GDPR?  “… Gross Domestic Product of Rhynie?”

DAVINIA SMYTHE-BARRATT, Ordinary Mum

Like all ordinary mums, I’m getting in a bit of a panic about this whole GDPR fiasco. For those who are not up to speed with their acronyms, I am of course referring to the EU’s new General Data Protection Regulations, and not, as I must confess I originally assumed, the Gross Domestic Product of Rhynie.

It’s causing me strife on 2 fronts. Firstly, my email inbox is awash with communiques from everyone under the sun, seeking my continued permission to be part of their mailing list. Don’t get me wrong, I love receiving emails, but there are just too many of them! Yesterday I only managed to respond to 10 on my drive back home from Pilates at Kippie. Hello! Is it too much to ask for our traffic lights to stay on red a little bit longer?

Some so-called “expert” on Radio 4 suggested we just ignore these emails, as by law they will have to stop after Thursday. That’s all very well for him, but some of those marketing emails are a real lifesaver for me! So I need to read them all, ensuring I sign up to the essential ones (e.g. Quinoa Quines recipe suggestions) and remove myself from the frivolous ones I can live without. (e.g. the Service / MOT plan for the Discovery).

The other headache the GDPR presents is for our monthly family newsletter. Do I need to contact all the recipients for their continued consent to receive the Smythe-Barratt Echo? Well, because it contains fundraising links to various good causes (e.g. Mums against Fur, the Dolphin Asthma Foundation, Hamas), it turns out that some fascist Tory mouthpiece says I do! Well, I’ve never been one to bow to “the man”, so excuse me if I continue to hit ‘send to all’. You can expect my case to be up in front of the European Court of Human Rights shortly! I never thought I’d say this, but roll on Brexit!

VIEW FROM THE MIDDEN – Rural affairs with MTV (Meikle Wartle Television) presenter, JOCK ALEXANDER

Well it’s been a ceremonial wikend in the village. As you wid expect, I spent maist of Setterday amongst a mass of fowk glued tae the TV, enjoying the archaic rituals on display, the festivity, the happy crowds, the singing, the flags and the banners. Folk wiz up tae high doh wi the emotion of it all. And then the ref blew his whistle and a’ the Man U fans in the pub started greeting. Noo I’m nae a fervent fitba follower masel’, and certainly nae of the English FA Cup, but I did suddenly see the wisdom in becoming een for the day, so as tae get the hell oot of the hoose. And so it seemed did a’ the ither mannies o’ the village fa had suddenly become avid viewers, files their wives and their chums sat aboot at hame cooing o’er hats and dresses. Well, I am nae sorry tae say I missed a’ 300 minutes o’ the BBC’s Royal Wedding coverage, though I hiv noo seen highlights of guests arriving on the news. George Clooney brought a bittie o’ Hollywood glamour, Posh Spice looked like she’d swallowed a wasp, and for a minitie I wis wondering foo my Auntie Ina hid wangled an invite, until I realised it wis jist Elton John.

But onywye, watching the game wis useful research for me, as this year’s Fettercairn Show is tae include a ‘three-tractors-a-side’ fitba game, wi twa bales as the goals and a great muckle ba’ six fit across. Michty, noo at’s a fair size, even fer a show which has seen some hefty bulls in the past. Luckily, the good fowk of Fettercairn hiv made twa fatal mistakes, in publishing details of their plans, and nae haeing the game until July, fit allows us here in Meikle Wartle tae nip in and cut the feet. However, it his been tricky gathering enough material tae mak a 6 foot ball of our ain. There’s been nithing for it but tae mak it the traditional wye, oot of sharn. It is currently baking awa in the sunshine, and Skittery Wullie, tae whom we defer on such matters, reckons that by the wikend it’ll be firm enough tae stay intact fan a tractor drives intae it at high speed. I dinna think I’ll play that particular game masel’, but I am happy tae spectate, fae a safe distance. Aboot half a mile ought tae dae it. Cheerio!

