The latest topical insights from Aberdeen musical sketch comedy team, The Flying Pigs, written by Andrew Brebner, Simon Fogiel and John Hardie.
Fergus J Lamont, arts correspondent and author of ‘Thief of Time – Union Terrace Gardens; Public Park or Quantum Singularity?’
This week, I have largely remained indoors, sheltering from the icy weather and catching up on televisual delights in this glorious epoch of small screen excellence. It is true to say that the quality of dramatic productions now available via the medium of television is as high as the very best available on film or even – whisper it – by way of the live theatrical experience.
While watching, I stumbled upon the most extraordinary piece of TV drama I have ever seen, and I include in that CBeebies’s seminal treatise on achievement and leadership, “Hey Duggee”.
You will not have heard of it, for it has received little or no publicity, but the BBC’s breathtaking drama “Granite Harbour” is a vivid evocation of the chaos and confusion which marks life in modern Britain.
Wearing the often fantastically fancy clothes of a police procedural, it is a masterclass in bewilderment. I was kept permanently off balance by the jumbling of Aberdonian locations.
Brilliantly, these settings are arranged in such a way as to recall the works of MC Escher, folding back upon themselves in a manner unlike reality. Instead of the “endless stairs” we have the “Ubiquitous Beach Esplanade” – the route for every journey, regardless of origin or destination. A dystopian twist on the circle of life.
I was deeply affected by the moment when the main character’s almost supernatural intensity and determination was signified by his alighting from a bus at Union Square and suddenly materialising on Broad Street, as if by sheer force of will.
I was on the edge of my seat when he was bundled into a van just outside Bugsy Brown’s, and the kidnappers tore down Windmill Brae – the camera swooping mercifully upwards before, presumably, the van pranged into the bollards at the end.
And, what a powerful statement it was to make each character speak in a manner so unlike their real-world counterparts. The unfamiliar vowel sounds and total absence of north-east dialect creates a disconcerting, Gaimanesque “Nether-Aberdeen”, where everything is both pleasingly familiar and, yet, utterly, utterly wrong.
I wept.
Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit whose wall chart is up to date
The Catarrh World Cup, which should not never be happening and is a disgrace, has reached beaver pitch as we head into the quarter-final weekend. So, as ever, Old Kenny is here to keep you up to date with all the facts and fingers in his weekly World Cup round-house.
Of course, by the time you is reading this, the first two quarters will have had been played, and, if my coupon has paid off, we’ll already have the mouthwatering prostate of a Brazil v Argentina semi to look forward to.
While Old Kenny would be a bit ambidextrous about the result of that match-up, there’ll be big tension between my pals Dunter Duncan and Basher Greig. Dunter’s a huge fan of the Samba Kings – in fact, I’d go so far as to cry him a Brazil nut. Whereas Basher’s always been mad about the Argies – ever since that time he claimed he met Ossie Ardiles at Flicks in Brechin.
But, there is not no doubting where all eyes will be pointing at on Saturday. England is sticking World Champions France for a place in the last four, and I think the English has got a real chance of pulling it off. They brushed Senokot aside easily, and their midfield duo of Hendo Jordanson and Lynda Bellingham is looking like a class act.
England’s biggest fear in the France team is the tricky winger named after the Hansen song, Mbop
The gaffer, Southgate, got another boost when Raheem Sterling flew back out to Catarrh, ready for the match. The poor lad had to nip home when he found out some chancers had broken into his house. I know exactly how he feeled.
Once, when I was playing for Mintlaw, I headed out for a game against Maud and realised, as we was warming up, that I’d forgotten to close the door to the freezer. I fully expected that when I got home from the match, I’d find a big puddle on the kitchen floor and everything ruined.
As luck would have it, I banjoed their centre-half in a 50:50 after five minutes, and the whistler gave me my marching powders, so I got home sharpish. All that we had to say goodbye to was a box of choc ices and a half-eaten tub of soft scoop.
England’s biggest fear in the France team is the tricky winger named after the Hansen song, Mbop.
The media has been asking all week, they’ve been asking: “How do you stop Mbop?” I don’t know why that’s such a mystery. The England lads just need to do what I done that day against Maud: stay calm, don’t panic, and clatter into the wee nyaff early doors.
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