Christmas Morning

Written 25 December 2018

Georgina woke up Christmas morning to find a man in a costume dead on her living room floor.

She went outside to find a gaggle or reindeer tethered to a slay impatiently pawing the ground.

A giant slay sat lopsided in the snowy front garden, empty but for a few scraps of wrapping paper and a note saying “Got you Santa”.

She heard a scream from the hallway. Damian had found the bloated corpse.

The lengths James would go to get out of buying stocking fillers every year astounded her

Little Donkey

Written 24 December 2018

“It's just, the angel did look awfully like your stepmum.” Joseph said.

He readjusted the reigns in his hands. “And the wings looked a bit makeshift, plus all our chickens had been plucked. It’s a bit. . . .” he finished, lamely.

Mary didn't respond. He chanced a look over his shoulder. “I mean, you know I believe you and everything. It's just. . . Can you just go through it one more time?” Mary cradled her belly, scowling.

“I've told you a million times, I'm carrying the son of God. The conception was immaculate. I'm still a virgin. Honestly, the angel went through it all with you.”

“I know. Sorry.” He walked in silence for a while, hooves on the dirt road plodding monotonously.

“That time I came home from work and our neighbour Paul was round.”

“For Pete's sake, Joseph, he was fixing our sacks. I've told you.”

“His shirt was off.”

“Look Joseph. I've been knocked up by a flipping deity. I'm stressed out enough as it is. To make matters worse, I'm having to ride a donkey hundreds of miles just to squirt the little fuck out. Can you please just give it a rest?”

Joseph looked mournfully back at her as she stared daggers through him.

“Okay, God’s baby it is.”

Xerxes

Written 23 December 2018

That fucking cat.

This was the second time it had bought Xerxes into the house. It had bitten her pretty hard, as well, so her already slow progress across the wooden floor was even more laboured.

She knew she didn't have long. The giant foot would arrive once more and lob her outside. Sure enough she was scooped up and back out into the cold Xerxes barely survived the impact against the coarse garden fence. She lay there for a couple of days, hidden amongst the overgrown flower bed. Nursing her wounds. Getting stronger.

She was finally up and about, sampling the local cuisine and planning her escape from this garden, when that furry beast had grabbed her again.

There wasn't really any rhyme or reason to why the cat did it. It's not like it had any intention of eating Xerxes, and it gave up on playing with her almost immediately. And now here she was once more. Desperately scrambling for cover before the foot arrived, leaving a slime trail behind her for good measure.

Vibrations. That could only mean one thing. Xerxes tried to find some cover, but she just wasn't designed to move quickly. The vibrations were getting louder and louder, she was never going to make it. Defeating sounds now, a looming shadow.

“Eeuurgh!”

Xerxes was barely hanging on. The impact from the foot had almost burst her. She knew she wouldn't be able to survive the resulting throw out into the garden.

“Poppins, you piece of shit. Why do you keep bringing slugs in? What's the fucking point?”

Xerxes tried to get away, but she just couldn't move at all. She was being picked up in a tissue. The paper stuck to her, coarse and irritating. This is exactly how it went down last time. She smelt the beautiful fresh air once more. And now she was flying. Soaring through the air with as much grace as she could muster, trying to be beautiful in her final moments before crashing head first into a tree.

Let's not talk about Eric's shit year

Written 22 December 2018

“Yeah, I've got to work Christmas Eve.” Sam said for the 4th time that day “But I'm heading to Maisie's folk's afterward. Going to be a nightmare.”

“Nah, you'll be alright.” Eric countered. “Trains'll be dead. Most people are going home this weekend.”

“How come you’re still around?” Sam asked, taking a sip of his fresh pint.

“Heading back to my parents this weekend.” Eric said, not looking Sam in the eye. He didn't want Sam to know that he was spending Christmas alone. Eating beans from a can and watching Top Gear reruns on Dave.

“Fair enough. How are your parents?” they no longer talk to Eric.

“They're okay. You know, getting up there now. Mostly just sit around.” Eric had precisely zero idea how his parents were doing.

“And how's Emma and your boy?” Eric had left them four months ago.

“They're good. Going to her Mums. I'll come and join them on Boxing Day.”

“Sounds good.”

And for the rest of the evening Emma, and his son Rory, and his Mum, and his Dad, and his sister, who's funeral he had missed, and his uncle, who Eric had punched when he had attempted to reconcile son and parents, were not mentioned by Sam. They mostly talked about sport and work and stuff. Eric was thankful for that.

