'No I most certainly do not' said the young literate man, 'It is quite obviously a scone.' And then, all hell broke loose. 'Scone!' 'No, scone' 'Yer a right bloody fool, its scone!' 'Why would ya go calling it a
scoooone, what's a scoooone?' The tent had descended into a bunfight, people were yelling at each other from a foot away, cakes were thrown into the air and landing on unsuspecting little old ladies who were mid-way through throwing punches at their oldest friends. It was nothing short of a pandemonium. 'Stop!' yelled the mayor of
Nabberjack. 'Don't you mean 'stoooop'' said one of the assistants to the mayor of Whiffling. 'Oh, leave off,' the mayor retorted, grabbing a cup and climbing over the writhing hoards he scrambled up the dais. 'Stop! Stop I say!' 'It's scone!'
'Yer mad.' 'Stop this at once or -' 'Can't ya read, yer daft cow?' 'At once or... or-' 'Aye, I can as a matter of fact, and that says scone!' 'STOP OR I'LL SPILL THIS TEA!' screamed the mayor, ignoring the terrible pains of
the marmite. And just as quickly as the madness started, it ended. A horrified silence permeated through the crowd. 'Yer'll spill it...' the owner of the small voice in the crowd hesitated and gulped, 'on purpose?' There was a gasp. 'Aye, I will' said the mayor, holding the cup aloft, 'if yous
lot don't pipe down and be civil ter one 'nother.' Another gasp and some squeals followed this grim sentence. Dotted about, there were small scuffles still taking place and as the mayor glowered at each one in turn, the surrounding people desperately tried to pull the fighters apart. 'He'll spill the tea! Think of the waste!'
'A whole kettle boiled for nothing if yous don't stop! Please!' The mayor tipped the cup precariously. One drop slipped out and dribbled down the side. It was as if someone had tortured the entire tent at once - all of them fell to their knees, grovelling desperately. 'Now,' said the mayor, satisfied with the effect, 'If the mayor of
Whiffling could kindly extract that vicar his headlock and come up here, we might sort this out with a spot of modesty and decorum.' Embarrassed, the mayor of Whiffling did as he was bid and let the unfortunate vicar go, who promptly collapsed on the floor wheezing. The mayor gave a small cough, dusted himself down and made his way stiffly to the front of the tent.
'Just a er.... just a little joke, that's all,' he muttered to his counterpart, who looked unimpressed. 'Humph' humphed the Nabberjacker. He took a small sip of the tea (the crowd sighed in relief that it was no longer a wasted brew) and began; 'Arright you lot. Now I'm speaking to you not as a mayor, not even as a citizen of my
beloved city,' he paused for the football hooligan style whoops of civil pride, 'but as an English gen'le man whos wot been raised properly. Wot just 'appned here was shameful -' 'Well,' interjected the other mayor, fiddling with his ermine trim, but he could go no further. 'It was shameful!' thundered the mayor of Nabberjack, shaking his fists so fiercely he
doused the front few rows in scalding tea. 'Utterly despicable,' he continued, ignoring the yelps of pain, 'that Whifflers think that that thing is a scone!' he doused the rows again, who desperately tried to evade the tea, unsuccessfully. 'Clearly, our young literate man, our brave denizen of Nabberjack was correct. It is a scone!' The mayor of Whiffling was not
known for his brains, having won the office because his mother's best friend was the chief vote-counter, but it did not take long for one of his assistants to tell him he had been tricked. 'Now, hold on,' he cried, determined not to be stopped a second time by grabbing the cup out of the outstretched hand of the seething Nabberjack mayor, 'Now hold
on just one minute, that Wetbottom lad was one of our boys, and whatever he did, that doesn't mean we can just deny his existence. He would'a called it a scone.' The mayor looked pleased with himself as his constituents nodded, agreeing with him on something for the first time. A vein popped on the scalp of the Nabberjack mayor, and his tic - wriggling his left
eyebrow - that he had for so long tried to hide, came back in a fury. 'But wasn't his father a Nabberjacker,' he said tersely, 'that makes him one of us before he was one of you. An' besides, yous lot are so backwards you can probably kiss yer own hairy arses. It's a scone.' The fight was far from over.