.
“Lots of money for getting the little ones adopted – believe me! And the amount of money you can get for keeping these vermin sleeping on concrete floors under foil blankets – ya wouldn’t believe me.”
The captain felt his smile recede as Trump continued:
“Then, you’d also be much better off if you’d all jes get yerselves some guns – yeah, good guys with guns. Not having guns is un-American ain’t that right Mitch McConnell?”
At this several old white men stood up; many clutching fists full of roubles. The man behind the curtain with no shirt laughed.
“You’re too nice over there too” Trump told the captain,
“The press – well, not Boris and his friends – the other press, and these foreigners, these people not following the right religion – you know you have to rough ‘em up a little bit, right?”
The captain felt some colour drain from his face as he started to make his goodbyes. He and all the fat cats had been happy to do a bit of profiteering off the NHS – who wouldn’t be?
But surely England would never stand for people being deported, mistreated and dying in custody? And no one in their right minds would want to see guns on London’s streets: what kind of a maniac would even propose such a thing.
Over 40,000 people were shot in this crazy Trump land last year alone; synagogues, churches had been burnt or vandalised, women were prevented from making decisions about whether to have children or not – with some even going to jail for miscarrying.
“But the worst thing about those Lefties?” Trump asked,
“They wanna get rid of Christmas! That’s right – no ‘Merry Christmas’, no trees!”
At this a group of TV preachers and evangelists ran to the king, and put their arms around him, proclaiming him ‘the chosen one’.
Whether it was the cockroach-infested chocolates or the bleached chicken, the captain felt his stomach turn.
After the feast, the captain and crew made their way to the harbour. They walked the streets of Washington, where dozens of homeless people slept or begged for alms. Some had been soldiers; some lost everything they had due to paying for medical bills.
Shots rang out; school children covered in blood and crying ran through the streets. The brave captain and crew barely made it back to the ship, and they weighed anchor, immediately setting sail for home.
As they sailed into the east, the captain sighed, safe in the knowledge such far-fetched things would never happen; Boris wouldn’t allow it.
When the ship returned to London, the captain was making his way to Boris’ humble home in Downing Street when a newspaper caught his eye.
“Legalise Handguns now! Says Farage”
“NHS will improve under US contracts!”
“Point system for foreigners Boris proposes!”
“Windrush man facing deportation kills himself!”
“Boris leading in polls!”
The captain stood looking at the headlines for a few minutes.
“Maybe the Union of Europe wasn’t such a bad thing after all.” he thought.
Slowing his pace, losing his desire to race to No. 10, the captain saw one ‘Leftie’ newspaper before he left the newsstand which read:
“Don’t forget to vote on Thursday 12 December!”
“No, no I won’t forget that” thought the captain, as he slowly turned from his course to No. 10, and headed home to ensure his voter registration card was at the ready.
- Comments enabled – see comments box below. Note, all comments will be moderated.
By Suzanne Kelly.
Tally ho! I’m missing Aberdeen and want to visit. If anyone wants to add me as a guest to the Northsound Business dinner, I’m in. Tables are £1250, and it’s at the Marcliffe, as previously mentioned.
Richard Thompson turned 70, and threw the best birthday party/concert I’ve ever been to, or am likely to ever attend.
The Royal Albert Hall three-hour extravaganza was unlike any show ever assembled before.
The music was a masterpiece of curation. Folk music, early RT songs, Fairport, torch songs, epic rock and humour were all on show.
The multi-talented, marvellous Marc Ellington performed ‘The Bonnie Lass of Fyvie-o’ beautifully.
Where do we start with the Thompson family – Teddy was awesome; Kami stunning, and Linda was there. I eventually had to stop counting the many Thompsons present as the music took me away.
There were some soloists who I definitely will go out of my way to see in future. There must have been 20 people onstage by the final pieces. Harry Shearer was mind-blowing in his Spinal Tap Derek Smalls persona, performing the moving, elegant ‘She puts the bitch in Obituary’.
The entire Thompson clan sang one of my favourite-ever protest songs, ‘That’s enough’.
‘Cry me a River’ transported us to a different time. For the last two pieces, a final guest star emerged: David Gilmour. ‘Dimming of the Day.’ ‘Fat Old Sun.’ the talent on stage was unsurpassable, and when Gilmour and Thompson played together as Fat Old Sun reached its crescendo, I think I cried some happy tears.
