By Sockwinkel, Pastry Pirate, Crumb Strategist, and Unofficial Leader of the Snack Liberation Front

It was supposed to be simple.

One pie. One gonk. One flawless extraction from the windowsill of temptation.

But alas, dear reader, what unfolded was less “Ocean’s Eleven” and more “Gonk’s Got Greedy and Faceplanted into a Doily.”

I spotted the target at 14:03 GMT. A solitary mince pie, golden and glistening like a festive jewel, perched atop a porcelain plate with the arrogance of a baked good that’s never known fear. I assembled the crew: Plonko (distraction specialist), Giddy (tiny but feral), and myself, the brains, the brawn, and the beard fluff.

Plonko initiated the diversion by launching himself into the Christmas tree with a war cry that sounded suspiciously like “FOR THE PASTRY!”. Tinsel flew. Baubles shattered. Aunt Marge screamed. It was beautiful.

Meanwhile, I scaled the radiator with the grace of a sock full of marbles and reached the windowsill. The pie was within reach. I could smell victory. And cinnamon.

Just as I extended my mitten to claim the prize, Giddy—bless his chaotic soul—misinterpreted the plan and launched himself at the pie like a cannonball made of felt. He missed. I flinched. The pie wobbled. Time slowed.

And then, in a moment that will haunt my crumbs forever, the mince pie plummeted to its doom… straight into the dog’s mouth.

We scattered. Plonko got tangled in fairy lights and was last seen being dragged under the sofa. Giddy bit a bauble and now glows faintly in the dark. I retreated to the mantelpiece to lick my wounds and contemplate the cruel fickleness of fate (and gravity).

Failure is but a stepping stone to future snack-based glory. The pie may be gone, but the legend of the heist lives on. Next time, we go for the trifle. It’s bigger, wobblier, and less guarded.

Until then, stay cheeky, stay crumb-covered, and never trust a gonk with a sugar rush.

Sockwinkel

Crushed by Confectionery, Wanted in Three Kitchens, and Still Bitter About the Dog