Hands off our Irn-Bru, Trump! Or feel the bite of Scotland’s four good teeth

This week my country woke to the news that the US had attacked Irn-Bru. Since Scotland doesn’t yet have an air force, we did the next best thing and scrambled into readiness our elite republican guard of journalists and media fishwives. From Wick to Gretna the sound of jerking knees was deafening and the air thrummed with the prickly indignation of talking heads. We love the smell of hyperbole in the morning. We quickly concluded that since Irn-Bru had no military or strategic value, then the object of the attack must have been to weaken our national morale. It was a bloodbath, except in a can and with lots of sugar.

Irn-Bru, I should explain to anyone indifferent or blind to the sufferings of my people, is a fizzy drink of doubtful virtue. But it must be protected with our lives – or, if not lives, teeth. We have four good teeth left in Scotland, and they’re in a glass case in the Wallace Monument next to the great man’s sword and a Scottish £20 note that was turned down by a petrol pump attendant in Surbiton. Grievance is to us what depression was to Philip Larkin.

This week’s inciting incident took place in the plush surroundings of Trump Turnberry, the president’s luxury Scottish golf complex. It emerged that the general manager, Ralph Porciani – don’t bother Googling, there is no Porciani tartan – has officially banned Irn-Bru because the complex has undergone an expensive upgrade and “the Bru”’, when spilled, leaves indelible orange stains on the carpet.

Earlier this week Donald Trump announced the US’s withdrawal from the Iranian nuclear deal. Being Scots, we now concluded this move to have been a crude feint intended to divert attention from the deep insult to our second national drink. But why? Like others, I was puzzled. Donald Trump trails orange tanning cream the way random spooks leave novichok on door handles. With this in mind, I randomly trolled the forum of “Cleantalk: carpet cleaning solutions and machines”, and after a painstaking search lasting a full moment found the following from a Mr Keith Smith:

“I am looking for a good remover of Irn bru and fake tan. I need it for a small spill of juice and a few drops of fake tan. Any help welcome. Thanks.”

Now here comes the kicker – that plea from Mr Smith is dated 4 July 2012. Six years ago, comrades! Settle yourselves, there’s more. Expert help from a Mr Matthew Martin to Mr Smith was forthcoming the same day: “Hi Keith, with the fake tan it will probably not come out as it is a dye stain…” Sensing a “however”, and with quickening heartbeat, I read on, “M Power might shift the juice or Microspotter could help.”

In other words, Irn-Bru stains may be easier to remove than fake-tan stains; yet Irn-Bru, and not fake tan, has been banned from Trump Turnberry. Was this a smoking gun? The heady scent of a Pulitzer prize wooed my senses until I read this from Mr Ken Wainwright, dated 5 July, the next day: “Hi Keith. Irn Bru. This stain will require the use of bleaching agents and I would use the same guidelines [I have provided] above. Regardless, I would be doubtful of a perfect undamaged result.”

Friends, as a patriot – even a Scots one – I am obliged to see things exactly as they are. At the time of writing, the Turnberry ban on Irn-Bru remains in place. Turnberry is in Ayrshire, the county of Burns. I’m sure Donald Trump is more familiar with carpet burns than Robert Burns. When he next visits us he will be assured of the red, or indeed orange, carpet treatment. Donald, be warned, a nation waits to bare its spiritual teeth. All four of them.

• Ian Pattison is a playwright and novelist