The latest topical insights from Aberdeen musical sketch comedy team, The Flying Pigs, written by Andrew Brebner and John Hardie.
View from the Midden – rural affairs with Jock Alexander
It’s been an accommodating week in the village. There’s been much excitement here aboot the Airbnb sensation jist doon the road fae us. If ye’ve nae seen it, the official listing cries it “Bogancloch Treehouse”, but it can also be described as an auld caravan stuck up a tree in Rhynie.
For jist £20 a nicht, ye dinna hae tae worry about ony o’ the mony trials and tribulations o’ life in the modren world, like electricity, and the only running watter is fit comes oot o’ the sky. Ye bring yer ain sleeping bug and get a paraffin lamp at nicht, presumably jist in case ye wint tae set the place alight tae gie yerself a heat.
Despite the apparent risk o’ recreating yon final scene fae The Italian Job, guests hail the experience as “amazing”, and gi’e it an impressive 4.5 oot o’ five rating.
Far else, they ask, could ye get such a cheap nicht sae close tae nature? And ye can indeed get affa close, especially if ye get up in the nicht, ging looking fer the lavvie and land 12 feet doon on the forest fleer wi’ yer legs the wrang wye roond.
Apparently, it can accommodate up tae three guests, though, looking at the photies o’ it, I widna like tae see the result if ony o’ them were fit, in these body-positive times, we will delicately call “great muckle”. But the mannie fa owns it says the caravan is chained tae the tree and, “touch wood”, it’s secure. Fit is quite the attitude.
So, of course, the obvious question for us in the village is, fan did Rhynie get sae classy? And fit wye did we nae think o’ it first? Cos the tabloids are a’ o’er it, and there are riches tae be had, so it’s time I got masel ontae the Airbnb money tree.
Of course, we dinna hae mony trees here, thanks tae the Arctic winds fit blaw fae the Urals, hing a left at Siberia and then head straight doon wir chimneys. So, we canna compete directly wi’ a caravan up a ledder, but onyb’dy winting tae spend the nicht in the back o’ beyond somewye nae fit for human habitation is maist welcome tae hae a go in my coo shed.
It’ll be the authentic rural B&B experience, richt enough. Nah, nah, nae “bed and breakfast”: basic and baltic.
It has exactly the same lack o’ facilities as the treehouse, but scores o’er it in a few significant wyes. Firstly, it is on ground level. Weel, maybe a wee bittie above, thanks tae the build up o’ sharn.
And, in contrast tae the lonely forest wilderness ootside Rhynie, I can promise ye lots of company – and quite a bit o’ methane – fae the friendly Friesians fit will be sharing your unique living space.
Dinna worry aboot setting an alarm – feeding time is 5am, but ye’ll a’ready be awake, thanks tae nature’s wake-up call. I hiv yet tae see onyb’dy sleep through getting their face licked fae a coo.
Cheerio!
Cosmo Ludovic Fawkes Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck
I see that Brendan Clarke-Smith, a man with a name as trusty and double-barrelled as my favourite Winchester, has been on the wrong end of some clichéd criticism for saying that hard-pressed families should ditch big brands like Heinz and buy supermarkets’ own instead.
“The privilege!” the critics splutter, “The sheer effrontery of it!” Piffle, of course. Piffle with a side order of balderdash and a good, generous slice of troublemaking tomfoolery with ice cream and custard!
Really, since when has it been a crime to state the obvious? Why pay three times the price for a bean when a cheaper offering will still have you trumpeting to your heart’s content?
Of course, whenever anyone finds themselves impecunious, they should look to cut costs where appropriate! We Fawkes-Huntes have known poverty. After my great-great-grandpapa lost half his fortune on the turn of a card in Monte Carlo, he solved the problem by simply tightening his belt. Specifically, he tightened it around the neck of the fella who’d won it off him, and who then miraculously decided to give it back.
But even I have due regard to economy these days. Why, last year, my butler came home with a boot full of Aldi’s own-brand champagne instead of my usual Krug. I’ll admit, it took a bit of getting used to – but, since then, I’ve bathed in nothing else!
Conversation