Peeling Gardens Residents Association

Written on 21 December 2018

Police log - Officer 265490 - Peeling Village Hall - 21/12/18

“I announce the 37th annual Peeling Gardens Residents association jamboree open. The right honourable John Foster presides.” Rigid, polite applause. John gets to his feet.

“Thank you. Thank you. I trust you all got your agendas. Let's get on with it, shall we?” Paxman-esque. A few nods of approval in the village hall.

“Number 89.” A low hiss emanates from the audience. “What are we going to do about Number 89?”

“Burn them!” Jacob from 43. No laughter. Might have been being serious.

“This is the 2nd year they have paid the road maintenance late. And this will not stand. THIS WILL NOT STAND.” Cheers from the crowd. All a bit Nuremberg so far.

“I swear the whole development just reeks of Reggae Reggae sauce. It's disgusting.” Sylvia from 12. Others are nodding.

“And those kids! I swear they linger in the dark to deliberately startle us. Well, they're of the night themselves, I guess.” Stuart, with a chuckle. “awful behaviour.” his wife Anne mutters.

“I pay my taxes!” yells Sylvia. Another roar of approval. The majority of the group are of retirement age.

“Let's sue them for breach of contract. That'll bankrupt them. Then the bank can sell there house to a nice respectable heterosexual couple.” Cagney. Probably the smartest. Not that smart.

“Nah, let's just burn their house down.” Jacob again. This time greeted with a roar of approval. Scraping of chairs. A few residents are smashing up some old set from a play. Torches are being lit.

Going to have to go stop this. Calling for backup.

Danno Misses Gary

Written on 20 December 2018

Hiya Gary,

You alright boy? How's the new job treating ya? You're a bloody traitor, but I still hope you're smashing it over there.

Mate, you missed an absolute fucking palaver of a secret Santa. Greg, the posh twat, got Jhanele some playing cards. Not just any playing cards, mind, remember that Iraq bullshit a few years back, and there was that deck of cards with all the bad Iraqis the Americans wanted dead on em? Greg, the posh twat, gave her that deck. I mean, she was fucking 7 when that thing started, how the fuck is she supposed to know about it? What a posh twat.

I did alright. Couple of beers and a half deck of Benson's from Salad. He's still a leaf eating ponce, but he did alright. He wasn't so happy. Got given a salad spinner. 5th year in a row. Think it finally pissed em off. Was moaning about what a waste it was, or something. Ponce.

I got Carrick a belter. It's this donkey, right, and you fill it with fags. Then you pull it's tail up and a fag comes out of its ass. Bought it in Spain. He was fucking cracking up I'll tell yah.

The boss got annoyed. He got a stick with a note that said “in case that rod up your ass ever breaks.” had to hold down the laugh, but it was fucking funny.

Anyway, hope you have a great Christmas saveloy. Place isn't the same without you.

Danno.

The Commute State

Written 19 December 2018

Every workday morning, Edith did the same thing.

She'd find a seat on the 6.32 train, close her eyes and fall into what she called the commute state. She guessed it was basically meditation, but since her yoga teacher and various friends had never properly described what meditation is supposed to be, she decided this was her own thing.

She would put her head right back, allowing her eyes to roll, as she kept her eyelids loosely shut, and she would simply let her mind wonder.

And the things she saw, oh my. Polar bear award ceremonies, cat picnics, a mountain that was also an ostrich. Some days she just sat on a beautiful, grassy hill overlooking a river, with the comforting spring sun warming her. Other days she would embark on grand epic adventures, taking on orks, armed penguins and all sorts of nasty Bastards.

She was vaguely aware that she could be quite active in the physical world when she was in her commute state. Flailing limbs and fluttering eyelids. But she didn't care, as virtually every day she arrived at work feeling well rested and ready to give her all at the soul sucking ad agency she worked for.

And without fail, she would freak out the person sat next to her, which was a nice added bonus.

Through the years, we all will be together

Written 18 December

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas” was playing over the stereo.

We were sat up at the dinner table, and my mum had gone all in. Turkey, pigs in blankets, parsnips, carrots, potatoes, stuffing, bread sauce. You get the impression.

Crackers had been pulled, though the hats lay neglected, left inside the tube, or otherwise sitting unretrieved on the floor, and we had all tucked in without saying much. A disconcertingly cheery “tuck in” from my mum, a grunt of acknowledgement from my dad.

