Absence notes were flying through the air quicker than the Platelayer's wit, or £50 pound notes zooming out of the Electrician's wallet, ahead of the fixture at Warrington.

Morse was on consort duties and like Albert always slips effortlessly into the role. The Major, for the second week in succession, missed out on some splendid hospitality, as he pampered and preened himself for a gala evening.

There was a rumour that the Solicitor was sharpening some quills, heating up the red wax before a return to chambers and a re-acquaintance with statutory tortes. Some people have all the fun, but it did mean that the Allen keys, plus the matching screwdriver set, had to be returned to the tool box.

The Fitter was flashing his patent leather over at "Strictly Come Burnley" while Shagpile was apparently incapable of moving his limbs following some over indulgence thanks to the largesse of Gilly and the Oil Tycoon earlier in the week.

Big Norman's with his recently diagnosed "Domino Shoulder," it had moved up from his elbow, was home alone because the Saintly Celia and PA Claire had gone off shopping at the crack of dawn without making sure that he was properly dressed. The Press Secretary rode to the rescue, straightening the collar and adjusting the tie and making him presentable.

It is a busy time of the year for Big Norman as he clips on his white beard, pulls on his black boots and red coat, flings his sack over his shoulder-ouch!-and with Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph and the rest pawing at the ground he will be setting off, to the sound of sleigh bells ringing, on his merry way to numerous local venues before putting his feet up on Christmas morning.

The Accountant had returned relatively unscathed from his trip North of the Border and brought along a flask of stunning malt but failed to remember the name of the bottled beer, or was it beers? he had been drinking to celebrate St Andrew's day that brought on a touch of the "Gay Gordon's." He does appear to suffer memory lapses when in his son's company; Kirkby Lonsdale comes to mind.

After the Press Secretary's navigational skills had once again expertly guided Trevor, the coach driver, to the destination and Gilly had untangled his hands from the Stannah Stair Lift mechanism the Alies were fed and watered by President Dennis in a friendly festive clubhouse.

Prop Ross Pillow, he must have drawn the short straw for finding an off-licence, used his GPS to find a watering hole and as the coach meandered back to the M6 there were squeals of delight at the dazzling displays of Christmas decorations adoring the houses and gardens. There was, it must be reported one dissenting voice, the Historian who was heard muttering, not in a stage whisper, "Bah! Humbug," at each display of luminosity.

It is doubtful if he will be sitting on Big Norman's knee in the next few days, despite the promise of a gift wrapped ounce of St Bruno.