Bloody Christmas!

INTRODUCTION

This one is short and it's purely for fun. It's a bit stupid – and there'll probably be a huge groan at the end of it.

So don't say I didn't warn you!

BLOODY CHRISTMAS!

I was in a bad mood. No, I was in a terrible mood. It was one of those mornings – I'm sure you know what I mean – when just about everything annoyed me. And what made it a million times worse was that everyone else seemed to be so ridiculously happy.

It was the Christmas effect. It was the season of joy; peace on earth, goodwill to all men and all that kind of crap! It was Christmas Eve.

Normally, I took it in my stride: I was never more than slightly annoyed at hearing supermarket aisles filled with the saccharine-sweet sound of festive songs and seeing the shelves crammed with overpriced yuletide junk. I didn't mind hauling the lights and decorations out of the attic, buying enough food to withstand a month-long siege, greeting relatives who only appeared once a year to drink my booze, and even having to cope with her gin-soaked breath when I was required to kiss my mother in law under the mistletoe.

This year was different, though. This year, the company I worked for had informed us that, due to a fairly severe downturn in business, there wouldn't be any Christmas bonus which, added to the fact that my wife had recently lost her job when the coffee-shop chain she'd worked for had culled staff numbers, meant that things were going be very tight for a while at least.

It seems to be a rule of life that, when one thing goes wrong, everything else does, too. To begin with, I'd replaced a couple of loose slates on the roof earlier in the year, but I hadn't bothered to check the boxes that held the decorations. When I'd hauled them out at the beginning of December, they'd been coated in a damp mould. The baubles for the tree seemed okay: at least, they were until I was bringing them down and the step-ladder collapsed.

Okay, I know it was my own fault for not bothering to set it up properly, and it was good that I didn't get hurt – but that was because the box of baubles broke my fall, and most them were smashed!

Predictably, I had trouble with the lights. Learning from past experience, I plugged them in to try them before draping them on the tree. You know how it is, there's always one bulb that's a bit loose and you have to tighten each one individually and – no matter which end you start at – it's always the last, or next to last one, that's causing the problem. So I'd plugged them in, hit the switch and – apart from some very festive, bright-blue sparks – the whole fucking house had been plunged into darkness!

New decorations, new baubles and new lights (plus three trips to the store before I actually got a set that worked!) made a severe dent in a Christmas budget that was already being stretched like a screaming victim on a medieval rack – and I was not a happy man.

Then, of course, my wife started in on me. Why had I bought such a small turkey and a smaller ham than usual? Didn't I know that her mother and Aunt Emily were coming for Christmas dinner? And wasn't I aware that her brother and his family would be with us on Boxing Day?

Jesus wept! Her mother was bad enough – she could practically take gin intravenously – but her Aunt was one of those stick-thin people who can eat you out of house and home without even stopping to breathe! And her brother's family! I mean, he was quiet enough – but that was because he could hardly ever get a word in edgeways once his garrulous (and incredibly fat!) wife started talking.

Believe it or not, she'd actually tried to seduce me once! She'd said; "Wouldn't you like to take me upstairs and give me a good seeing-to?"

"I think it would probably be too tight," I'd told her, to which she'd replied that she'd soon get 'loosened up.'

"I wasn't talking about that... I meant the bedroom door... it's quite narrow."

We'd never really got on after that. But even worse were their kids; three of them, all totally uncontrolled and every one of them capable of doing more damage to a house than a perfect storm.

So, on the night before Christmas Eve there'd been a discussion. No there hadn't – there'd been an argument. No, let's be honest about it, there'd been a blazing row! She'd told me my miserliness was destroying Christmas. She'd even called me the personification of Ebenezer Scrooge! All of which came as a shock – because I hadn't heard her use long words like 'personification' before.

You see my wife, Ethel, was never likely to be the intellectual flame on the Christmas pudding. I'm not saying she was completely dumb but, to be honest, her looks were definitely her major asset. She was always pretty, always had a neat and very desirable body, and was normally great fun to be with. Even though she was in her mid-thirties, she'd kept herself in pretty good condition, and I was grateful for that. I was also thankful that, having been a late developer, she'd steadily learned to enjoy and appreciate sex more and more as the years went by.

Her problem was that she took everything too literally. The good thing about that was that, as long as I was careful about how I said it, she was susceptible to most of the suggestions I made. But there were downsides to her literal mind as well.

