Celtic Promise

Two men sit in a private dining room in Storemont. They appear to be relaxed and despite the fact that there is no wine or beer on the table there is a definite air of conviviality. The green lawns seen on two sides of the room reflect a warmth into the conversation.

So, Ian, it’s a wee while since we had a good natter.

Indeed it is Martin. The Good Lord has showered much upon us!

Not as much as on some poor buggers!

Now Martin, you know I abjure profanity.

Sorry Ian, but I am a keen student of the interweb and times have been hard for many. I am aware, also, that you may have had a few problems yourself up at the Kirk. Thank god we don’t have that kind of problem with the Army Council.

That would be a capital G Martin, if you don’t mind, and I think it will all blow over soon enough. I have been here before many times and with the help of My Saviour and herself the Baroness we have weathered many storms.

Ian let’s get stuck into the cheese, it was my shout and I think I have come up with a real stoater!

Good gracious, you certainly have. I must get the Baroness to order some of this.

Ian, I’m sorry to do this to you but it is ‘Celtic Promise’.

Ah Martin I’m lost. If herself or the Kirk ever find out; I’m completely lost.

Not so Ian, not so at all. Your secret‘s safe with me like so many others.

Well maybe just a little more and then some of that red Leicester.

Now you’re talking Ian.

The meal comes slowly to a companionable conclusion and each man feels that progress has been made. The stink of Celtic Promise cocoons them from the harsh world of ‘foot in mouth’, nuclear proliferation, pending eco-doom or the ravages of sub prime warriors.