Christmas with the Stooges

Oh jaysus. It's over for another year. I'm in Kilshite with the rest of the assembled family.

Mind you, it's one of the nicest Christmases I've had for quite some time.

I remained relatively sober throughout the day.
I didn't insult anyone.
I didn't spill cranberry sauce down my new top.
I only belched (not farted - because I am a lady and we do not make bottom noises) in front of guests.

Best of all...!!!!

In my parents' back garden there's a stray cat eating the turkey leftovers... and he looks exactly like HITLER!

This has been a source of great amusement to me because I can no longer go out through the back door without shouting "Arbeit Macht Frei" or "Sieg Heil".

Now they've locked the door and hidden the key on me. Gits.

I'd post a photo of him but the bugger keeps running off to annex some other neighbour's garden. In the meantime, here's something himmler ... er... similar.

A Christmas Form ...part the second

(Part 1)

Govscrooge awoke again, this time with a desperate urge to wee. Damn that Leffe! Having endured a trepidatious waddle to the toilet, she washed her hands (remember kids!) and decided that the table was not a good place to sleep after all. She turned to go upstairs. At that precise moment, the clock in the hall struck three. "Bollocks", thought our protagonist, "I'm going to have some fucking head on me tomorrow."

"And right you are", quoth an iridescent globule which materialised suddenly at the foot of the stairs.

"What the fuck!" screamed Govscrooge. As a fairly heavy drinker, she had seen some weird things in her time, but never what looked like a talking hyperbolic paraboloid. "Oh wait, are you one of those things Morley said he was sending?"

"That's right", said the thingy, which morphed into a vaguely humanoid figure. "Now, if you'd like to sign this docket as proof of delivery, we can get started." The figure proffered in its hand something that looked vaguely like a form. Govscrooge retched at the sight of it. But signed it anyway and handed it back. Immediately, the ghost took Govscrooge's hand and every atom of the surrounding environment vanished as if a thick fog had suddenly seeped around them.

When the fog cleared, Govscrooge recognised their new, grim surroundings instantly. "Holy shit, it's the sales office of Disgrace Brothers! I had my first job there! There's the office manager now. What a bitch." A small, pinched looking woman came into view. She was brandishing a large pile of order forms. "Govscrooge", she said, "The customers have changed their orders. As there's no-one else here and we have to make deliveries before close of business because it's Christmas Eve, you'll have to amend them all." The younger Govscrooge looked up and said "But I've already made plans for tonight. I wanted to go on the piss with my mates!" "Do I look like I care?" said the manager. "You want this job, don't you? We pay you 100 quid a week, so start earning it." She left the forms on Govscrooge's desk and walked back to her own office, where the accounts manager was waiting, with a barely concealed bottle of wine under his jacket. Govscrooge sighed and took the first order form off the pile.

"Jesus, what a fucking shithole. I hated that job.", said the present-day Govscrooge. "I wouldn't put up with that shite now. I've a good mind to find out where that bitch lives and petrol bomb her house". The ghost merely smirked. Some synapses in Govscrooge's inebriated brain began to work again: "Oh right, I get it, you're trying to teach me something. Well I think I get the message, so if you don't mind, I'd like to go home now." "Yeah, all right. You're a bit too sweary for me", said the ghost. "I've been dead for two hundred years you know. That was when ladies were ladies." A mist descended once again, and Govscrooge found herself back in her own home. "Ok, maybe I'll be nicer to Bob from now on", she muttered to herself as she ascended the stairs. Without a further thought, or changing into pyjamas, she collapsed into bed and promptly fell into a deep alcoholic sleep.

The clock struck four, and, with an almighty clatter, the bedroom windows flew open. Govscrooge woke with a start, "Not again". A second figure appeared, at first translucent, but then filling out into a comforting opacity. "Hieeee! I am the ghost of Christmas Present" announced the apparition, which now resembled a Yummy Mummy dressed in a Juicy Couture pink velour leisure suit and Ugg boots, laden down with a bulging Prada handbag and lots of bags from BT.

