24 December 2003
'Twas the season the night before Christmas
(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore) (or Henry Livingstone, or whoever. Just apologies to everyone, OK?)
(as with the original, best read aloud)
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
(There *had* been a mouse, but now it was dead
Down the side of the cooker with spike through its head)
Oversized stockings were hung by the fire,
(health and safety no-no; aesthetically dire)
Beside it, the tree was festooned with bright balls
and tinsel and garlands, while boughs decked the halls
The children were sleeping, with sugar in veins
while thoughts of consumerism romped in their brains.
The memories escaped them that (up to a point),
the contents of stockings always disappoint
"What's this?" they will cry as they empty their socks
"No chocolate? No money? No Barbie? Rat's cocks!"
they'll exclaim, and then hurl down their loot
with a devilish pout in a sulk absolute.
We're ahead of ourselves though, these joys yet to come
for now, they sleep soundly; we sit on our bum
with granny in stupor, and I in half-nap,
On the sofa, watching telly, which (as ever) was crap.
When suddenly, a noise coming loud from the roof,
I reached for my gun, "must be some drunken youth"
My trigger finger twitching, my eyes wide and blazing,
I fiddled with the locks on the damn double glazing.
Then I sprang to the roof with an athletic leap
(Well sort of, if you don't count landing in a heap)
Searching for the culprit, a glint caught my eye
somewhere in the moonlight, above in the sky
The streetlights of London with orangey glow
gave the shine of satsuma to objects below,
when, what to my sleep-deprived eyes should appear,
but a ramshackle sleigh and eight giant reindeer.
With a hugeley fat driver, so ruddy and rude,
I knew in a moment he was after our food
More rapid than Mondays, through the cold night he flew
and he cursed and he shouted and he turned the air blue:
"Oh bugger! Oh bollocks!
Oh fuckity fuck.
Oh dearie, my goodness,
I'm all out of luck.
Bloody children! Bloody adults!
They don't know they're born!
Greedy little bastards!"
He let out a yawn.
He crashed to the roof in a great pile of snow
sending nicely-wrapped presents tumbling down below.
He sat and he scowled and he started to cry
while the reindeer stared plaintively up at the sky
I asked him the matter and he simply looked sad
before explaining that the world had gone quite, quite mad
"So much money! So much nonsense! Late night shopping too!
I don't know why I bother doing this. Do you?"
I responded I didn't but that, actually
I had always believed the gifts under the tree
were put there by parents, not bearded intruders
dating back to edwardians, victorians and tudors.
He nodded, and told me his real name was Fred
not "St Nick", or "Santa", or "that fat bloke in red"
He said he was tired. He said it was all a bit much.
I gave him a cuddle - he was soft to the touch
And then, a great moment, a total surprise
when he hugged me back, there were tears in his eyes
"Don't cry, Fred," I told him "you don't need to stress"
He replied that he wasn't - he could see down my dress.
The dirty old bugger! I pushed him away
He tripped over a snowdrift, and then rolled away
off the edge of the roof and down into the yard
With a thunk that indicated the fall was quite hard
I shouted "Oy, Santa, I know you're not real
You were invented by Coke, as part of some deal
It's all a big con. Now why aren't you at home?
Surely you have family all of your own?"
"Well, yes," he replied "but I need to be out
distributing presents around and about.
It's expected of me. Pressure to perform!
The world thinks that getting big gifts is the norm.
But where is the love? Where's the meaning? The joy?
Where's the sentiment? The laughter? The day to enjoy?
How does a person wrap up their affection
when the shops make it easier to package confection?"
"Good point," I agreed, helping him up from the floor
"we should give so much less of that which means more"
He picked himself up, and brushed off the snow
and summoned the reindeer from the roof to below
He half-smiled and winked, and he muttered with glee
"that's one more conversion, thanks to little old me!"
Yes, it was trite as old pants, and too sickly sweet
but even I know that love makes christmas complete
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a yell
and away they all flew with a tinkling bell
but I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight
"Now off to the boozer - and with that, good night!"