The latest topical insights from Aberdeen musical sketch comedy team, The Flying Pigs, written by Andrew Brebner, Simon Fogiel and John Hardie.
Cosmo Fawkes-Hunt, 13th Earl of Kinmuck
Ahead of the coronation, there’s been a lot of lefty liberal flimflam about how Charles needs to be a “more modern monarch” and “reach out to a multicultural, multi-faith Britain”. Hogwash! Codswallop and piffle with a poppycock chaser! If he knows what’s good for us, Charles will be every bit as imperial as his forebears!
I urge his majesty to reverse the rot at the heart of our once proud nation. Free Britannia from the shackles of her dock in Leith! Arm her as a gunboat, retake America, plunder the commonwealth and rebuild the empire!
And he can start off by doing to any of these so-called “protestors” today what Richard III would have done – whisk them off to the Tower of London, put them in stocks, and have the Beefeaters pelt them with fecund fruit!
Rule Britannia!
Tanya Souter, lifestyle guru
I da ken aboot youse, but I dinna begrudge Charlie and the rest spending £100 million o’ taxpayers’ money on the coronation during a cost-o’-living crisis. I winna moan aboot that being a misuse o’ my taxes, seeing as I dinna pey naen.
Today promises tae be oors o’ fun, though, dis it? Big Sonya’s coming roon wi’ the booze and were gaan tae hae a laugh at a’ the palaver.
I mean, hiv ye heard fit’s gan tae happen? Charlie his tae weer a shimmering golden cloak and gets ile poured on him fae a supernatural spoon, files he sits on a chair fit is 700 year auld and his a built-in slot for a magic rock. It’s mintil, is it? It’s like The Owl and the Pussy-Cat meets Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
Mind you, I dinna hink I’ll be jining in at the bittie far ab’dy’s been asked tae sweer allegiance tae the King. Although, if it’s nae feenished by half four and I miss The Chase, I will definitely be sweering!
Davinia Smythe-Barrett, ordinary mum
Like all ordinary mums, I always want to stay true to my core values, but the coronation weekend is testing my resolve!
On the one hand, I think the monarchy is an outdated and elitist institution that is at the root of the harsh inequities that permeate our class-based society. But, on the other hand, my friend Susannah is throwing a gluten-free garden party, complete with vegan cream teas and a dishy bartender providing the cocktails!
Long live the King!
View From The Midden with Jock Alexander
Here in the village, we are steeped in the auld wyes. So, we’re massive fans o’ convoluted and archaic mystical traditions wi’ nae basis in reality. Hence, this wikend, we’re haein a massive street pairty in the square, as we dinna hae ony ither streets intact.
Wir centrepiece is a 50 fit high sculpture o’ the King gien a royal wave, fit the kiddies fae the village skweel hiv made oot o’ dubs. It has melted a bittie in the unseasonal heat, but only tae the extent that een o’ his ears his slid don tae his chin.
Plus as is wir ain unique village tradition, we also hiv the coronation chicken. Nae tae eat, mind
Ye can still tell fa it’s meant tae be, like, thanks tae the big hat and the corgi. Although Haldie Winton says it’s noo the spit o’ Postman Pat.
Plus as is wir ain unique village tradition, we also hiv the coronation chicken. Nae tae eat, mind. We sellotape a wee crown onto the heid o’ een o’ Feel Moira’s brood and pit her in chairge for the day. Aye, the bird, nae Moira – we’re nae daft, ye ken!
Shelley Shingles, showbiz reporter and Miss Fetteresso 1983
OM royal G! You will be shocked and devastated to hear that my invite to the Abbey has clearly been lost in the post. No sign of the embossed envelope chez Shingles and, yet, they’ve got the likes of Amanda Holden and Ant and Dec turning up? Unbelievable.
So, I’m sat here at home in all my bling and poshest of posh frocks, while my waterproof mascara performs miracles on my behalf, putting a brave face on it. Luckily, I have a fridge full of prosecco and a big tub of Quality Street (my palace sources tell me that His Maj favours the purple one, whereas Camilla likes a toffee finger), and at least I’ll have an unobstructed view of the proceedings on TV, rather than finding myself stuck behind Joanna Lumley in a massive hat.
Of course, me and His Majesty King Charles III go way back. We first met in the summer of 1983, when he cadged a fag off me round the back of Crathie Kirk, while he was waiting for his mum to come out.
He recognised me from the papers, as I hadn’t long been made Miss Fetteresso. I’ll never forget what he said to me: “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
I mean, I’d put on a bit of beef since the pageant, but that was just rude! “You’re no oil painting yourself, min,” I shot back.
OM actual G – maybe that’s why I never got an invite?
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