Viceroy Muddle's Christmas Er Um Message

Yuletide Greetings, North British plebs.

Not to be outdone by her royal niceness, Queen Nicky of the Nats, or The First Minister as she insists on being called, I'm delivering my own Christmas message to the People of Scotland. (I hope you appreciate my use of that word, by the way, given that it's a notion my master despises with every fibre of his being. And he's not too keen on the word 'Scotland' either.)

So here we are at the end of another year, and what a year it's been. Conservatives up and down the land celebrated my triumphant return in the May General Election, gloriously humiliating the Nats in what turned out to be a miserable night for them, despite winning 56 seats.  I had no sooner celebrated my victory than I found myself summoned to Downing Street (or 'the opium den' as I like to call it) for a friendly chat with our Beloved Leader.

He was as cordial as ever.

Eating ice cream and visiting Biggar are only two of my onerous
official duties.

"Don't get up," he said as he breezed in.
"But my knees are starting to ache," I said.
The sound of his laughter did alleviate my suffering a little, however.
"Not to beat around the bush, I've got a job for you," he said, with his customary not beating around the bush. What a marvellous, decisive leader he is in every way. "The Coalition's up the spout now we have a majority. Do you realise what that means?"
"I don't have to curtsey to Nick Clegg any more..?"
He smiled sardonically and came out from behind his desk. "My dear Muddle..."
"It's Mun-dell..."
"Whatever." He grabbed my lapels and gave me an affectionate shake. "You won't have to curtsey to any of those Lie Bombs ever again."
"Er..it's pronounced LibDems, I think..."
"Let the historians worry about what to call them. They're finished. It's us now, only us. Nothing will ever stand in our way again. What I need to know, Muddle, is are you with us?"
Too choked to speak, largely because his hands were gripping my throat but also because of the emotion of the moment, I nodded my assent.

Here's me being especially masterful during Scottish
Questions, although I do need some help from my cabinet
colleagues to come up with the answers.

"Marvellous. Up you get then. I want you to take over at the Scottish Office now Fatty Carbunkle's out in the cold. Think you can handle it?"
"Er..um..."
"Good, well that's that sorted then."
"It's just..."
"What? Oh, don't worry, there's nothing to it. Stir the shit, keep us up to date on what Sturgeon's lot are up to and spout the party line at every opportunity. Oh, and for God's sake do a better job of leaking than Fatty did."
"I'll do my best, Sir."
"Good man. Now piss off, I've got real ministers to see."

So, thus anointed, I found myself with the onerous responsibility of keeping an eye on Scotland.  Luckily I had toiled under Alistair in the previous administration so I was no stranger to the role, but I hope to bring some of my own special effervescence to the job in the years ahead. Prepare to be..er, um...amazed.