Archive for December, 2019

What the D*ckens?!

December 23, 2019

Ah, Christmas Eve! The most magical night of the year when the little ones lie awake in their cots awaiting the sound of hoofbeats on the roof; when parents wait for the little bastards to go to sleep so they can fill their stockings, then either get back on the whisky or, if they’re really lucky, get their annual chance to empty a different sack.
And for yours truly…? It’s the night when, yet again, I get visited by those bloody ghosts who’ve got it in their transparent noggins that somehow I am a bad person who needs to be ‘reformed.’

Each year I’ve told them to stick their do-gooder ambitions up their spectral arses, but they won’t take no for an answer, the self-righteous spooks. It’s for the sake of my immortal soul, they tell me, little understanding that, frankly, I’m quite happy to go ‘downwards’ post clog-popping, as that’s where most one’s chums have inevitably ended up.

So if these ghostly pests won’t take the hint and bugger off and haunt someone more deserving of their supernatural condescension (eg that sanctimonious cove who presents Stars on Sunday or the Chancellor of the bloody Exchequer), then what can one do except enjoy their visits?

Before midnight I get suitable blotto, not so much that I’m oblivious to it all or worse throwing up on passers-by when flying through the air back to my school days. Just enough to relax and enjoy flinging insults at various persons from one’s past whom one wasn’t able to sufficiently abuse at the time.
Phantom no 1 is The Ghost of Christmas Past, an utter weed wearing what appear to be his wife’s nightie although I would *very* surprised if there has ever been a wife, if you get my meaning. In fact I’m convinced that, in life, I once saw him dressing the windows in Gamages. You think he’d suffered enough, never mind having to spend the afterlife trolling the Earth and patronising innocent coves who don’t deserve annual Yuletide admonishment.
First stop is a visit to my time at my alma mater, Scarhelldeath Hall. This is always irksome as history has been blatantly rewritten to make it look as though I was a complete wet who was roundly bullied! As if! I can categorically state it was Yours Truly doing the bullying, holding the heads of new bugs down the lavatory and flushing. That never happened to me! I can assure you categorically of that. Oh no, not at all. The very thought.
Then comes the Ghost of Christmas Present, a jovial chap with an unnecessary beard and quite a gut on him. He’s usually borderline legless, judging by his incessant laughter, the way his robe falls open revealing his sagging pectorals, and, frankly, his breath. In other circumstances he and I could be rather good chums as he obviously likes a good time and a dram or two. He shows me me how the poor and lonely and desperate spend their Christmases which is always good for a laugh. At the first stroke of Boxing Day he says his time on this Earth is short (the way he knocks it back I’m not surprised) and he collapses into a heap of dust which shows very poor stamina. He’d never last a night on the tiles with the Duke of Edinburgh and yours truly, that’s for sure.
Finally we get the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. A morbid sod draped in a floor-length blanket. Never reveals his face which makes me suspect he’s actually of the female persuasion. Come to think of it, the way he’s always banging on about the consequences of one’s actions reminds me of an ex-trouble-&-strife who took hectoring to an advanced level. Not that anything is actually said, just the sort of disapproving silence that speaks volumes. Anyway, he/she is a real party pooper, the sort who spoils a shindig with excessive tut-tutting and warnings about imminent hangovers instead of getting legless with the rest of us and to hell with the aftermath.

By this time in the night I’m frankly pooped and, fun as all the visions of misery I’ve enjoyed have been, I would rather be back in my bed with a hot toddy or indeed a hot totty if Father Christmas has been particularly generous. So I usually mutter something about how I’ve learned my lesson – fingers crossed behind my back – and that I’ll change for the better (whatever that is).

This seems to appease the phantasmagorical nuisance, and next thing I know I’m back in my bedroom, one leg wrapped around the bedstead, pyjamas sopping wet, and a slipper missing. But frankly this is how I wake up most mornings.
And the lesson I’ve learnt…? That ghosts are nothing to be scared of; that the poor are absolutely frightful; and that my life has been a litany of debauchery and shameful behaviour and I don’t regret a minute of it.
Merry Christmas!