The latest topical insights from Aberdeen musical sketch comedy team, The Flying Pigs.
Cosmo Fawkes-Hunt, 13th Earl of Kinmuck
Well, the prime minister has certainly managed to kick up a stink with his jibe about Keir Starmer having been not so keen on prosecuting Jimmy Savile.
In these moments, the PM has developed an interesting tendency to point aggressively at the subject of his ire. He probably thinks it gives him gravitas but, given his state of dishevelment, it in fact makes him look like a long-abandoned teddy bear trying to play darts.
Of course, all sorts of tommyrot has ushered forth about Johnson’s comment being a disgraceful and defamatory insult, beneath the dignity of the office of prime minister. Codswallop!
Remember, this is a man who claimed with a straight face that his principal hobby was not gadding about London engaging in recreational procreation, but making models of London buses. A claim sufficiently preposterous to tip the wink to us, the landed classes, that he holds the electorate in utter contempt, and silly enough to keep said electorate entertained. “Oh, Boris, you are a card.”
The exchange with Starmer is different, in that it makes a dishonest slur on the character of a man with a long record of public service. But this is in the best of parliamentary traditions.
As the speaker has said, one is not allowed to call another MP a liar. Over the years, this has led to some astonishingly creative fibbing. My great-great-grandpappy, the 9th Earl, was once under heavy pressure in parliament for his full-throated support of big game hunting.
Well, he could have got into a well informed discussion about the issues, but he didn’t know what they were. He knew only that he enjoyed going to the Serengeti and shooting things. So, he went on the attack, saying that his opponent was not, in fact, the Duke of Beaufort, but a heavily disguised rhinoceros, and therefore debarred from speaking.
He was cheered to the rafters, Beaufort was ejected, and life went on as before. So, that’s my advice for Boris – keep calm, and carry on lying.
Jonathan M Lewis, local headteacher
Another busy week here at Garioch Academy draws to a close, and – like in the before times – the hot topic of conversation has been exams.
The Scottish Qualifications Authority (SQA) have just delivered the exciting news that, after a two-year hiatus, this summer will see the return of formal examinations.
Perhaps this year’s PE practical exams could see Connor and his peers playing FIFA on their Playboxes or X-Stations?”
I think the impact of the pandemic on teenagers was quite apparent when this was announced, as the pupils seemed very guarded in their response to such a joyous proclamation. One might go so far as to say they seemed despondent about the whole thing.
The SQA themselves, of course, recognise the impact of the pandemic and have promised to provide the students with “extra support”. For me, part of the rollercoaster ride that has been Covid-19 is trying to predict what on earth statements like that could possibly mean.
Take young Connor Whiteside, for example: a young learner whose engagement, even pre-pandemic, might be described as “mercurial”, and who has treated the last two years as a very extended free period. What “extra support” might be required to get him through exams?
Maybe he could abandon his planned folio essay on Dumas’ The Three Musketeers (a book the young scamp admits he has not had the time to read) and instead base his submission on the animated series Dogtanian and the Three Muskehounds, which he reckons he could binge watch in a weekend?
Perhaps this year’s PE practical exams could see Connor and his peers playing FIFA on their Playboxes or X-Stations? And, since he has recently taken up the bagpipes, we’d all be most grateful if his Higher music performance piece could be a stirring rendition of John Cage’s famously silent composition, 4 minutes 33 seconds.
View From The Midden with Jock Alexander
It’s been a tempestuous wik in the village. It’s been blawn a hoolie again. Nae sooner hid we repaired the damage caused by Arwen, than we hid tae contend wi’ Malik and then Corrie. There’s fences doon a’ ower Meikle Wartle, so Feel Moira has puttered aff tae Aiberdeen tae get some timmer.
I’d seen in the paper that there wis noo a branch o’ MFI at Foresterhill, so that’s far she’s headed. But then I pit ma specs on and realised it wiz actually an MRI, fit is nae use if ye need tae look for timmer, but perfect if ye need tae look at yer intimmers.
Onywye, I wiz delighted tae read that this particular MRI is the first een tae gie spoken instructions in Doric. Apparently fowk that are aboot tae be shoved intae a great muckle metal tube are relaxed by the soothing coothy tones o’ the machine telling them tae “hud their breath” and that the scan’ll “jist tak 5 minties”.
They say the lilting tones o’ the Doric invoke positive feelings in a’b’dy fa hears it. A proposition fit will fairly be pit tae the test fan Feel Moira turns up tae be telt they dinna hae nae wid.
But it’s rare that wir dialect is noo being incorporated in a sophistimacated piece o’ medical equipment. Efter twa solid days trying tae get Alexa tae understand a word I said, I noo use her as a doorstop, so the prospect o’ a Doric language setting on ony piece o’ voiced technology is a step forward.
And if they’re looking for a chiel tae provide an authentic Doric voice, my door is ayewiz open. ‘Cos it’s blawn aff. Cheerio!
