Cosmo Ludovic Fawkes Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck
When I saw the news that British fishermen had been harassed at sea by their French counterparts, my blood boiled.
Which was a real disappointment, because I had to throw that batch of black pudding out. But really, this is no way to behave on the high seas.
500 years of naval history demonstrates that the natural order of things is for the British to harass the French. Which is why I type this from the family yacht, The Favoured Mistress.
To the Channel I go, clutching the 12th earl’s cutlass between my teeth, wearing the britches filled by the 5th earl when he stood with Nelson at Trafalgar, and towing the experimental sea mine developed by my great grandpapa, the 10th earl, in 1944 (he offered it for use in the war, but Hitler said he didn’t need it).
I swear by Harry, Brexit and Theresa May’s choreographer, fresh caught Gallic shellfish shall be on my dining table tomorrow, and the French flotilla shall receive a firm kick in the scallops.
Struan Metcalfe, MSP for Aberdeenshire North
Crowdfunding. What a concept! What better way to extract moolah from the proletariat, apart from income tax and the national lottery?
Brewdog, for example, have raised oodles of dough through crowdfunding over the years, financing new craft beers with names like Imelda Staunton’s Index Finger and Posh Blond Flange. So why shouldn’t we politicians get a piece of the action?
Big Eck Salmond has seized on the idea and is crowdfunding his judicial review of the Scottish Government’s sexual misconduct complaints procedure (#ForFairness).
Well, I tip my hat to him; I wish I’d had the nous to do the same when I was up in Banff Sheriff Court after that night on the sauce with Ruth Davidson and one of the Cheeky Girls.
It all ended messily and I was hauled over the coals for breaching the peace with Monica Cheeky and a takeway lamb bhuna.
If only I’d fleeced my party faithful out of 90 grand for my defence, maybe I wouldn’t have had that night in the cells and a lifetime ban from the Garam Masala, Macduff.
Pip pip!
Davinia Smythe-Barratt, ordinary mum
As an ordinary mum I’m appalled to see our tyrannical overlords, the beastly Tory junta, once again seeking to oppress our youngsters by banning energy drinks.
Don’t get me wrong, I am aware that excessive consumption can be harmful. My good friend Imogen sank five cans a day when she chained herself to a lamp-post outside Faslane. Her protest certainly lost some of its impact when she began dancing the Macarena and insisting she was the rightful heir to the Tunnock’s fortune.
But why should sensible adolescents suffer? Fidel, my 14-year-old, would be totally lost without his morning “pick me up”.
He’s just so tired with all his activities; fencing, lacrosse and his latest hobby – Fortnite. He’s hooked! I’ve never actually seen it, but he describes it as an international diplomatic negotiation simulator. It’s clearly very stimulating as he often stays up playing it all night.
So, to make sure he’s ready for his 7.30pm cor anglais lesson I do what any other ordinary mum would do – I pour a can of Red Bull into his organic honey and chia seed granola. Five minutes later, he’s sharp as a tack!
View From The Midden, with Meikle Wartle Television’s Jock Alexander
The floors of romance rarely bloom in Meiklewartle, and fan they dae it’s often in a vivid, glow-in-the-dark shade o’ yella roon aboot the sewage works. But lately, love his been hingin’ aboot in the air lik a bad smell.
A fermer in the nearby seething metropolis of Strichen proposed tae his beloved by scrawling “Will you marry me?” on the side of her favourite coo. Fair play tae him, cos if you ask me, that wiz a bittie risky.
She might hiv mistook it as a message fae Curlytop hersel and ran aff wi the coo. However, a’ went well, and fan the boy got doon on one knee in the sharny field, his quine said “Aye fairly.”
Esma, wir village postmistress, on the ither hand, has remained a spinster since Haldie Winton spelled oot his proposal wi’ the help o’ a prize Charolais.
Nae on the side of the aminal, but instead using fit might be described as “bull’s messages”.
Haldie wiz real pleased wi’ the curl he got on his “r”s, but his proposal wiz nae accepted. He’d maybe hiv hid better luck if he’d daen it oot o’ doors, instead o’ in the post office.
Cheerio!