[Author’s note: You know what? Don’t bother reading Part I, Part II and Part III of this story; you’re an intelligent person, you’ll soon pick up what’s happening. ]
Finding himself back at home Trump lay abed for not a single second. He leapt up and, monogrammed night shirt fluttering, ran to the window and threw it open.
The first figure he spied was a happy youth, weaving drunkenly along the street below his chamber.
“You! Boy!” he called out.
The boy tried to look up, realised that was a bit ambitious unaided, grabbed a lamppost for support and finally managed to raise his eyes in Trump’s direction.
“Wha?” he asked, with cheerful and good-natured aggression.
“What day is it, boy?” queried Trump.
“S’Hogmanay, you senile ol’ git!” slurred the drinker.
“It’s still Hogmanay? Oh those wonderful, clever spirits have shown me all of those things in one night. I still have time to make amends!”
“Tell me, my good fellow, do Oddbins still have that huge bottle of Bucky in their window?”
“The 20 litre one? I should say so.”
“Then run there now and tell them Donald Trump says to send that bottle to the house of Alex Salmond with his best wishes for the season!”
Having entrusted that task to somebody legally and mentally incapable of enacting it Trump closed the window and hurriedly dressed himself. As soon as he was a decent as he had any hope of being he set off through the celebrating city at a pace that demanded every ounce of his extraordinary strength and stamina, feeling blessed that he was endowed with astonishingly excellent good health.
Meanwhile, in the poor end of Edinburgh, Alex gave the last tinnie a shake.
“There’s a wee drop at the bottom, Tiny Wings,” he said, “Would you like it? You’re not your usual belligerent self this evening.”
“You have it, da,” said Tiny Wings, shaking his little head,” I’m full to the brim with happiness and joy for all mankind.”
Upon hearing this Salmond’s face whitened. “Nicola, hen, do we have enough pennies for some drink for Wings? I do worry when he talks like this.”
Nicola scraped through her dilapidated purse, “We’ve only enough for my helicopter petrol in the morning, Alex, and without that I can’t get to work. I’ll get the sack and then where will we be?”
Alex sat down heavily and sunk his head into his hands, but was startled to his feet only a second later as the family’s front door crashed open. Through it came a figure laden down with every manner of festive drink, even the traditional 4am Drambuie.
“Mr Trump?” he exclaimed, barely recognising him when he was wearing such a huge smile.
“Salmond…Alex…my dear friend, Alex! I have brought you drinks aplenty! Tonight you and your family shall see in Hogmanay like proper Scots!”
Alex and Nicola were too startled to speak, Mr Trump having never shown them even the smallest kindness in all of the time that they’d known him, but Tiny Wings gave a loud cheer.
“Bless you, Tiny Wings!” yelled Trump, “Drink your fill, my fine young fellow!”. As Wings fell thirstily upon the bottles and cans that Trump had placed on the small table Donald placed an avuncular arm around Alex’s shoulders. “Alex, my good man, you shall have tomorrow off – with pay – for you and your family are going to have proper banging heeds in the morning. Come back to work the day after ready to start work as my new partner!”
“Partner!” gasped Alex, “Mr Trump, I don’t know what to say.”
“Then say you’ll do it, Alex. And I shall hear no more of ‘Mr Trump’, you are to call me ‘Donald’, and I hope you can find it in your great heart to also call me ‘friend’.”
Upon hearing this Alex took Donald’s hand and shook it with all of his might. “How could I call you anything else, when you have bestowed such generosity on my family this Hogmanay night? Look, already the weans can barely stand, such is their joy!”
“Then, my friend,” Trump tasted the unfamiliar word, “When you return to work we shall, together, forge the biggest, the best, the most fantastic independence that Scotland can afford. We shall have a wall 30…no, 40 feet high on the border, and we shall make the English pay for it! We’ll ban the evil Queen and her nonsense books – our children shall read the wholesome works of Iain Banks and Frankie Boyle and Irvine Welsh! We’ll ban museums from entering our country! We’ll make hundreds of progressive speeches, but always protect the middle-classes! We’ll blame the Tories or Labour or MI5 for everything! We’ll make sure that no child in Scotland goes to bed sober or numerate ever again!”
Those words launched the biggest and best party that the Salmond household had ever seen. As the night wore on people from miles around came to join in the festivities and to marvel at the new, reformed Trump. Those as far away as the other side of the Forth wept with pity that they could not get there.
Donald was never to see another ghost, but he learned his lesson well and the spirit of Hogmanay was always in his heart, whether he was having a little nip at his desk, swigging from a hip-flask while driving, or having a wee eye-opener with his breakfast. And when he passed away, four weeks later, it was in independent Scottish soil that he was interred.
The words upon his tombstone, which many visited, read “Fuck you, English!” and, as Tiny Wings said, “Fuck you, everyone!”
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