"Oh Jesus. I think I liked the first one better", moaned Govscrooge. "Don't be silly", said the ghost, and grabbed Govscrooge's hand with her own, French manicured one. "Come on, the Land Rover is outside." "So much for the bloody recession", growled Govscrooge. The ghostly Land Rover took them through the deserted streets of Ballyfuck, then into the next town. It stopped outside a small house. "Come on, let's have a look!" enthused the ghost. They peered through a window into a cosy family scene. Bob Scratchit was there, surrounded by his grown up children, and their own young families. They were unwrapping their presents.

"Gawd, look at that wallpaper" said the Ghost. "I mean, loike, you can get the look of handpainted damask at knockdown prices in Dundrum. " Govscrooge glared at the ghost and resumed looking at the Scratchits. Bob's wife handed him a parcel. "Bob, it's not much, but I think you'll like it". Bob unwrapped his gift. It was a knobbly, uneven, handknitted scarf. He grinned up at his wife. "It's lovely. Thank you so much." "Oh my Gawd, have they no taste? Alexander McQueen..." the Ghost was silenced by Govscrooge's hand clamping firmly across her mouth. Bob gave his wife her present. It was his civil servant diary, wrapped in ribbons. "Sorry love, department wouldn't sanction overtime this year. And I couldn't get out of the office to do any proper Christmas shopping because I forgot to apply for the leave on time. But look, it's got a nice leathery cover and everything." Mrs Scratchit hugged her husband and said "Never mind. At least it's something I'll use. Here's to a better year. I hope your application for a transfer at work is successful. You might get a more accomodating manager. I wish that Govscrooge woman was here right now, I've a good mind to give her a knuckle sandwich."

Govscrooge turned away from the window, retching once again. Mrs Scratchit was a big woman, with hands like shovels. "Get us out of here before she sees me", Govscrooge whispered hoarsely to the Ghost. "OK, but the Land Rover's just been repossessed. We'll have to walk", replied the Ghost. They walked the miles back to Ballyfuck in silence. Well, near silence. The clicking of the Ghost's Manolos on the road almost drove Govscrooge into a frenzy. "If she wasn't already dead..." she thought.

Back home, Govscrooge attempted to sleep, but knowing that there was another fucking ghost on the way didn't help. And the room was spinning. That wasn't good. Neither was the third ghost. It was just standing there looking down at her. Silently, it extended a skeletal hand from underneath its black cloak. Govscrooge knew better than to refuse. "Bloody hell, you stink", was all she said.

The scene instantly changed to the interior of the Department. A small group of HEOs that Govscrooge knew were having tea together. "So, Bob Scratchit got promoted to EO at long last" said one of the HEOs. "Yes, good for him. He's a good worker. He hasn't had an easy time of it in his last section" said another, "I hear he's to replace Govscrooge. Well, he knows the work inside out." Govscrooge looked at the ghost. "What do they mean, replace? Did I get a transfer or something? I hope I don't get stuck in HR. Everyone expects you to know everything in there." The ghost shook its head.

The scene changed once again. They were standing alongside a long queue of people. The queue was extending out of the door of a large, grey building and went all the way round the corner. They walked to the door and entered the building. No-one complained. They were invisible, you see. A large counter with perspex windows dominated the room. There were also several metal chairs, all of which were occupied, and all of which were bolted to the floor. A man with a can of cheap cider sticking out of his back pocket was banging on one of the perspex windows. A tirade of filthy abuse issued from him. "Where's me bleedin' dole, you fuckin' miserable oul' BITCH?" he screamed at the petrified woman behind the counter. Govscrooge squinted. That woman looked vaguely familiar. A bit older, yes, but not much. "Oh fuck, that's me! What the hell am I doing in the bloody dole office?" she screamed, grabbing the ghost's robes. "What the hell am I doing in an understaffed dole office in the middle of the RECESSION?" Govscrooge fell to the floor, retching yet again. When she looked up, she was back in her own home. "Oh, Christ", she moaned, and slumped, unconscious onto the floor.

Bob Scratchit awoke on Christmas morning with a splitting headache. It was not helped by his wife poking him in the ribs with her toe. "Get up, you git!", she shouted. "What a sight for your grandchildren to see, you lying there, drooling on my nice new wood floors. Get up and help to set up Tiny Tom's new Nintendo Wii." Bob groaned, roused himself and slowly shuffled into the kitchen for a drink of water. The smell of roasting turkey that filled the house did nothing to help his hangover.