In the early days of our marriage, for example, I'd told her that I really loved a cottage pie with vegetables – and that's what she'd served up every day for a week - until I gently explained that I liked other food, too. The first time I'd asked her for oral sex (she'd never done it before!), I'd had to point out that I wasn't inflatable and a 'blow-job actually involved sucking.

She was always the last to get a joke – if she got it at all! I remember one of my pals telling her the one about the Jehovah's Witness advent calendar – you know, every time you opened one of the doors there were two of the bastards there with a Watchtower and a Bible – and having to spend over an hour explaining it to her!

So our discussion/argument/blazing row about our Christmas spending had, at times, assumed an almost surreal quality. The door that her nieces and nephews had damaged the previous year (who the hell buys kids of that age a set of darts?) had, she'd said, needed replacing anyway because it was already damaged. That was true: the same little sods had drawn all over it the year before (who the hell buys kids of that age indelible felt-tip pens?).

What about the armchair – the one that her mother had fallen asleep on in a drunken stupor – the one that still stank no matter how many times you cleaned it because she'd wet herself in her sleep?

"That wasn't her fault!"

"What? What d'you mean, it wasn't her fault?"

"It was the cat!"

"We haven't got a cat!"

"Oh... can we have a cat?"

"No!"

"Oh... okay, then."

"Right... now, what the fuck were we talking about?"

You see what I mean? Totally surreal! The whole thing had gone round and round in ever decreasing circles until I'd ended up disappearing to the pub for a few pints of 'porter' with some of my pals.

Unfortunately, it had been a few pints too many; everyone was filled with Christmas cheer and the drinks kept appearing as if from nowhere. Eventually, although I was still capable of standing and walking (not necessarily in a straight line!), I was definitely drunk. I know that because, when the Salvation Army brass band turned up and started playing Christmas carols, it seems that I was gently shown the door for singing rather loudly, a filthy (I prefer the word 'bawdy') version of Good King Wenceslas.'

I only had a vague recollection of getting home and making an on-all-fours ascent of the staircase. I had no memory whatsoever of opening a (fortunately empty!) closet and peeing all over the floor of it - in the absolute conviction that I was in the bathroom and the light didn't work – but I'd been shown the incontrovertible proof the following day.

I did have a hazy memory of talking to Ethel before I went to sleep – something about the Christmas tips we normally gave to the binmen, the milkman and the postman – and then, in the middle of the night, being told off because both my snoring and farting were 'loud enough to wake the dead.'

So I woke up on Christmas Eve, as I've said, in a terrible mood. I was tired; I was hungover, and Ethel was staying in bed - to make up for the sleep I'd deprived her of, I guessed. That meant there was no breakfast prepared for me so, after I scraped the burnt bits off some toast I made myself and smeared loads of butter on it to hide the taste, I had to dash out to my car which, naturally, refused to start! The battery was flat and, since our drive slopes quite steeply upwards towards the road, there was absolutely no chance of bump-starting it.

Feeling a sense of rage against everything, I stepped out of the car, kicked the back tyre and snarled: "Bollocks! Fucking useless... fucking heap of... fucking Japanese... fucking shit...!"

"Good morning, Mr Maitland," Mrs Appleton, our next door neighbour said rather loudly, glaring at me as she shepherded her two young children towards the street.

The bus journey was a nightmare. It was packed and there was nowhere to sit; I was strap-hanging next to a guy in overalls who seemed to think underarm deodorant was probably the first step on the road to perversion – and then some utter twat near the front of the bus pulled out a harmonica and started playing fuckin' Jingle Bells! Then some of the passengers began to sing along – the same chorus over and over again! It was a truly depressing experience, made worse by a bunch of ridiculously jolly strangers determinedly shaking hands and wishing me 'merry Christmas' as I was trying to step off.

I was about twenty minutes late for work. The foreman was more precise; "You should've been here twenty-two and a half minutes ago!" he stated, and wasn't the least bit happy with the reply of; "Why... what happened?"

I work at a lathe in a small engineering works. We make precision parts for some very expensive equipment, but I couldn't honestly say how precise my work may have been that day. Mind you, despite the lack of a bonus, the company weren't entirely without the spirit of that special time of year – every lunch in the canteen was accompanied by a mince pie with squirty-cream on it! To be fair, they were taking a risk with that – the crusts were so hard they could have faced a barrage of compensation claims for broken teeth!