I don't know whether it was the song that set her off. It had probably been simmering all day. My dad was in one of his moods, which guaranteed tension. But during the opening verse of the festive classic, I noticed tears streaming down my mums face.

My dad looked disgusted. He carried on eating his sprouts, staring at the wall as if my mum crying was something indecent. Chewing with purpose. Lips pursed. My older brother carried on concentrating on his plate.

But the crying didn't stop, in fact she began openly weeping. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how I could make her feel better. I mean, I was nine for Christ's sake.

It all got too much for my brother. He left the table without a word.

That's when my dad started shouting. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. At least 3 of them. I'd never heard that word before. I opened my mouth to yell back at him, but no sound came out. He raged and shouted as my mum cried louder and more hysterically.

My dad got to his feet, picking up his still half full plate and threw it at her, missing by inches, but splattering her face with the Christmas dinner she had agonized over.

Silence.

Never ending silence.

Except.

Except.

“Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow.”

There were a few more tough Christmases after that. Splitting my time between a mother I was mostly just worried about and a father who I only saw because some court told me I had to.

I've had some nice Christmases. Really nice ones. With my daughter and my wife. With her parents. But that day was a drop of poison. The good days don't matter, only that bad one. I'll never enjoy Christmas the way others do.

But that's okay. My father died a miserable man, and I won't. My mother is almost too timid for this world, my wife isn't and my daughter won't be.

The Krampus Incident

Written 17 December

Reginald went to his Christmas party dressed as the Krampus, which hugely confused the vast majority of his colleagues, directors and stakeholders.

He tried, in vain, to explain to Sandra that the Krampus was a Christmas demon who tormented families who didn't celebrate Christmas properly. Sandra told him her family was Jewish and didn't celebrate Christmas at all.

“Does that mean we deserve to be terrorised?” she asked furiously. He apologised, and said that he was an atheist, and he grew up not doing much over Christmas. The suit was just supposed to be a joke.

Later, a drunken director called him a “little weirdo.” and someone drew a jizzing cock on his back with a sharpie.

Eventually, he just ditched the costume in the toilet, and returned to the party in a sweaty t-shirt and a pair of old jogging bottoms.

People called him ‘Crap-us’ at work for 18 months.

He thought about going to HR, but he didn't want to cause a fuss.

Soup Sup!

Written 16 December 2018

Carolyn quit her job in the city to start a food truck.

Her big idea was to serve soups and stews out of a roll top bathtub.

The business was called Soup Sup!. Her friends pointed out that maybe the name should refer to the bathtub, otherwise people might get confused.

But she stuck to her guns. Sadly, Soups Sup! went under after only 6 weeks. No one wanted a carrot and coriander served out of an old bath.

Carolyn went back to the city and got her job back, pleased that she’d at least tried.

The Wolf

Written 15 December 2018

Emily and Michael had been on three dates.

They'd gone well, both felt like they'd clicked, and at the end of date three, an average Thai meal and a couple of bottles of wine, they had shared a drunken snog.

But, when Emily waited to be invited back, or to suggest they go for another drink, she was left disappointed. Michael scurried off into the night, sheepishly explaining that work started early tomorrow, and bemoaning the fact he had to put a wash on.

Emily persisted, though, and she thought the best way to get this clearly shy person out of his shell was some increasingly graphic flirty text messages.

She started it off playfully. “I really enjoyed kissing you on Wednesday. . . We should do it again sometime.” She added a winky emoji, but regretted it almost immediately. 23 minutes later his response.

“Yeah, sweet, your tongue is nice. Sort of spongy.” that was it. It had taken him 23 minutes to conclude that she had a spongy tongue. Still, he did have quite a surreal sense of humour, so she wrote that as a one off joke and decided to ramp it up.

“I’d love to see your flat. Maybe after our next date we can go back and you can show me your room?” That can't be misconstrued, surely? 32 minutes this time.

“I'm a wolf, and I come out at night. Making love is what I do. Your vagina is mine to pleasure. I want to put my dick in it and continue onto penetration.”

Okay, what? Emily was suddenly feeling a little awkward.

“Is this still you? Just got a bit of a weird text.”

“What? You overwhelmed by my sexual pheromones? Sex is what I do. I’m the sex man.” This was followed by three dick pics of, quite clearly, three different dicks.

Emily opted not to message back after the graphic images. She blocked the number and returned to the dating app, rather annoyed at her time being wasted by yet another creep.