‘Meet on the Ledge’ saw all the legends present assemble. This was beautiful beyond the telling of it.
I’d been backstage for some pretty wonderful times at the RAH before, but I’d never seen a crowd anything like this before. Alas, I didn’t get to meet Mr Gilmour, whom I’m told I should meet. Maybe one day.
He also signed a photo and CD for Willows Animal Sanctuary,
In the bar it was Thompsons to the left of me. Thompsons to the right of me. Thompsons in front of me. Harry Shearer, Michael (RT’s remarkable percussionist), other stars, and Marc Ellington peppered among the partygoers.
I found myself next to Richard for a few minutes, and looking around at the lively, deliriously happy crew, I asked:
“So Richard, you going to do anything interesting for your birthday?”
We laughed – or I think he did. I believe he gets my sense of humour by now. If not, that’s going to be the last invite I get. But what a night; beyond uplifting. Happy Birthday Mr Thompson.
I never ask for autographs as a rule from anyone, but I did of Richard twice. Ruth MacPherson was a great friend to Aberdeen Voice; she was meant to come with me to see him play at the Music Hall years ago.
She was ill with lung cancer, and on the night, she wasn’t up to it, which saddened her greatly.
He signed her a cd which I passed to her, and I know she treasured it. He also signed a photo and CD for Willows Animal Sanctuary, helping raise funds. Guitar hero indeed.
Moving swiftly along – as I must rush to London Brewdogs now that the collaboration festival is live (they brew scads of new beers with other breweries and each bar gets a few different ones. And yes, I’m a shareholder).
Since I’ll be out sampling new brews, I’m turning this 199th Old Susannah column over to a very special guest.
Aberdeen Voice has obtained the secret diary of…. Damian Bates, former editor of Aberdeen Journals Ltd.
I’ve added a few historic notes to the diary entries so you can see what was going on in the world at the same time Master Bates penned his thoughts. I hope you enjoy reading Damian’s thoughts on his pal Trump and how he had death threats.
It would be wrong for me to question the minor ethical dilemma or two that arise.
THE SECRET DIARY OF DAMIAN BATES
16 October, 2019
Only 18 days before I, Damian Bates, will tell everyone at Northsound’s business dinner what a great guy my personal friend Donald J Trump is and how great my tome is!
Sarah’s out shopping for the right dress and shoes (of course) for this great honour. Do you know I’ll be joining some of history’s great and good by speaking at this dinner? I, Damian Bates, will now be spoken of in the same breath as past speakers: Alastair Campbell, Lord Digby Jones and Ed Balls. I told some of my old colleagues about being asked and who the past speakers were, and they smiled and said I was a perfect fit.
I got where I am by hard work, not by coincidence; I don’t believe in coincidences. Now here I am, a friend of Donald J Trump. Me, Damian Bates who coincidentally edited the only newspapers where Trump was coincidentally building the world’s greatest golf course! Me Damian, who was coincidentally married to Sarah, The Face of Aberdeen Beauty contestant who I coincidentally chose to be the face, and who I coincidentally married! Sarah who Donald J Trump then coincidentally chose to run his golf course, despite my Sarah not having a stitch of relevant experience. No, I don’t believe in coincidence me, just in plain hard work. And being in the right place at the right time.
On reflection, I probably put one or two articles in the papers that praised the Menie golf course. But I only did that because it’s what people wanted. But the thing is, no one knows Donald J Trump like I do. He’s really just a nice, kind down-to-earth guy. If only everyone could know him as well as I do – they’d like him as much as this humble, hard-working newspaper editor does.
I’m a family man, me. Did you see the photos on my Facebook page? I still get people saying they can’t believe it’s really me pictured at the White House and then at Air Force One! And my Ferrari – I mean really. Did you ever see a cooler car? I think it matches my sunglasses really well – I spent days picking out the right pair. And my haircut. It goes with the glasses, don’t you think? And my car.
And now because my tome, Donald Trump The Real Deal is doing so well all over the world, Northsound Radio want me to speak at their business dinner this year! Time to get out my White House pen and start writing! I could hardly believe it when one of his aids gave me an official White House pen, it even has the presidential seal logo on it. If the metal clip on it says ‘made in China’ that just shows what a great businessman Donald J Trump really is. Now let’s get writing; I think I’ll comb through my diary to get some great anecdotes for my speech. What will be the high point? The time Trump got Eric and my great friend George Sorial, who’s also very close to Sarah, to move paintings around at Turnberry, or the fact Donald likes to eat KFC? Hard to tell which of those two is more of a show-stopper.
