The latest topical insight from Aberdeen musical sketch comedy team, The Flying Pigs.
Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who honestly does kind of hope it’s coming home
Like any fan of the bountiful game, I has been glued to the edge of my seat throughout the Euros. There’s been drama, hypertension and no shortage of controverbial moments – but most of all there’s been some high quality football (and plenty of opportunities to make a quick buck off the bookies!).
Personally, old Kenny is still recovering from the disappointment of Scotland’s early exit. Still, the boys done themselves proud, especially when they thrashed England 0-0 down at Wembley, and the tail between their legs held high.
Sunday’s final sees old Kenny caught between two spools. On the one hand, it would be absolutely brilliant to see England’s greetin faces if they get beat, but on the other foot I genuinely think they could actually win it.
Like all Scotland fans, I’ve been hoping they would stop banging on about 1966 for years – but replacing it by harping on about 2020, won in 2021, wasn’t what I had in mind.
But then my lovely wife Melody appealed to my better nature. She says to me, she says: “Come on Kenny. England is our neighbour and ally. You should be cheering them on, not hoping they lose!”
And she’s right. So, on Sunday, I’ll be waving the St George’s cross and singing “tree lines on the shirt” with pride. But I will be drinking chianti and eating spaghetti bolognese for my tea.
Professor Hector Schlenk, Senior Researcher at the Bogton Institute for Public Engagement with Science
As a scientist in a pandemic I continue to be asked extremely tough questions like: “Should we really stop all Covid restrictions at once?”, “Should we be concerned that ARI has cancelled all non-urgent procedures?” and “Would you like to buy some bits of granite?” To which my answers are: “No”, “yes” and “no comment”.
As a devotee of science with no understanding of the appeal of football, I have been spending the last few days ignoring triumphant England fans and instead looking with increased envy towards those about to blast off into the atmosphere above our planet.
I yearn for the chance to go to space, mostly because doing so on Sunday will be the only way to avoid the English media’s jingoistic fever about 1966 and all that
Looking at photos of youths dancing about on top of a London bus without masks or social distancing was already enough to make me wish I had my own rocket in the shed.
Don’t get me wrong, I have known the delirium of excitement. I was beside myself with joy on the night they discovered the Higgs boson particle was not a theoretical impossibility, but at least I kept my top on.
Anyway, if all goes to plan, noted tycoon Richard Branson will be launched into space on July 11. He has admitted to feeling nervous at the prospect of climbing into a winged rocket ship at the age of 70, and has said that he truly believes that space belongs to all of us. To which we might add, all of us with a spare £20 million in our hip pooches.
I myself am saddened that this trip is the preserve of a rich beardy man who some see as an irritant, rather than, say, a poor baldy man who my wife sees as an irritant. I yearn for the chance to float high above the earth’s surface, partly for the scientific experience but mostly because doing so on Sunday will be the only way to avoid the English media’s jingoistic fever about 1966 and all that.
Wally Funk is an 82-year-old female aerospace pioneer, and not, as I first assumed when I saw the name, a jazz impresario from Clatt
As I tried to say on TalkSport before they cut me off, 55 years is a figure too minuscule to care about when the universe itself has existed for 14 billion years.
In choosing his launch day, Branson is also aiming to beat his fellow astronomically wealthy billionaire Jeff Bezos into space by nine days – as clear an example of “rocket waving” as I have seen in many a day.
Bezos is to be accompanied by someone named Wally Funk, who is, in fact, an 82-year-old female aerospace pioneer, and not, as I first assumed when I saw the name, a jazz impresario from Clatt.
Their voyage will involve a trip 62 miles up and then back again on a 10 minute journey, for which one mystery passenger has paid £20 million for a seat: a price tag that puts even Scotrail in the shade.
Like Branson’s, this flight is only sub-orbital, reaching just beyond the edge of outer space to experience weightlessness, but not with sufficient velocity go into orbit or beyond. This term is not to be confused with “sub-optimal”, like the UK Government’s response to the pandemic.