This vile creature, lives behind a chip shop in a dark dank alleyway which rarely sees the light of day.
Slithering in the corners, Sturgeon is a good Smeagol swallowing deep-fried Mars bars whole without batting an eyelid. Ever since she received the ring of the SNP, Sturgeon has been consumed by the power of it all.
“Yes-s-s-s, my precious-s-s,” she says rubbing her little plastic ring, her eyes wide in the darkness, sniffing the niffy air.
Suddenly a sodden drunk Scot enters the alley, and lifts his kilt. His urine exalts the brickwork and rubbish bins, the steam rising like rain clouds over Ben Nevis, Sturgeon knows its drinky time, and consumes her Irn-Bru with gusto.
Like a good Glaswegian, the man then takes out a needle and jams it into his groin, sighing as the dirty dose of third-class heroin enters his veins. Throwing the used needle into the darkness, he hears a sound of pain as it hits Gollum.
“Scuse me Miss Sturgeon, didn’t see you there,” the man says leaving hurriedly.
Smeagol is back in her Scottish parliament amongst the used needles, overflowing bins and used condoms.
Time to keep plotting against the Sassenachs, an evil smile curls round Smeagol’s thin lips, she picks up another partially eaten deep-fried Mars bar and swallows without chewing. Time is on her side.