In other news …..
President Trump sends a letter to the Turkish president, telling him to ‘make a great deal’ or Trump will ‘crush’ Turkey’s economy. The letter continues ‘history will… look upon you as the devil if good things don’t happen.’
The letter is widely ridiculed.
Donald Trump takes to twitter to insist that Nancy Pelosi, not he, had a meltdown yesterday. Trump met Pelosi, Senator Schumer and others after his crushing defeat in the House.
A bill to challenge Trump’s abrupt pull-out from Syria, which has seen Kurds killed in the vacuum passed 348 to 60; many Republicans turned away from Trump for the vote. He is said to be ‘shaken.’
William D Cohan publishes a blockbuster article in Vanity Fair on mysterious, huge profiteering on the stock markets revolving around announcements and actions of Donald J Trump. Did these lucky players have knowledge only Trump could have had? https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2019/10/the-mystery-of-the-trump-chaos-trades?
26 July, 2019
Today I did an interview with Northsound to promote my speaking at their business dinner in November about my tome! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnQh6w2ere8&t=10s I revealed for the first time that I’ve had death threats – oh yes. Can you believe it? Death threats against a journalist! Against me! People have to respect reporters and editors; we’ve got integrity and we’re here to give you the news. I did tell the interviewer not to ask me what these threats were about or when, or ask when I reported them to the police or why I didn’t seem to have ever mentioned them before. I also explained ‘I was the captain of the ship; the ship was far more important than I was’, I said. I might have steered that ship towards the Menie Estate and away from any Trump critics (believe it or not he has some), but nothing more than any other editor whose wife works for Trump would have done. I thought one of the recording crew said something about ‘a rat leaving a sinking ship’ but I couldn’t be sure.
I tell the interviewer there are many tomes out there that claim to tell readers what Donald Trump is REALLY like – but they are by people who haven’t even met him. How can you know what someone is like unless you have dinner with them at their club which your wife manages? It’s like when people write about Hitler or Pol Pot who never met them – what can such authors really know? My tome has it all – our phone calls, dinners, interviews – and what an impartial observer I am.
Trump’s been honest with me and I’ve been honest with him. I might not have been honest to the readership of the P&J or EE about these dinners, phone calls and of course the wife’s job – but there you go. Some reporters just report about the things he says and does, like telling the Ukraine president to get him dirt on Biden, or sending Ivanka to high-profile international meetings, or saying journalists are the enemy of the people who should be roughed up. But he laughs and jokes, and is a great guy. Some people write that he yells at his staff and it’s chaos – but I never saw that, so it can’t be true. My tome will say that – he can be wrong sometimes! Ground-breaking!
In other news ….
At Trump’s insistence, the federal death penalty has been reinstated, despite evidence that innocent people given unfair trials have been convicted, some executed.
June 13, 2019
( Damian Bates adds photo of him with Trump in the Oval Office to his Facebook page.)
Wow. I thought my Ferrari was really cool – but wait until my friends see this photo of me in the Oval Office while Trump sits at his desk! That’ll really impress everyone! Maybe I should put in my tome about the time I said ‘Mr Trump, sir, Donald – can I call you ‘DJ’?” He looked up at me from the TV and, get this – with more than a hint of his genius – he said ‘No.’
In other news ….
North Carolina man Craig Hicks, pleaded guilty to fatally shooting three Muslim university students back in 2015. The women’s father said the killings were part of rising bigotry against Muslims.
Prosecutors said Hicks had brandished a handgun to intimidate a Korean neighbour and a black remodelling worker. Relatives of the victims have asked federal authorities to charge Hicks with hate crimes.
Hate crimes have spiralled upwards since Donald Trump’s election.
Trump called for a ban on Muslims travelling to the US, which has an estimated 4-7 million-strong Muslim population. This was to be, in his words ‘…until we can figure out what the hell is going on.’
Trump recently offered to hire out US troops to Saudi Arabia, a nation with an appalling human rights record, implicated in the death of Washington Post journalist Jamal Khashoggi on 2 October 2018.