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick at HMT Aberdeen 26th-30th June 2018

Israel? Australia? Is Europe holding auditions for our replacement?

Shelley Shingles, Showbiz correspondent and Miss Fetteresso 1983

O. M. Le G!  Yes, you read that right, Shelley is going all cosmoneopolitan this week after watching the Greatest Show on Earth, the Eurovision Song Contest!  It’s my favourite explosion of European culture, cheesy music and dodgy accents since they took Going for Gold off the air (Henry Kelly. Swoon. Totes dreamboat!)

It was certainly a dramatic night.  No more so than when British songstress SuRie had her performance interrupted by some stage invader who started shouting down the microphone.  I was watching with my nephew, who’s into the Grime music scene, and he thought it was all part of the act!  He was really getting into it before they hooked the imposter off the stage.

One thing that really got my goat, though, was the countries taking part.  I’ll need to have a word with Mr Horsman, who was my Geography teacher at Mackie Academy, because I never knew that Australia was in Europe!  I’ve always fancied a trip to the land Down Under but was put off by the length of the flight. Boy, do I feel stupid!

Eventual winners, Israel are usually thought of as being part of Asia. But I suppose, when they decide the winner by taking a popularity vote from the other countries, I can see why they would want to join in with our contest instead!

I tell you though, wee Graham Norton is doing a grand job of filling Terry Wogan’s shoes isn’t he?!  Me and Graham go way back.  I first met him in 2007 when I was in the audience for his brilliant chat show. He was coming through the audience looking for someone to play a crazy game involving a bowl of custard and Enrique Iglesias. ‘Do you like custard?’ He asked, with that characteristic twinkle. “Not really’ I replied, and as quick as a flash he came back with .’Oh. Right. Moving on’.

Wise words from a true gent.

Kevin Cash, Money Saving Expert and King Of The Grips:

Weel, the news this wik has been a’ aboot a certain event full of razzmatazz, eye-watering expense, and arcane ritual. But for those nae watching the Cup Final we hiv a Royal Wedding an’ a’. Noo I ken that some folk hiv got the huff aboot it, partly cause the happy couple are nae top tier Royals and, barring an air-strike on the Braemar Gathering, they’ll niver get a sniff o’ the throne, but maistly cos they’re inconsiderately getting married on a Setterday so naeb’dy’s getting the day aff. Still, I am here tae gie ye a’ my top tips on the best wye tae mak yer Harry & Meghan celebrations as inexpensive as possible. There’s nae need nae ging feel just cos the bride tae be has blown £300,000 on a dress. A dress! I widnae spend that on a hoose! Of course, I bide in Seaton, so I dinna need till. Onywye, if yer ha’eing a proper street pairty tae celebrate the big day, wi’ ab’dy sitting ootside getting bleezing, I can assist. My mate Mick The Pill has come by a job lot of fire-damaged tables and chairs fae the Castle Bar, so jist gie the word and we’ll come round and dump them a’ on yer road. Dinna waste yer money on bunting either, simply tak the lines fae yer neighbour’s whirly and hing them fae the lampposts on yer street, then peg on alternating Spar, Tesco and Aldi bugs, making sure of course, that the order is reed, fite and blue.

And da worry if you dinna hae enough food tae feed yer freens and neighbours either – jist buy one pre-packed sandwich – mak it a good een fae Tesco’s; ye ken the eens,  wi’ gold on the label and an unnecessary extra plastic tray inside –  then cut it intae tiny wee triangles so ab’y in yer street gets een, and tell them it’s nouvelle cuisine. Or if that’s too much hassle, ye can get party food fae Lidl’s for nae money, especially if ye hing aboot the bins roon the back at chucking oot time.