Not long after there was a knock on the door. Wiping the crusty drool from his cheek, he went to answer it. "Oh Holy shite", he screamed as he realised who the caller was. "What are you doing here?" Govscrooge stood in the doorway with a big grin on her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was still wearing yesterday's work clothes, including ID badge. In fact, she looked totally bolloxed, but she still managed a cheery "Merry Christmas, Bob." She had two cases of Leffe at her feet. "Here you go, Bob, I thought you might like these. I'm giving up the booze." Bob was still staring at her, open mouthed. Govscrooge continued, "Oh, and there's absolutely no problem with taking today off. I've signed your leave form. And there's a few blank ones there too so you can fill your own dates in. Here, have a look." Bob took the familar form from Govscrooge. December 25th was indeed signed off. "Wait a minute, Govscrooge", Bob said. "Today is my day off anyway. It's everyone's day off. It doesn't have to be signed off. Not by you, not by anyone."

"Oh, bollocks. I was wondering why everywhere was closed. I wanted to get you all something for Christmas. This beer was all I had. I must be really hungover, not to know even what day it was."

"Never mind. Do you want to join us for dinner? There's more than enough", invited Bob.

"No thanks, I've heard how your wife picks her... errr... I think I need to go home and sleep now", said Govscrooge.

Bob watched her go. The next year was going to be better. He wiped the drool from his mouth once more with the form and went inside.

"God bless us every one", he said cheesily to his assembled family.

"Shut up you corny git", said his wife.

The End (At last)
With apologies to Charles Dickens

Have a great Christmas, folks.

A Christmassy Stooge

Well, sitting here knowing I have only one day to work, that it will be all over in seventy-two hours, basking in the pathetic glow of my fairly (yes, fairly... they're not very good at all) lights and listening to Handel's Messiah while snaffling Lidl cut-price Skips by the bucketload (nom, nom!), I have a warm fuzzy festive feeling. Makes me think of my favourite Christmas story.

A Christmas Form

It was Christmas Eve, and, in the Department, all was quiet, apart from the clicking of computer mice on pornographic images, the slurping of tea and the frantic scratching of arses. The whole scenario was presided over by Govscrooge, the most evil and foul-tongued EO in the entire Department. Govscrooge was the Departmental Time Lord; an omniscient and hostile being in charge of the flexi-clock and leave planner.

"Well, I'll be off on my half day then, Merry Christmas to all," chirped Bob Scratchit, the lowliest Clerical Officer in the whole section. Bob was a cheerful chappie, always singing and dancing and generally annoying everyone. As Bob approached the Great Clock, there was a tumult from the furthest corner of the office.

"Just a minute!" yelled Govscrooge. "Did I sign your leave application form?"

"Er, no, but I did tell you I wanted a half-day off on Christmas Eve", said Bob.

"Where's your fucking form, Bob?" Govscrooge barked, rounding on Bob. "If I didn't sign it, you're here until four o'clock. You have to apply in advance. That's the rule, unless you're sick of course. Then I have the right to enter your house to see what you're really up to."

"But I have to get home. My grandkids are coming. I still have to get the Christmas tree up", whined Bob.

"Not my problem," said Govscrooge, "get back to your desk or you'll become the fairy on top of the section Christmas tree. And we do need a new one, since Graham Norton rogered the other one to bits on his recent visit to the Department to open the new wing. Dirty fecker."

Bob Scratchit returned to his desk, despondent. He had so wanted to go drinking with his mates down the pub. The grandkids story was merely a ruse to elicit sympathy. But Govscrooge must be onto him, he mused. He returned to his big dusty pile of forms. Some of them had been there since October. He looked around one last time, and noticing the homicidal look on the EO's face, put his head down and returned to his work.

Four o'clock rolled around and Bob shut down his PC and shrugged himself into his coat. He bade Govscrooge a subdued farewell - which was reciprocated by a grunt that sounded suspiciously like "Fuck off" - and headed for the door. Civil servants were spilling out of neighbouring sections, full of festive cheer. Bob walked, head bowed, down the street. He did not look up until he reached the stained-glass doors of "The Bureaucrat's Arms", the local drinking emporium. Once inside, he ordered a pint of the establishment's finest golden-hued beverage. And drank deep and was silent (with apologies to Austin Clarke).