He was believed to have been dismembered while alive in Turkey in the Saudi consulate – the Saudis claim the murder, involving several Saudi agents and a bone saw, was ‘a spur of the moment’ event; an audio tape makes it abundantly clear it was premeditated. Trump refuses to listen to the evidence.
June 28, 2018 …..
Note to self – must make sure to update my Companies House appointments and addresses; I guess saying I’m at Lang Stracht isn’t quite right any more.
In other news ….
Five journalists at Maryland’s Baltimore Gazette are shot dead. This followed Trump’s repeated speeches casting journalists as purveyors of fake news and enemies of the people.
April 17, 2018
(Damian Bates adds photo of Air Force One to his Facebook page.)
The best day ever! It’s not every day a hard-hitting, honest newspaper man like me gets to hang around with his busy pal Donald J Trump and go to Air Force One, that’s the president’s plane by the way. Someone wanted Trump to sign some paperwork – but he said he was busy – with me! This is the kind of friendship we have, and that’s how I know the real Donald J Trump – a great guy who’s hardworking and as honest as I am. Must take home some of the Air Force One branded cups and sick bags for Sarah – she loves anything with a prestigious logo, like my Ferrari.
In other news …..
President Trump held off imposing sanctions against Russia for its backing Syria. Nikki Haley, then UN Ambassador for Trumpistan had announced the sanctions the day before.
The Washington post reported:
“The additional sanctions were expected as a response to Syria’s suspected chemical weapons attack. Moscow opposed the sanctions, and Trump didn’t sign the order. Haley had said Sunday on CBS News that the sanctions would target Russian companies linked to equipment used in the alleged chemical attack.
“Trump, however, reportedly told his national security advisers he was not yet comfortable pulling the trigger on the sanctions.”
- Comments enabled – see comments box below. Note, all comments will be moderated.
Old Susannah rides back into Aberdeen, well, back onto Aberdeen Voice’s pages anyway, picking up where she left off, defining the terms that define the indescribable goings-on in the Deen and Shire. By Suzanne Kelly.
It’s been a while, but with all the exciting things going on in the dynamic and vibrant city of Aberdeen, I couldn’t stay away.
This column traditionally opens up with descriptions of what I’d been drinking and doing in BrewDog bars, so why not now? I’ve visited BrewDog Brighton (Drank my first Dog F – a rich, heady dark offering) and BrewDog Clerkenwell to enjoy Obzest – very citrusy and refreshing.
I never hid the fact I’m a shareholder. I’m glad I’m a shareholder. So are at least 100k other people.
I bring BrewDog up not just because I wish I were at the Flagship this minute, but because from the first time I owned shares and wrote about BrewDog, I told Aberdeen Voice’s readership.
To do otherwise would have been dishonest. And still we had complaints: I was writing about the biggest new thing in town, the UK’s fastest-growing drinks company started by two young men paying a living wage, making phenomenal brews, being politically active and irreverent.
No one ever has to pay to read Aberdeen Voice; and if you were a donor who didn’t like my offerings, then you could either stop donating or simply not read the bits you didn’t like.
If, however you were an Aberdeen Journals Ltd subscriber (there are still some apparently), you paid for years while being played – and not for small beer.
Damian Bates never told those buying the local rags he had a financial interest in Trump doing well in Scotland.
He kept quiet about his wife’s working for the toupèed toddler.
I sometimes wonder whether those who insisted I shouldn’t write about BrewDog ever insisted Damian shouldn’t be allowed to print dozens of pro-Trump advertorials and stories, while directly helping his family’s wallet?
Aberdeen Voice allowed my morally-indignant critics to have their say. Have you ever yet read a word in the P&J admitting this ethically challenged editor used the papers to firm up the Mrs.’s position under Trump? No, you never did.
Trump is a regular guy, as you’d find out if you buy a table
Tally ho! Northsound Radio is holding a business dinner – only £1250 per table at the 5 star Marcliffe Hotel and Spa (homophobic ‘jokes’ from the owner included at no extra charge).
Who got the huge honour of speaking? Why, Master Bates, who’ll tell the guests about his book and what Trump is really like (he hates fancy food).
It must be interesting to be a reporter who’s pals with a man whose hate speech has got reporters beaten and even killed. But Trump is a regular guy, as you’d find out if you buy a table.
