Brewster skewers Great Fluffy Puddin o’ the Chieftain Race


Commentary by Citizen “Sir” F’tang F’tang Ole Biscuit Barrel, er-Cuddis, Knight of the Realm of Despondency that is Scotlandshire.

Gordon Brewster’s recent Politics Scotland interview with the central belt’s premier transmit-only windbag, ‘Fluff’ Mundell  produced a decisive first round knockout as the BBC frontman sent the Westminster shyster crashing to the canvas with a single question: ’You once said that if it was the will of the Scottish people to have another referendum you’d not block it? Is that still what you believe?’

Fluffy: Feared everywhere, mainly for his farts which are most foul.
Fluffy: Feared everywhere, mainly for his farts which are gruesome.

Fluff came out of his corner swinging wildly, desperately trying to Ali-shuffle his way around the Brewster’s question. Fluff bobbed. Weaved. Danced away. But not before spluttering as if he’d just swallowed a Forfar Bridie sideways.

The tenacious Brewster kept coming, forcing Fluff to drop the macho act and adopt the demeanour of a bush-baby that’s just dropped a couple of eckies, before hiding in a tea cosy, blinking nervously out through the spout hole.

Had the interview indeed been a boxing match, the referee would have stepped in to allow Fluff’s seconds to drag him back to his dressing room by the elasticated waistband of his boxer’s mega-pants, shouting: ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ (A reply of ‘How should I know? I’m not the Chancellor of the Exchequer,’ is usually a sign of recovery.)

In the Fluff Mundell School of Oratory, students are taught to yelp native English phonemes. These should be randomly assembled so as to render them incomprehensible in all of the Earth’s 6,500 languages. Each yelp must end with a bird-like screech which serves in lieu of a full stop in Fluff-speak —‘Wuck puck, SQUAWK!! This sound mimics the abject panic of a barnyard hen following a call of ‘Fox in the hen hoose!’

As Fluff’s knees turned to jelly, Brewster followed up (the old one-two) by asking if he agreed with Ruth Davidson that the government should not stand in the way of a second referendum on Scottish independence. He repeated the question six times. Each time, the volume of Fluff’s voice rose faster than a seagull in an updraft until he could have drowned out a foghorn.

Gordon Brewster surveys his photographer with utter contempt, as a warm-up for Fluffy.
Gordon Brewster surveys his photographer with utter contempt, as a warm-up for Fluffy.

Decibel for decibel, had Brian Blessed accidentally slammed the lid of a solid oak toilet seat through an arc ending in the sandwiching of his bobby’s helmet between seat and ceramic rim, he could not have roared louder than fluff during this interview. In the American tropics, howler monkeys held their paws over their ears.

Note for Fluff-o-philes:

He’s not shouting to get his point across — compelled to do his mistress’ bidding, he’s rarely afforded the luxury of having one — he’s shouting in fear that if he stops, the interviewer will lay low his pants-on-fire claims, causing first his beard, then his reputation to spontaneously combust.

Occasionally, recognisable fragments of language escape Fluff’s lips. His spin doctors don’t like it but no one’s perfect. The central idea behind all of these fragments is invariably: That the vast majority of Scottish people don’t want another referendum.

Meanwhile, Brewster had Fluffy against the ropes, mercilessly pummelling his tripe. This contest was no contest at all. This contest was Rocky Marciano versus Little Lord Fauntleroy.

Fluff was down, but not yet out. Heartened perhaps by the belief that he may have done enough to earn an ‘Attaboy!’ from Ms May, Fluff managed to get to his knees before the count of ten. ‘There might be a post-Brexit cornucopia stuffed with an avalanche of two tsunamis of more powers for Scotland,’ he wheezed. ‘Powers upon which the human eye has never set foot, including Fisheries and Agriculture and … well … who knows what else?’.

Who indeed.


Fluff Mundell is part of a cabal of valve-powered, anachronistic, tripe-transmitting analogue MPs, adrift in the digital age, broadcasting Westminster spin on long wave and marking time until their Knighthoods arrive in the post. Arise, Sir Fluffy… perhaps sooner than later to be Lord Fluffy of North Britland.