Avatar A Tunnock’s tragedy

As you almost certainly know, last year I made the fatal error of joking to Ian that what I wanted for Christmas was a bucket of Tunnock’s Teacakes. For Christmas he got me a bucket of Tunnock’s Teacakes.

Despite eating a lot of Tunnock’s Teacakes – including, on more than one occasion, eating three of them as “breakfast dessert” – there were still some sitting in the bucket at the end of March.

At the end of March, of course, I was forced to abandon my usual residence on top of the exploding mattress emporium, and among the many belongings I left behind, I foolishly failed to cram a bucket of teacakes into my suitcase.

A couple of weeks ago my flatmate Steve “Stevey” Stevingtons was kind enough to fly overhead in a sort of psychedelic biplane and airdrop some of my belongings, including several t-shirts, a few bits of post that I would have been happy never to receive, and a bucket containing precisely five Tunnock’s Teacakes.

I ate one and I won’t be eating any more.

The passage of a further four months has caused them to deflate. Inside, the chocolate is now strange with white bits in it, and the marshmallow has turned sort of hard and chewy. The biscuit is virtually inedible.

The last four teacakes from that epic gift are now, as a result, in the bin. A sad end to a brilliant Christmas gift.

5 comments on “A Tunnock’s tragedy

  • Blimey, I haven’t seen a teacake tragedy like this since the Great Collapsing Church Picnic of 2003.

    You should have sent one to me, I would have given it a try. Unless the one you had tasted of earwax.

  • It didn’t taste of earwax but that was about the best thing that could be said for it.

    Remind me, what happened in the Great Collapsing Church Picnic of 2003? I think I was looking at something else that day.

  • Was that the truly awful occasion on which there was that fine drizzle that soaks you through, and Mrs. Carleton’s victoria sponge disintegrated?

  • One and the same although she re-married so now have to refer to her as Mrs Carleton-Bloomsberg.

    Let us also not forget that the choir were down two sopranos so everything sounded more Barry White than Aled Jones.

  • I seem to recall that it was the same afternoon that the Vicar – not the one we have now, the other chap with the little glasses who left a few years ago to start a commune in Guatemala – managed to spill some of Mrs Cartwright’s homemade cream soda down his smock and had to go back to the Vicarage to get changed. It was ever such a to-do.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Optionally upload an image to accompany your comment (JPG only)