Result! I finished making my emergency survival bag which UK police recommend we all do, while telling us ‘don’t panic’. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-49631455
This is nothing to do with Brexit, food shortages, rioting or the yellowhammer documents. I recommend a first aid kit, some BrewDog, and old unsold copies of the Evening Express for insulation and starting campfires.
Alas though! I’m upset for poor Prime Minister Johnson, who was slammed by the courts, ruling his closing Parliament was illegal. I’m so upset I can barely see through my tears. Now there’s a man who’d better get his emergency survival bag ready.
PS. I recommend Steve Coogan’s latest offering, Hot Air. One reason I wanted to see it was to see Declan Michael Laird. I’ve written about this young Scots actor in the past and things are starting to go, deservedly, extremely well for him.
The highlight as expected is Coogan’s soliloquy: he plays a cynical, manipulative right-wing DJ. In his speech he describes virtually all our current societal, governmental, media failings.
I didn’t have any preconception of what Declan would be doing in this – but he’s wonderfully hilarious as a wealthy young Russian trustafarian living in Coogan’s uber-rich building. Hot Air is well worth your time.
Herewith some definitions
Exploitation: (Noun) Taking something of value from a source and profiting considerably more than the source does.
Friday was some kind of climate protest day, and I’m sick of the exploitation of children by adults who have selfish motives.
It’s awful to see young people who don’t understand the real world being manipulated to the point they care more about species extinctions, plastic entering the food chain, unprecedented climactic events -when they should care about clothes and getting rich.
How would you feel if your child went on some rally when they should be safe at school?
They’re being manipulated I tell you; if they were at school all would be well. Unless maybe they were in an American school (have you seen this video yet? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5ykNZl9mTQ ).
Or unless they were in a school where politicians entered at will without any permission or vetting, like when Alex Salmond descended on Bramble Brae Primary with his team.
Since that happened, Mr Salmond had sex abuse charges leveled at him. Just like his friend Donald Trump. No, no reason to get clearance people who want to wander into schools to take pictures.
Or there was the time a bunch of suits and Sarah Malone took photos of young people in their new Trump International football strips.
The shire told The Ferret’s Rob Edwards years ago the shirts were in line with policy (even though it really wasn’t true).
You might think that’s old news. However, the shire told me a different story recently: they now say the shirts were nothing to do with them after all, but a private group of parents organised it. Parents who were allowed to go into what certainly looks like school property and photograph students – with a couple of besuited men with them.
For marketing and promoting a private business. Owned by a man with US mob and Russian ties, accused of sexual crimes. That seems to be OK too.
In the same way the police release photos when trying to solve a crime, I want to know: who are these people? Does everyone in this photo have DBS clearance to be hanging around young people? Did they get permission to use this gym in their wonderful photos?
Aberdeenshire doesn’t care but I do.
Yes, keep the students in school; a day away to exchange ideas and support each other over their future is far less important than whether Sarah Malone wants a photoshoot or Salmond wants to boost a candidate.
Maybe Aberdeen Voice should just print up some t-shirts for the frisbee team, head to a school, and take photos of kids holding up AV shirts? I’m sure the shire would have no problem with that.
he does know his Nazi regalia, I’ll give him that
If young people have to be out of school for some ‘environmental’ reason, then it should be for something practical. Like planting marram grass to stabilizes Menie’s moving sand dune system.
The shire insisted the planting was approved by educational environmental bods. I found out that was not remotely true. But at least the photos of the kids planting the grass that ruined the dunes were lovely; I’d not be surprised to find the EE was selling prints for a tenner, as they do.
All this climate change talk is obscuring what’s really important in this life: how you look.
Sexy Dinesh Dsouza reckons Greta Thunberg’s braids mean she’s emulating an old Nazi poster of a child in braids (he does know his Nazi regalia, I’ll give him that). Somehow he objects to Danish student Greta looking Nordic – she should do something about that.
And those braids – so very traditional and childish; almost like she was a young person or something.
The teen certainly needs fashion advice too: there are so many exciting styles coming out of third world sweatshops (Ivanka can give some pointers here as she owns so many – speaking of pointers did you see her tasteful blue shirt worn t the UN?).
Perhaps anti-bullying champion Melania can serve as a role model too. I wonder where that jacket she wore on her way to visit caged refugee children got to, you know that one that said ‘I really don’t care do you?’ That would look so cool on Greta.