I’m nae hauding a street pairty of my ain; partly ’cause I live in a high rise, but maistly cause I’ll be busy on the day selling my ain range of specially branded Royal Wedding merchandise, including plates, vases and mugs, a’ hand painted wi’ the the faces of the happy couple. Admittedly, portraiture is nae my strong suit, so the likenesses are nae perfect, but If I dinna shift them this wikend I winna get anither chance til Ed Sheeran gets merried tae Russell Brand.

Flushed with the awful consequences of waste disposal

Hector Schlenk, Senior Research Fellow at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science

As a scientist, people are forever asking me questions, and this week they have mostly been asking me about plastics, to which I reply that the Plastics are the most popular girls at North Shore High, and the antagonists in the coming–of-age classic of 90’s teen cinema, ‘Mean Girls’. Until I realise that we’re not talking about Lyndsey Lohan movies and that the depth of my knowledge of her ouvre is making everyone uncomfortable.

Instead, we’re concerned with the possible harmful effects of tiny microplastics, entering the natural world via our bathroom drains. However, it falls to me to highlight the dangers of the very opposite end of the size scale, in particular the issue of ‘Fatbergs’. Despite the name, a Fatberg is not a new item on the McDonalds menu, but an object formed when people flush things down their toilets which should not be so disposed of. Eventually, the resultant matter congeals into a large, useless, unwelcome mass which proves impossible to remove, and sits there obstinately, getting in the way. Think of it, if you like, as a more animated version of Donald Trump.

Despite the name, scientific studies have now shown only 0.5% of a fatberg is actually composed of fat, 7% formed from cotton buds and plastic wrappers, and the remainder, incredibly, composed entirely of wet wipes. These innocuous items are in fact a menace which may require to be banned to prevent the rise of an ecological disaster, and indeed many other things which might bob to the surface once all the sewers are clogged.  Only last September a monstrous fatberg was discovered blocking a London sewer in Whitechapel; at 250 metres long and weighing 130 tonnes, it took 9 weeks to remove. One can only imagine the consequences if such a thing were to be discovered beneath the streets of Aberdeen; using the speed of pothole repair as a guide, removal of such a fatberg here would take longer than the pedestrianisation of Broad Street.

So important is this issue, I felt the need to give a public lecture on it, and so took myself to Aberdeen’s equivalent of Speaker’s Corner, the cobbled bittie outside Markies. After chasing off a Peruvian Pan Pipe Band and a brace of broadband switching enthusiasts, I hefted my megaphone and proceeded to announce my lecture on the “How we must act now to eliminate Fatbergs’. It was not until after sizeable group of young ladies had shouted me down and angrily relieved me of my loudhailer that I realised I had been misheard.

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the sports pundit who is always au naturel

Well, I guess we has just seen the curtain slammed shut on another football season.  I was at Pittodrie on Tuesday night to watch the Dandies stick Scotland’s newest club The Rangers in a do-or-glory, death-or-die second place decider.  Sadly none of them fancied taking the bull by the scruff of the neck and they drew 1-1.  This means the Dons can finish in 2nd, 3rd or 4th depending on results this weekend.  If we end up 4th then we need to cross our eyes & close our fingers that Motherwell don’t win the cup or we’ll miss out on Europe.  I hope it doesn’t come to that because there’s nothing worse than having someone else controlling your density.

Whenever the season ends I always look to other sports to fill the talcum that the football has left, and last week I was watching the snooker.  It was a tense affair, and the crowds in the Cruciate Theatre was so quiet you could hear a pandrop.  This year the 2 finalists was both in their 40s, so it’s great to see that age is no barrier to waddling round a table stroking your arm back and forth a few times.  I was rooting for the Wizard of Wishy Washy, John Hurricane Higgins, but he was beaten by the Welshman, Mark JPR Williams.

The boy Williams said if he won he’d do his final press conference in the nuddy, and he was true to his word!  Fair play to the lad, Snooker is all about getting your balls into the pockets, which is no mean feet if you haven’t got no breeks on.

