The Prime Meenister, proving tae the world she still has some pals
This is why, each year fur coming oan twa decades noo, ye’ll no’ see the word “Christmas” mentioned here until the annual orgy o’ overspending, overeating and overbevvying is actually upon us.
Naw; ah’m no’ going tae add tae the lang drawn oot agony the shops inflict oan us already.
This micht be the first edition o’ yir Gazzy o’ the month o’August but ah can bet ye a ten bob note tae a brass flybutton that, afore you even pit this paper intae the bin or cat’s litter tray, there’ll be the first selection boxes and chocolate Santa’s oan the shelves.
(Last year, oot o’ noseyness, ah clocked the ‘Use By’ info oan a September-bought Christmas drum o’ sweeties tae observe tae mah horror the date “November 25”. Aye; ‘Christmas’ sweeties mah bahookie!)
Mah refusal tae start the Yuletide celebrations the meenute the last discarded Buckie bottle is cleared by the cooncil midgie-men frae the High Street efter Lanimer Day has led tae allegations that ah’m no’ actually a Christian.
True, ah did think furra while during mah youth that ah might actually be Jewish.
This belief wis purely based oan the flimsy evidence that ah hud an Uncle Solly and an Aunt Esther. AND they even lived in Newton Mearns!
But naw; it turned oot that ah wis jist a typical Lanarkshire mongrel wae a lapsed Presbyterian mither and a VERY lapsed Roman Catholic faither. Ah decided tae play things safe by supporting Motherwell, putting mah grush intae Sally Army collection tins and only entering a House of God during dire emergencies; ie; getting merrit yet again or a very close relative or pal’s funeral. Onyway, ye’ll be wondering why ah’ve broken the habit of hauf a lifetime by mentioning the ‘C-word’ (Christmas, that is) while we’re a guid four and a hauf months awa’ frae oor annual bankruptcy.
Weel, it’s that this coming Christmas micht just be oor last-ever ‘ordinary’ wan.
Every wan following this will be Brexit Christmasses.
Noo, like Yuletide, Brexit is anither subject ah’ve steered clear o’, thinking ye’ll be up tae your oxters in it aff the telly and national newspapers already withoot me offering mah perils o’ wisdom.
Dinnae worry; ah’m as scunnered as you are wae the whole stushie but mah interest wis re-kindled when Saint Theresa, the infamous Oxfordshire Wheatfield Trampler, efter much o’ the usual hummin’-an’-hawin’ admitted that Britain is noo stockpiling food in readiness fur becoming Europe’s Johnny No Pals next year.
Weel, ah dinnae intend tae reveal tae ye how ah voted in the Referendum when ah went tae the polling station at Robert Owen School in 2016 wearing a beret, clogs, lederhosen, matador’s cape and riding a Vespa scooter but this disnae soond like the Golden Age we wir promised.
Personally, ah dinnae savour the prospect o’ making Christmas dinner 2019 oot o’ the contents o’ a food parcel marked “A Gift to Britain From The People of Ethiopia”. Supplies micht run sae short that Mrs May will rue tramping ower all yon guid wheat when she wis a wean.