What do you expect from a pig, but a grunt?

In politics, usually, the ayes have it. This week, it’s the legs.

Which could turn out to be more significant than you first thought, as, with the triggering of Brexit via Article 50 (do you ever wonder what happened to Articles 1-49?), the only sensible thing to do seems to be to leg it in the opposite direction.

I can’t find it in my rabid ’70s feminist heart to get exercised about the tittering spotlight turned on the lower extremities of the First Minister and her southern counterpart by certain sections of the Press hellbent on transporting us back to the days of Benny Hill and Carry On films.

As my granny always used to say: “What do you expect from a pig, but a grunt?”

Not, I have to say, that I’m proud of elements of my profession at the moment. The Fourth Estate hasn’t covered itself in glory lately, disappearing up its own exhaust and indulging in gazing at its own, largely non-newsworthy, navel in an attempt to work out how it – we – got it so wrong over Trump and Brexit. Rather than looking at the bigger picture and asking the difficult questions of those who don’t want to give us the answers.

I suppose you can’t blame some editors and proprietors for grabbing the chance to dictate the agenda rather than analyse and question it but, largely, it seems to me these are examples of what political journalism should not be.

Genuine journalism is not about seeking or manipulating power. It’s about holding power to account.

Everyone in public life, male or female, tends to be fair game these days when appearance is all and substance is hard to find.

Whether the nudge-nudge, winkwink brigade like it or not, Nicola Sturgeon and Theresa May are powerful women who will be making major decisions about our futures whether you deign to like the colour of their hosiery or the length of their skirts.

Although it might give pause for thought to some in public life if it looks like the greatest support you’re going to manage to command in the next couple of years is from your tights.

“She may be Prime Minister, but she’s got terrible taste in legwear” is not a viewpoint, I surmise, that is going to be keeping Theresa May awake at nights.

Not with Frau Merkel administering a Rosa Klebb-like kick to those shiny shins by immediately discounting the negotiating platform and style on which the PM has based a great deal of her future plan for our great nation’s place in the world.

Not so much Plan B as There’s a Plan? Really? You think?

So on the premise that it’s all one big makey-up story anyway (my version of “alternative facts”), I think I’ll spend the rest of my time and investigative skills putting the leg into legend and the myth into myth-ogyny.

Any road up, with the serious issues of the day currently at the forefront of my mind and our greatest movable feast looming, I have turned my attentions to the fact that it is now possible to buy gin and tonic Easter eggs.

Who knew if I didn’t? How has it taken so long? Why am I not registered with the appropriate websites? Where is my name on the mailing list?

These luxury confections are retailing at around £15 a pop which by my (rough) calculations will buy you a bottle of Gordon’s or a flagon of Lidl’s best, allowing you heroically to leave aside the chocolate and its shocking amount of sugar which, as we know, has now overtaken the demon drink as the most dangerous element in our diet. Well, maybe in yours…

I have also discovered the existence of the Creme Scotch Egg which is, basically, a Scotch egg with no meat, egg or breadcrumbs but consists of a C ****** ’* creme egg (I would say other creme eggs are available but I don’t know if they are and I don’t really care), encased in chocolate cake, molten chocolate and chocolate sprinkles.

I, for one, would rather stick hot needles in my eyes but there you go.

How they can say it’s Scotch I don’t know. There’s no Scotch in it and it’s not even deep-fried.

Where is the Trades Descriptions Act when you need it? Not to mention the Irn-Bru?

But worry not. National rescue is at hand in the shape of the Buckfast and chilli Easter egg.

Yes. It truly does exist, that conspiracy by English monks to undermine the moral fibre of their contrarian northern neighbours combined with a pinch of cheeky wee peppery things (sit down, Nicola Sturgeon). Scotch bonnet, of course.

But apparently it’s gluten-free. So that’s all right then…

Picture: Getty Images. The utterings of the nudge-nudge, winkwink brigade are not going to keep either woman awake at night.