The Turd Man

I'd have preferred the night but my contact was desperate. I'd have preferred a discreet back close in Edinburgh but my contact was holed up in Glasgow. The weather had turned and I pulled the collar of my trenchcoat up against the cold as I boarded the train at Waverley. The saloon was a sea of Separatist Saltires and Common Weal See-Saws as I slid surreptitiously into my seat and screened my face with The Saturday Scotsman. My heart pounded, but my years of training in MI6 and a bottle of statins saw me through till we slid into Queen Street.

One doesn't simply dander round to JD Wetherspoons to meet McDoughnut on a mission like this. Fortunately, Glasgow has a Rickshaw Accompaniment Service made famous when Labour Imperial Master MPs drained their public expense accounts for a 20 minute photo shoot in Buchanan Street. I hired the rickshaw man to follow me so that the humble Andrew Whitaker could be steeled with Anton Karas' zither.

I deftly avoided the 2,000 strong herd of Harridans heading to meet the Heid-Harpie on the doomed Buchanan Street steps. The skirl of separatist bagpipes and the roar of bikers for indy were luckily a distant wail as I reached the pub. With some relief I saw McDoughnut had stationed two of his heavies outside and they held the door for me as I slipped inside.

My eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly lit room. Only the 2 plates stacked Ferrero-Rocher style with pork pies and doughnuts gave away the position of the Blair lair. I remembered the pass phrase.

"The Irn Bru is particularly effervescent for the time of year."

"But we shall still bribe non-University-going teenagers with a £1,890 Irn Bru Allowance". He deftly essayed the pre-arranged respose as I wiped the spray of doughnut crumbs from my trenchcoat.

As he raised another doughnut to his mouth but stopped half way, I saw his eyes narrow. Tension mounted and hands twitched under newspapers but the heavies on the door saw off the wheelchair-bound separatist suicide bomber.

McDoughnut's sidekick McTernan handed me a half sheet of A4. It was a list of a few SNP candidates and comments which could be construed as them wishing for a second referendum at some point in the future. I remonstrated "I risked my life for this pish?" I saw I'd overstepped the mark when McTernan exploded: "Call it a fucking Secret Dossier and fuck off and print it!"

I fucked off and printed it: Secret dossier ‘lays bare SNP push for indyref', narrowly avoiding the secret (BBC®™) gathering of thousands of separatists outside.

See also Wings - I think the Nazis are pretty good.