Oh, The Regret

Written 14 December 2018

Danielle was woken up by the smell of stale alcohol, sweat and tobacco smoke. Her skin wriggled and her joints ached. Her left hand had gone dead, and there was a searing pain in her right shoulder, so acute that if the rest of her body was aching dully she might scream. Her mouth was impossibly dry, what little moisture remained had created a paste with unknown skin cells, and she still had the remnant taste of tequila in her gums. Her head was in a vice, her sinuses being slowly squeezed into submission, and she had a queasiness in her stomach that somehow made her feel bloated and full, but also starving. She was freezing, yet sweat continued to excrete from everywhere, which just made her colder. She ran to the toilet, as her bladder was suddenly uncomfortably full. The suddenness of the departure made her gag and feel worse, and when she made it to her toilet, she quickly realised she didn't just need a wee as all of the previous night's consumptions poured out of her intestine. And as she sat there, head in hands, for 32 minutes she had an overwhelming feeling of guilt and remorse about some unknown theme or event from the night before. She was also acutely aware that in just 5 hours time she would need to leave the house to do it all again. The Christmas period was brutal.

Christmas Party

Written 13 December 2018

Geoff watched the young woman, naked but for a Santa hat, gyrate his colleague to the harrowing tones of Gary Glitter's “Rock N Roll Christmas”.

His colleague went to grab the young woman's breast. She slapped his hand away, but he leaned in and whispered something in her ear.

The young woman, rather reluctantly, grabbed him by the hand and led him to a back room, his colleagues face all sweat and drunken anticipation, hers a mask of boredom and disgust.

On the other side of Geoff the CFO was telling the Operations Manager about how he paid a woman to “Nosh him off” whilst he spat on her last time he was here.

“Best Christmas party ever. Glad the women in the office declined the invite.” the Operations Manager said, slipping a fiver into our waitresses stocking.

Geoff took a bite of a half cooked cocktail sausage, and vowed to find a different job in the New Year.

Civil Service

Written 12 December 2018

Sarah was really good at forging her bosses signature.

So adept was she, that at her tribunal it was discovered that she was running parts of the country for quite a long time.

Everyone agreed she did a great job. But they threw her in jail anyway. Treason, or something archaic like that.

Her department quickly declined in both quality and quantity of policies.

The Hill

Written on 11 December 2018

It was a long hike, and she wasn't usually one for exercise.

But she’d been told so often about what a beautiful spot it was. Her university friends spoke of it with an awed revelry, like the place had a spiritual energy.

So she’d hiked the 7 miles up the hill to lie on her back and feel something. That's all she wanted. To stare at an unspoilt night sky and feel something.

She thought she might have a profound realisation, that her path forward would present itself.

She thought she might meditate, become one with her surroundings, as if she was the grass, the stars, the trees and they would be her. She would become the embodiment of mother nature.

She thought she would, at the very least, be moved by the millions of unobscured stars, beautifully sprawled out across her field of vision. She wanted to feel tiny. Insignificant. She wanted her petty problems to be forgotten by the sheer enormity of the universe.

But she didn't feel any of this. As she lay there all she wanted was to go back to her box room and play videogames.

The Whole Shebang

Written 10 December 2018

Bill Curothers grossly overused the term “The whole shebang”. To the point where he was ostracised at work.

This saddened Bill, but he loved saying “The whole shebang.” It made him feel ruddy marvellous.

For Secret Santa, they got him the Oxford book of Analogies. Bill didn't take too kindly to this.

And someone was definitely pissing in his coffee when he left his desk.

Eventually, HR got involved. And, though they sympathised with Bill's plight, they too found his use of “The whole shebang” really annoying.

3 weeks later, Bill was made redundant. He described his payout to his wife as “definitely not the whole shebang”.

Excerpt From Message in a Bottle. Found in Scarborough 2018.

Written on 9 December 2018

To whom it may concern,

I want you to know that I'm fine, happy even. Well, I'm not fine physically, a bore gored my leg some weeks back, and I ate rotten coconut last night, so I'm in and out of the forest to excrete rancid. . . Let me start over.

If you're reading this, then I am most likely dead. That's a cool way to put it. Let's stick with that.

I was on a boat I can scarcely remember the name of, but we were on our way to the Pacific Islands. . . Well, I made it to a Pacific island, the issue is I'm not sure which. One that apparently doesn't get too much sea traffic. Is that what you call it? Sea traffic? I digress.