Finally, a bit more orange make up would put some colour in Greta’s cheeks too don’t you think – get rid of that ‘Nordic’ look? Trump could make a recommendation or two here I think. Kids today, eh?
Rent: (Noun or verb) A fee paid by a tenant to occupy real estate. Unless you’re the P&J renting from ACC.
It’s only taken about four months for ACC to partially answer my freedom of information request on what Aberdeen Journals Ltd is paying to be in Marischal Square. You know, I think they’re getting faster.
Why would anyone think that ACC was giving AJL a free ride or sweet deal on rent? Maybe it was the talk at the time, the odd article or two, or the fact Bates put out an email denying it was remotely possible.
Here’s two findings from my FOI: I’m sure this all sound as legit and believable to you as it does to me:
“Aberdeen City Council personnel, Chief Executive, Elected Officials and staff have NOT accepted any discounts, hospitality, gifts, favours from Aberdeen Journals Ltd and its companies for the period 1 January 2017 through the present day (Sept 19).”
So for nearly two years, not a soul at ACC took so much as a free lunch, newspaper, paperweight, pen, calendar, theatre tickets, dinner for three years and nine months. Wonder at the fact-checking here.
The Council wrote:
“The headline rent paid per square metre paid by AJL at Marischal Square is £322.92.”
And just exactly what is headline rent?
Headline Rent: (Compound noun) Rent paid under a lease after the end of any rent free or reduced rent periods. It is an artificially inflated rent which ignores the rent-free period or any other concessions given by the landlord to the tenant in return for a higher headline rate.
So.. from the definition, we can conclude AJL got some kind of a sweet deal for at least a while.
Who would have guessed – and what was it exactly? (I’m on it).
By the way, looking at city centre commercial rents on large properties the £332.92 per square metre per annum hardly looks like an inflated rate at all – it looks average.
If the city says this figures is a headline rent it means AJL was definitely paying less than the average going rate for a brand new building. And of course, there is nothing unethical about a newspaper cozying up to government, just because the press is supposed to serve as a check on government.
Someone needs to tell Damian Bates.
When the move was still being discussed, he sent an email:
“.. it is not correct to suggest there is any ‘state aid’ around any potential deal…” (But there was – otherwise no headline rent).
He continued in this July 2016 email:
“… we have not sought nor will we be seeking anything with the council subsidizing our lease…”
Whether they asked for it or not – looks like they got it. Here’s to Aberdeen: home of the world’s most generous taxpayers.
But why be upset? It’s not as if your tax money has been used to support Scotland’s most pro-Trump mainstream news vehicle. It’s not as if that newspaper took money off you every time you wanted a P&J or EE to line the canary’s cage, while hiding Bates’ personal financial link to Trump?
If you ever have awkward questions about the city’s dealings (maybe while you’re wondering why they’re charging you £30 a year now for green waste), you can just call the local press with your scoop. They’ll be right on it I’m sure.
PS. the City has recently taken out a few more million plus pound loans. Result!
Math quiz: Select an answer from (A) through (D):
If AJL has 19,000 square feet (which is 1765.15 square metres) and is now paying £322.92 per square metre (presumably per annum) and paid a lower figure previously, then:
(A) the cost is £570,000 per year;
(B) aren’t we taxpayers generous;
(C) they got a very good deal initially to be paying headline rent that is around the city average – did the taxpayer get left holding the bag again; or
(D) all of the above.
The bottom line? We can rely on the City to get best value for taxpayer money and to be transparent with its taxpayers, and on AJL papers for unbiased, investigative reporting. Well at least to the same standards we’ve become accustomed to.
I have much more to say, so there’ll be a further column or ten – that’s either good or bad news depending on your perspective. But I see the word count increasing, and with it the editor’s patience decreasing. More soon.
- Comments enabled – see comments box below. Note, all comments will be moderated.
By Suzanne Kelly.
On one side of the pond people are waking up to the shenanigans of the Trump empire.
Donald J Trump is being impeached with some six congressional committees looking at a myriad of potentially serious crimes he’s committed.
In Aberdeenshire however, where – despite ‘oversight’ by planners two SSSI sites were irreparably damaged at Menie – the council voted today 38-24 in favour of him building 550 homes.
David Milne, Menie Estate resident, issued an impassioned, logically and legally compelling video days ago as to why the permission should not be given.
