David McLetchie must have been soaking his raisins in brandy all night. Mike Rumbles was larding his tin. (All euphemisms strictly intended.) Between them, they were sure concoct a spicy batter – pounding their walnuts and grinding nutmeg – and to get a wry rise out of the Maximum Eck’s Christmas card, right.
Thatched in holly, frogged with mistletoe, McLetchie whisks his pat of lard into the mix, “Alex Salmond is trying to politicise Christmas, having already attempted to politicise the Saltire,
's national days and our children's education. His obsession with independence is blinding him to reality." Giving his beating biceps a rest, the citric Tory scattered in a flourish of peel. "He should get on with what he was elected to do, which is improving our schools and hospitals, and ditch these separatist stunts. For the overwhelming majority of Scots Alex Salmond's so-called 'journey to independence' is a road to nowhere.” Scotland
Creaming the First Minister to a peaky consistency, McLetchie then steered the bowl across to a festively-jumpered Mike Rumbles, bosom festooned with shepherds, three wise men marching wearily up his haunches, his frosty pow crowned with a gleaming star. Grubbing a thumb into the blend, Rumbles thought that it would be improved by a splash of his own favoured tipple:
“I'm sure people would be more impressed if the First Minister had thought about the message of Christmas rather than spent time picking out the most nationalistic Christmas card he could find. Everybody knows that the SNP are only interested in independence – the First Minister doesn't need to stick it on his Christmas cards too.”
A whiff of this was enough to coax a first-footing Foulkes into their kitchen, bearing gifts. An avuncular gleam in either eye, the Screaming Lord quickly realised that the batter was too sour – McLetchie oversqueezed the lemon – and with a sign of benediction, uncorked his bottle and sluiced sweet sugary vintage Foulkes into the blend:
“His card isn't entirely to my taste, but I would like to congratulate him for resisting the urge to put himself on it. He has shown commendable self-discipline.”
With a hoot of laughter, our three bakers shoved their cake into the oven’s rosy-red belly, and toasting a festive toast to the Maximum Eck over the Water, remark how the nights are fair drawing in. "Toss another saltire on the fire Lord George", McLetchie purrs from his mock reindeer-leather armchair.
“I’m perishing here”.
And very Holyrood Christmas controversy to you all! Naughty sprites, our protagonists are, wicked old elves chortling at their pocket mischiefs. Certainly, one can fairly find the Maximum Eck’s limited semiotic range rather tedious – but as an advent-brightener in dark days, the sheer giggling silliness of this is the distilled spirit of yuletide.
P.S. This blog cannot accept any responsibility for queasiness pursuing any innuendo-soaked reading of the foregoing chaste, comradely and simple tale of three fine fellows baking.