So, I'm fine. Not physically, as mentioned, but spiritually. I'm fine with dying here. I really am. But, what I really want is for my body to be found. Not just so my family has closure, but cos it's quite a cool way to die.

I reckon I've been here a couple of months, and Jesus knows how long this is going to take to reach anywhere, but if you find this, can you tell the coast guard to come and have a poke around the Pacific Islands for me? When it's time to die, I plan to be laying in a rather dramatic position on the beach, so I shouldn't be hard to miss.

Can you imagine if, when someone finds me, I'm just a Skeleton? That would be so baller.

Love to my family,

Sam Smithers (from Rochdale. I live opposite the library)

Boot Camp

Written 8 December 2018

“YOU ARE WORTH LESS TO ME THAN THE SHIT ON MY SHOE.”

I wasn't sure whether he was shouting at me or one of the accountants, PR officers, Estate Agents or Systems Analysts who paid the man to yell at them in a London park whilst they did press ups, but it was becoming quite irksome.

“WHY ARE YOU SLOWING DOWN YOU TWO FUCKING WASTES OF SKIN?” He yelled at a couple to my right.

“Babe, this is amazing. It's just like being in the actual army.”

“ONE MORE PEEP OUT OF YOU AND ALL YOU'LL BE TASTING FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IS THE END OF MY BOOT.”

They both giggled at this.

Me? Every part of me was on fire. I could barely breathe. Why the hell was I paying this man to torture me? Would he really kick me if I stopped? Did I want to find out?

“RIGHT, ONE MORE LAP OF THE PARK!”

“I can't” I murmured feebly as I collapsed. Everyone else was gingerly getting to their feet and setting off.

“YOU WILL RUN OR I WILL MAKE YOU RUN.” He spat at me as I lay face down in the grass.

“Make me then.”

Before I could say another word he dragged me to my feet by my hood, and I was running. And 400 metres later, when I collapsed and blacked out, I thought feebly of the Milgram experiment. Fuck, at least those guy's were getting paid. I'm paying to kill myself.

There's No Reasoning With Some People

Written 7 December 2018

Michael was always looking for middle ground.

At work, at home, on the train, in the pub. He just bloody loved a debate, a compromise.

This all came to a head when he was hospitalised by a skinhead after questioning his blatant racism. Michael overheard the man using the N word, the P word and the R word.

“Well, actually, I think you'll find the net gains of our immigration policy have far outstripped what is spent on it.”

The man paused for a moment, before grabbing Michael by the hair and walking him outside.

“Actually, violent crime conviction rates have been increasing incrementally over the last decade, especially when the victim is of my demographic.”

The man shoved Michael through the pub door and onto the floor.

“Actually, extensive research has been done into trends in violent people. There is a general correlation between having violent tendencies and possessing an undersized penis.”

The man kicked Michael in the face.

“Good choice. Research has found that kicking someone in the face is the most effective way of…”

The man kicked Michael in the face again, knocking him out. Michael picked his battles from then on.

He also hit the gym, got ripped, found the skinhead and smashed a pint glass over his head.

“forgive my mistake a few months ago. Actually, smashing a pint glass bottom first over someone's head is the most effective way of winning a fight, you racist fuck.”

The Goalkeeper

Written 6 December 2018

Okay, don't panic. It's only 1-0, plenty of time.

Jeez, I'm gonna catch some stick for that one. Nutmegged from 30 yards. I mean, that might be the first time that's ever happened. I'm going to be on one of those flipping YouTube collections. Biggest goalkeeper fails.

For Pete's sake, where was your head? You'd been shouting at Frank to keep him on his left and then. . . What? What were you thinking?

It was the gaffer. He was dancing on the spot and he looked like. . . Like. . . That Irish twerp. . . Michael Flatley, that's the one. Managers usually use their flipping arms to give messages, why is he jigging?

Still not sure about him. Seems to switch between genius and idiot at whim. I mean, guaranteeing we'd win this game. No pressure or anything.

That shit from The Sun. “How do you feel your goalkeeper is performing?” bloody well, I'll have you know! 12 clean sheets from 19. You make a few little mistakes and they're gunning for you. Should have been a striker.

I'm hungry. Should've eaten more before the game. I reckon that's the nutritionists fault. He knows I hate beans. Beans. What a pointless. . . Vegetable? Is it a vegetable? It can't be, it's. . . Shit, when did they get so close?

2-0. Guarantee we're not coming back from this.