They also allowed us to leave a couple of hours early, and some of my mates tried to get me to go to the pub with them, but I wasn't up to it – not after the previous night – and I wasn't up to facing another bus journey either. I had a feeling that, if I'd climbed on board and seen someone taking out a harmonica, I'd have shoved it so far down his throat he'd have ended up with musical farts! So I walked; it was only forty-five minutes or so and I reckoned the fresh air would clear my head and make me feel better.

It worked to some extent. I mean, fresh air is okay – but it's cold and there's a lot of it! There were also some icy patches on the pavements that nearly caught me out once or twice, and one of those left me with a nagging pain in my back. A few neighbours gave me a cheery wave and shouted some kind of seasonal greeting – to which my reply was always a heartfelt, "And the same to you!"

I even noticed that our postman was still out delivering – a youngish guy who was one of the stars of the local competitive cycling fraternity. They always do their best to clear all of the mail on Christmas Eve and I appreciate that – but I kept my head down because I felt somewhat guilty that we hadn't given out the usual Christmas tip this year. But then I thought, 'what the hell! He's not been on this round long anyway – and he's probably getting loads of overtime pay.'

So I was tired and out of breath by the time I reached home. The car battery had been on charge all day, so I checked it before I even went inside and was pleased to see that at least something had gone right – but it all went downhill from there!

The minute I stepped inside the front door, a couple of scrawny arms wrapped themselves tightly around me and a pair of wet lips – already stinking of gin – were plastered on my mouth. Jesus Christ! She could at least have put her teeth in first!

"Happy Christmas, Frances," I said to my wife's mother - without any sign of enthusiasm– realising that the solitary piece of mistletoe I'd placed above our bed had been shifted to the hallway.

"Come on in and relax, Darling," she cooed, "make yourself at home."

It was Christmas – and that's the only reason I didn't actually say; "I am at home... you drunken old bat!" I just thought it as I hung my coat and went through to the kitchen, where my wife was peeling vegetables in readiness for the 'big day.'

"What the bloody hell's your loony mother doing here?" I whispered.

"Shhh... she'll hear you! She's staying in the guest room until Boxing Day. You said its okay."

"What? When did I say that?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice low.

"Last night... in bed," she replied with a sweet smile. I was flabbergasted! In fact, as some comedian used to say, my flabber was well and truly gasted!

"I didn't... did I?" I moaned, as a vague memory returned of saying yes to something or other in the hope of being allowed to sleep.

"Christ almighty, Ethel... I was drunk! I didn't know what I was saying. You took advantage...."

"That's not true," she declared as she put the final sprout in the pot, popped the lid on it and washed her hands, "you were quite lucid for a little while."

"Oh... really? So what else did we talk about then?"

"Errm... you suggested roasting my brother's kids and feeding them to Aunt Emily. I told you that I wouldn't allow you to do that... I thought it was a disgusting idea. Sometimes I think...."

"It was a joke, Dearest," I said wearily.

"Oh... I see!" she said, "Well... that's alright then. Were there any other jokes?"

"Probably not," I declared, "I wasn't exactly at my best."

"Ah... that's good; I was hoping that was the case..." she said brightly, as we left the kitchen and she started to head up the stairs, "...so what you said about the Christmas boxes was okay, then?"

"Errm...?"

"You said to give the binmen ten pounds, and the milkman a fiver... so I did!"

"Hmmm... okay, I suppose," I agreed. Normally I gave them twice that much but, as I've said, times were hard and money was tight. "Where are you going?"

"To change the sheets, of course," she smiled, and then, "Oh... and there's probably some Christmas cards in the bedroom. I'll bring them down with me."

It didn't register at first. In fact, I'd gone into the living room and, ignoring the soap opera that her mother was glued to, I'd opened one of the soft-drink cans and taken a long swig of it, when it suddenly hit me! There were Christmas cards in the bedroom?

I remembered her asking about the tips. I remembered saying that the binmen should have a tenner between them, and the milkman would have to be content with a fiver this year. Then I recalled her asking about the postman....

....and I'd said... oh, no... NO!

"We can't afford to give any more," I'd said, thinking of all the bills he brought us, "so fuck the postman!" and when she'd asked if I was really certain, I'd said:

"Yeah... he'll be alright... FUCK HIM!"

NOOO-ooooo!

*****

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!