See the Flying Pigs Live in ‘Now That’s What I Call Methlick’ at HMT Aberdeen June 26^th-30^th 2018

Tourist plans suitable for a’ the loons and equines

Kevin Cash, moneysaving expert and king of the grips

I da ken fit wye people say this city disnae push the boat oot for visitors. Jist look at the latest ideas tae pull in a’ that tourists fit places like Edinburgh and Glasgow seem tae be beating aff wi’ the proverbial stick fit hiv been given the green licht by wir cost-conscious chums at the Cooncil. Ony day noo we can expect tae swamped wi’ vees’tors, flocking here because, if they head doon tae the beach on een of the six random fine days we’ll hae this summer, there’ll be a brand new attraction.  Nae only can you get a shottie on a waltzer and an unimpeded view o’ the worlds maist powerful wind turbine, (BTW – I dinna understand folk that are complaining that it spiles the view. Hiv ye seen foo big the sea is? It’s massive! If ye wint a nice view o’ the sea, jist look at a different bittie!) Soon, you’ll be able tae ging for a hurlie along the esplanade in your choice of unsuitable vehicle.

There’s a mannie fa’s offering tae dae tours o’ the seafront in a ‘TukTuk’, fit’s like a cross between a tricycle and milk float popularly used as a taxi in some countries in Asia. Nae longer dae ye need tae ging a’ the wye tae Thailand tae be ower charged for a run aroon’ the block. God, I wish I’d thocht o’ it first. Mind you, a cut and shut on a mini-clubman and a Vespa isnae the easiest.

But the big news is they’re also bringing back horse-drawn carriages tae the beach. Apparently they wiz affa popular in the 40s and 50s, and are set tae return noo that the quality o’ life in the city his returned tae that level.

Weel, I can already see great opportunity tae get some extra value fae this.  Far there’s horses, there’s inevitably horse’s doofers, or ‘100%organic composted equine manure’ as we’ll be marketing it. My plan is tae my mate Mick the pill following ahind the carriages catching fit dobbin leaves behind in een o the twa thoosan’ take-away boxes I picked up for a song fan the Yangtze River got closed doon by the food inspectors. OK, ye canna get much manure per box but I’ve thought of that – I plan tae sell it as ‘Fun Size Dung’ for fowk that only hae wee gairdens, or jist a window box.

Mick has yet tae sign up, but there is nae doot in my mind that he is man for the job.  He has stamina, lightning reflexes and since he perforrated his nasal septum, nae sense o’ smell.

 

Cava Kenny Cordiner, the footballer’s footballer

As yet another season draws to its contusion, Old Kenny is looking ahead to an ever changing footballing landfill.  Next season we could see Video refs with an increased role in games, transfer fees going even more astrologically higher than they already is and, perhaps most surprisingly of all, Steven Gerrard managing The Rangers.  But the thing I is even most surprised about is the possible death of that old football stable, the match-day programme.

English clubs is meeting soon to decide if they need to make one for every game anymore. I’m sure some of them will say “no” as a penny-punching measure.  But I think the loss of the programme would take some of the heart and sole out of the bountiful game. Where else will we get inciteful information on our heroes?

Back when I was playing at Pittodrie, it was a great honour to be chosen for the “Player Factfile”, and the programme boys used to interview you on all the hot optics of the day.  I’ve still got a copy of the one what I featured in.  Aberdeen v Greenock Morton.

Name: Kenneth John Cordiner

Position: Left back in the dressing room

 Height: 5 ft 13 inches

Weight: 12 stone and 1 kg

Favourite club: The Mighty AFC

Favourite music: Phil Collins and Elkie Brookes

Favourite film: Raiders of the Lost Sark

Pet hates: Smoking, fast wingers, horses what don’t run to form

Favourite player: Joe Jordan, because he’s got even less teeth than me.

Ambitions: To own a sophistimicated wine bar in Inverurie what mysteriously burns down just after I’ve insured it to the hilt.

That last answer was a surprise I can tell you!  Who would of known I could be so prophylactic?