“Overall, it’s devastating.” he told Aberdeen Voice.
Hundreds have watched it so far – it can be found here:
Only three letters were sent in supporting the controversial application; people wrote to the shire to object in their thousands.
“I can confirm, I voted against. I am sorry not more councillors agreed with me,” councillor Vicky Harper posted on the Aberdeen Voice Facebook page,
“I wish we could have done more. I am sorry to the residents who will feel the biggest impact.”
Cllr Harper is not wrong. Anthony Baxter’s first film in his trilogy of all things Trump and golf show the absolute environmental devastation of the first golf course being built.
Not over yet.
None of the campaigners against Trump’s development have run out of steam, not by a long shot.
“I’m not one to give up,” David Milne said.
And there is something of an ace in the hole, or ace in the bunker to be specific.
The road to the Bunker.
Councillors have forgotten the attempt made by the Trump organisation to buy the residents’ properties by stealth: in other parts of the world this would have been prosecuted as an attempt to defraud.
To refresh memories, Neil Hobday, using an assumed name (based on his middle names) visited several of those who refused to sell their homes and pretended to be an average American tourist.
His story was that he and his wife ‘fell in love’ with the area and wanted to buy their home – at a price which was far below what the value of homes wanted by a huge developer would be. No one fell for it.
Did the police pursue this crime? They were too busy arresting Anthony Baxter and Richard Phinney for ‘a breach of the peace’.
The two journalists, working on You’ve Been Trumped, had simply gone to the site office and asked when the Forbes family would get their water line, broken by Trump contractors, repaired. They were thrown in cells.
The underhanded behaviour by the Trump organisation in trying to get that land made people take an in-depth look at the estate’s land ownership.
A fly in the ointment was found which may yet prove a stumbling block and today it seems more important than ever.
Land ownership can be a complicated thing, and as a supreme act of campaigning, Tripping Up Trump has quietly had an ace in the hole: ‘The Bunker’.
On the estate, the land fondly called The Bunker by protestors is a small patch of land. It may be relatively small: but it is now legally owned and registered to a staggering, unprecedented ten thousand – yes 10,000 people.
As the Tripping Up Trump website advises:
“The Tripping Up Trump campaign acquired some land right at the heart of Donald Trump’s planned private housing and leisure development.
“The reason TUT has done this is to help protect the families who have forced eviction (by means of Compulsory Purchase Orders) hanging over their heads.
“The families of Menie have again and again stated they do not wish to leave but still Trump and Aberdeenshire Council won’t withdraw the threat of using CPOs if the families don’t agree to sell ‘voluntarily’.”
If someone wanted to buy that land, if the government decided to try a compulsory purchase, legally it must contact all of the owners.
Every. Last. One.
Aside from occasionally having a Mexican flag flying over it (an act of solidarity from Trump’s prejudiced attack on Mexicans), the bunker has not been hugely used.
Read more about the Bunker here:
Perhaps it is time for the owners to start making better use of their land? Just a thought for Tripping Up Trump – and 10,000 people. Time for a party? Building application – perhaps a refuge for refugees?
Don’t Mess With Mother Nature.
The sand dunes may be nearly stabilized – but if Trump International Golf Links Scotland is banking on a coastal property in North East Scotland being immune from the elements, they have short memories.
The photo (of me on my first visit to Menie) shows part of the course wiped off their little course map. A winter storm – and by far not the worst one Scotland has ever seen – ruined the place.
Keen-eyed visitors will notice that the greens are fighting the sands, constantly blowing through the course.
The keen-eyed visitor will also notice that a fair amount of the fairways have been dyed a sickly blue-green colour.
There will be more showdowns between Trump and Mother Nature – place your bets on the eventual winner now. Sadly, the new homes mean the displacement of wildlife if they are ever built.
The End- not.
There may be some smug congratulatory words at the clubhouse today, and some champagne corks popped.
But the celebrations are premature: Trump is not likely to last his presidency, may well be jailed, and as happens – his property could wind up being seized if it is found to be purchased with laundered money.
If Scotland’s crime task forces could start investigating now, that would be nice – it’s not as if they haven’t been asked and presented with evidence.
The bunker however, is now a bunker and a beacon. A creative, proactive and canny move, it may well throw a spanner in the works.
Here’s hoping – and here’s to making it so.
- Comments enabled – see comments box below. Note, all comments will be moderated.