Anyone thinking of trying to turn Holyrood's yuletide into a Christmas No 1 single should probably think again. Radio One would ban the lyrics without a second thought.

"You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy First Minister," as Wendy Alexander didn't quite croon. Nicol Stephen almost chipped in with "I coulda been someone". Meanwhile, the boys and girls of the Opposition choir were still singing "Balmedie Beach". And the chief planner's phone was ringing out for Christmas Day.

In short, Donald Trump may create fairy tales in New York, but not in frosty old Edinburgh town.

Back in grim reality, Ms Alexander actually said: "First Minister, it is the season of goodwill".

"Humbug!" we cried as one. Thereafter all references to goodwill, festive spirit or peace were to be jocular, ironic, insulting or just ridiculous.

To put it another way, Alex Salmond concluded a peroration on Mr Stephen and dodgy Liberal donors with the imperishable sentiment: "That's what sleaze is! Happy Christmas!"

True, Mr Salmond had already been called "Ebenezer Scrooge in a kilt" by Annabel Goldie. True, he had already heard Ms Alexander suggesting that she didn't believe in Santa Claus, not where Mr Trump's golf resort planning application was concerned.

But Christmas is a time of giving. Where the Liberal leader was concerned, the First Minister meant to give as good as he got. Accused of an SO - sleaze odour - problem last week, Santa Salmond was stuffing a sackload up the Stephen lum and telling Nicol to smoke it.

This was no-one's idea of a Christmas party. For one thing, Ms Alexander clearly hoped to have the First Minister's nuts roasting on an open fire. Had he misused his position vis a vis Trumpopolis?

This was posed as a question, but only for form's sake. According to the leader of the party with a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy towards propriety, it is a rare humble MSP who can call up the government's chief planner, bypassing the planning directorate, and secure a meeting for a tycoon's "people" within 24 hours - unless, of course, the humble one also happens to be First Minister.

Mr Salmond had a permanent secretary's letter with which to wave away these ghosts of annoying questions past.

"Will she now accept that ministers and civil servants have acted with total propriety?" he demanded, as though a perm-sec's prose was magic dust.

Ms Alexander would not. She quoted the letter; he quoted the letter. One hates to slight the power of a top civil servant to clarify matters, but a postcard from that bloke up at the North Pole would have been of more use. At least the man of mystery delivers.

But so does Mr Salmond, or such is his boast, and such is Labour's complaint. They're making a list; they're checking it twice.

They want to find out who has been naughty (allegedly), and who has been altogether too nice to Mr Trump, the little rich boy that Aberdeenshire Council forgot.

Humbug, as I may have mentioned. So much humbug, indeed, it might well make you a little queasy, but these festive games will outlive the season. The rancour will be with us, too, long after the tinsel has been put away.

Ms Goldie alone among them had the good grace to say she was sorry. Then again, she was apologising merely for failing last week to associate "ignorance" with the First Minister.

Still, the year's famous last words came from the Presiding Officer's Christmas cracker at a very tense moment. "George Foulkes! I'd ask you to desist, please."

Better luck next year, perhaps.