The latest topical insights from Aberdeen musical sketch comedy team, The Flying Pigs, written by Andrew Brebner and Greg Gordon.
View From The Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander
It has been a saturated wik in the village. I pen these words jist as we batten doon the hatches preparing for the Reed Alert Weather Warning Panic Stations o’ Storm Babet. I can nivver ken if storms has got worse since we started naming ’em alphabatically, or if we used tae jist get on wi things afore and nae worry about it. But, michty, it disnae seem ony time of a’ since Arwen wiz causin’ chaos, and here we are again.
But, onywye, folk have been telt tae stay at hame and nae mak unnecessary journeys, so I am staying in for the next wik. It’s a’ aboot the Neepflix and chill. Or it would be if my TV wiz working. And it’s the opposite o’ chilly in here. My heatin’ disnae work either, but I dae hiv 15 o’ my maist valuable coos sharin’ ma living room. Toasty warm wi a hint o’ methane.
And then fan, inevitably, the power lines tak aff and the lights go, I am prepared. I hiv a big supply o’ homemade cunnles fit I have been slowly stockpiling for the last few months, every time I’ve cleaned oot my lugs.
Ithers have been mair proactive. In a bid tae stay safe, Feel Moira has been digging a big ditch for her ain underground shelter. She telt me that as the torrential rain, gale force winds and flood watters are happening above ground, she is safer aneeth it. Few others wid have hid the level of intelligence tae dae at.
We dinna ging in much for flood defences oot here, of course – nae since the eens we had got washed awa in a previous flood. And we dinna hae ony sandbags. Sand is nae in good supply, cos there’s only so mony times ye can trek a’ the wye aff tae Cruden Bay tae get some mair.
However, there is nae shortage of sharnbags in the village, and I hiv several piled up at my front door. A’ will be weel as long as the adverse conditions disnae burst ony o’ them, cos we really dinna wint that added tae the mix in the gale force winds.
So, plenty o time tae peruse the paper, far I wiz maist taken by the story aboot the recentest sighting o’ Nessie, wi the release o’ a photo fit is apparently the “clearest evidence” o’ the monster’s existence this year. And, sure enough, there in the grainy photo o’ Loch Ness, if ye zoom in on a specific bittie, unmistakably, is a couple o’ wee blurry things in the watter. Certainly a mythical beast, if by mythical beast ye mean a dolphin next tae a tree trunk.
It ayewiz amazes me that, despite a’ the high technamalogical advances o wir AI-augmentated modren world, fan yer iPhone can take a close-up photie o the moon, naeb’dy has yet managed a proper zoom on a photo o’ Nessie.
Still, it’s long past time the village had wir ain Nessie equivalent tae at last pit us on the map and get the tourists flocking in. Previous attempts tae spin yarns o’ the Burn o’ Wartle Beastie hiv been unsuccessful. Mainly cos Loch Ness has 56 kilometres o’ water, and the burn has about six inches. This means ony monster hidden there wid hiv tae be gye thin.
Still, I predict, anybody foolhardy enough tae be bravin’ the storm oot by Moira’s abode may well find themselves terrorised by a hideous, soakin’-weet angry creature burstin’ oot o’ the grund. Cheerio!!
J Fergus Lamont, arts correspondent and author of The Fall of the House of Fraser: A High Concept High Street Thriller
Oh, glorious day! As I ventured outside again, after the heights of the storm and having spied blue skies, I felt the need to head towards Aberdeen’s beachfront area. (Actually, I had little choice, as I was blown there, my Crombie jacket catching the wind and acting as a veritable sail, and my cravat flapping wildly in the breeze.) But, once there, I beheld a delightful sight – an expanse of foam as far as the eye could see, covering the promenade and environs.
How fantastic it was to see Aberdeen at last embracing the hedonism of the Balearic isles and staging its very own foam party! I wasted no time in loudly proclaiming the return of the second Summer of Love, and began cavorting in the foam.
I got out a small whistle that I happened to have in my coat pocket and danced with euphoric abandon
Not since some big boys at school forced me to spend all of my pocket money on the 7-inch single of Ebeneezer Goode at Woolies have I felt such illicit delight, made all the more glorious when I got out a small whistle that I happened to have in my coat pocket and danced with euphoric abandon.
What seemed like an eternity of blissful raving turned out to be only a minute, whereupon I realised that, though my mind felt blissful, my arms and legs had gone blue with the cold.
I wept.
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