The latest topical insights from Aberdeen musical sketch comedy team, The Flying Pigs, written by Andrew Brebner, Simon Fogiel and John Hardie.
Kevin Cash, moneysaving expert and king of the grips
This wik the Belmont his been shut doon, wi’ nae warning and a’ the staff kicked oot fan some mannie turned up tae change i locks. Aiberdeen is noo withoot an arthoose cinema for the mair discerning cineaste, resulting in a bigger cultural void than the een in Nadine Dorries’s heed. This is a tragedy for the local culture ’cause it took us ’til the 21st century to get een in the first place.
Noo, I enjoys a superhero smashy-bashy load o’ keich as much the next person, unless o’ course the next person is a skinny loon in a hame-made Spider-Man ootfit fa is taking the hale thing far too serious. But, sometimes, it is good tae hae a choice.
Arthoose films is different fae proper films ‘cause they’re made by auteurs (fit is a director ye hinna heard o’) and are intended tae provoke and challenge an audience rather than simply entertain them. Also, there’s usually a decent amount of scuddy bits.
Gan tae the Belmont tae see something obscure wi subtitles wiz magic. You got a magic discount if ye wiz an OAP. Mony’s the happy cheap efterneen I spent in there efter nicking my granny’s zimmer, sprinkling talc in my hair and drawing lines on ma coupon.
So, I’ve nailed an auld fite bedsheet tae the wa’ (weel, it’s maistly fite) and hiv been building my ain projector oot o’ a shoe box
Also, there wiz niver nae kids being rowdy or folk sitting in the seats next tae ye or onyb’dy else in there at a’ hardly. Fit I suppose is the hale problem.
It’s been great tae see that local folk is banding together in an attempt tae save the Belmont, and a few hiv already chucked their hat in the ring tae tak it o’er. But these things can tak a filie, so I hiv taen steps tae set up my ain arthoose cinema, tae fill the gap in the meantime.
I reckon I can squeeze a hunner fowk intae my living room at a time – seeing as it’s noo uncluttered by ony furniture, fit is a’ready chopped up to be burnt for heat this winter.
As for yer choice o’ film, I can offer a cornucopia o’ classics fae my extensive collection o’ VHS tapes, acquired fan Global Video on Holburn Street went bust afore I could pit them back. Titles such as Police Academy, Porky’s and Smokey and the Bandit Part 3 definitely fit the definition o’ arthoose cinema ‘cause they arnae even slightly entertaining and naeb’dy really wints tae watch them.
So, I’ve nailed an auld fite bedsheet tae the wa’ (weel, it’s maistly fite) and hiv been building my ain projector oot o’ a shoe box, a magnifying gless, and a Ferguson portable TV fae my Grunny’s back bedroom. Weel, she niver ging’s in there these days. Nae since I nicked her zimmer.
Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunt, 13th Earl of Kinmuck
Yet again, the once-proud British Empire limps meekly toward yellow-bellied surrender in a matter of international diplomacy – and I am getting jolly well fed up with it.
It looks as though the Elgin Marbles could soon be heading back to Greece, if the politically correct brigade has anything to say about it. My position on the matter is clear: “Hands off, Kyriakos! Leave these ancient Greek sculptures in the British Museum where they rightfully belong!”
I must confess, I spent much of my youth mistakenly thinking the Elgin Marbles were a collection of glass balls from Morayshire. My Grandpapa, the 11th Earl, once returned from Findhorn with a jet black “shooter” and was simply unbeatable!
I later learned, however, that they are, in fact, a collection of sculptures that an enterprising bunch of art-loving Brits rescued from a state of dreadful disrepair in the Parthenon in Athens in a selfless act of conservation. I mean to say, the place is an absolute shambles. Doesn’t even have a roof on it.
One of my forebears, the 7th Earl, was an old army chum of Thomas Bruce, the Earl of Elgin, and accompanied him on his sojourn to the Ottoman Empire at the turn of the 19th century, whereupon they removed the sculptures and shipped them back to Blighty. And rightly so.
It makes me sick to my stomach to think of the Marbles being returned to Greece by the so-called “woke” mafia
The Ottomans might have been hot on those clever footstool storage contraptions for the end of your bed, but they didn’t have the first idea how to look after such delicate masterpieces.
It makes me sick to my stomach to think of the Marbles being returned to Greece by the so-called “woke” mafia, like former Conservative culture minister, Lord Vaizey, so I shall have to make my own protest.
I’ve asked my private secretary to ensure that all Nana Mouskouri records are kept away from the gramophone, and I’ve told chef that moussaka is off the menu. Take that, Aristotle!
Conversation