Govscrooge worked late, balancing all the smokers' clocks - those fucking fag breaks really messed things up. When this irritating task was finished, it was time to go home, to the large stately pile in the centre of Ballyfuck that Govscrooge called home. It was a mansion that had passed down through several generations of Govscrooges. It had real Georgian windows, Grecian urns and a door knocker in the shape of Charlie Haughey. Govscrooge skidded on a small rectangular object as she stepped through the front door. The cry of "Bollicks" echoed through the house. Govscrooge looked at what had caused the accident. It was a brown envelope with a harp on it, and now, a wet footprint. "Fucking bastard payslip" roared Govscrooge. "Fuck all in it anyway! Jesus I need a beer."

Bob Scratchit weaved his way home through the snow which had begun to fall while he was in the pub. On the way he met the parish priest, who wished him all the blessings of the season. Bob belched in response, and continued on. He stopped twice on the way home. Once for a wee on a door, and again to be sick in a bush. On arriving home, he engaged in a pitched battle with the keyhole of his front door and, once having won, fell into his hallway and promptly fell asleep.

Govscrooge woke, slumped at the kitchen table, surrounded by empty Leffe bottles. "Fuck, how many of those did I drink? And what the hell woke me up?" The question was answered by the rustling of paper. Suddenly, an apparition appeared, right there in the middle of the kitchen. It couldn't be, could it? It was semi-transparent, glowing, covered in Post-it notes and Departmental compliment slips. It was Morley's Ghost! The Ghost of Govscrooge's former HEO!

"My God, Govscrooge, you really are a miserable wagon", boomed the spectre. "Why do you take my instructions about leave forms so seriously? Even at Christmas?"

"Ah fuck off, Morley. You're not doing my PMDS anymore. Get out of my house you ectoplasmic waste of space", retorted Govscrooge.

"I'm not finished. I have the ULTIMATE PMDS review for you. Before morning, you will be visited by three ghosts." said Morley.

"Jesus, I'm really scared" yawned Govscrooge. "I've so much beer in me I couldn't give a fuck. Just tell them to wipe their feet before they come in. And why so late anyway? Even Jehovah's Witnesses don't come knocking at those hours."

Morley's ghost sighed, and without a further word, disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"God, smokers ming", thought Govscrooge, and resumed her slump at the table.

To be continued....

I'm gonna be sober this Christmas...

I have kept my brought-forward-three-weeks New Year's resolution for a week now. That was to give up getting pissed. Not to give up drinking. Asking Govstooge to renounce alcohol would be like asking the Pope to convert to Pastafarianism. So far I've been slagged twice by friends and colleagues for stopping at Pint No. 4, and, therefore being a fucking wuss.

Funnily enough, I like waking up on weekend mornings with a clear head and the energy to do all the housey stuff I can't do during the week, because it's too dark outside. Especially this time of year. There's only a few hours' light in the day, I like to make the most of them. Otherwise I'd be depressed. And what do many people do when depressed? Drink. Alcohol itself is a depressant, which just adds to the vicious circle of sleeping very late, getting pissed... ad infinitum.

Making a tit of myself at the office do was, I'm sure you already know, the spur for this.

Guurgh!

I have few recollections of the recent office Christmas party.

The meal was lovely. I remember that bit. Plus I was seated next to some colleagues I didn't know very well before now and that worked out nicely.

I also remember singing loud rebel songs in a pub with some equally drunk colleagues while people at neighbouring tables looked on, smirking.

I bumped into a former colleague in another pub. The conversation went something like this:
Govstooge: AAAh howya Margaret!
Margaret: Hello Govstooge, how are you?
Govstooge: Uhurrhuurgh! Bleargh! Burble! (And various other unintelligible drunk person sounds).
Margaret: Eh, yeah. Excuse me, I have to go over here now.

The highlight of the night was when my stomach contents erupted all over the fine wood-marquetry of an upmarket pub door. And I got a fair few spatters myself.

Luckily, no-one else remembered.

I hope.

I have to face the rest of them tomorrow.

Lemmings

Why does it now take me HALF a FUCKING hour longer to get home from work because of the FUCKING Christmas shopping traffic????

For FUCK's sake, those FUCKING shops are open 24 hours now... why do these pricks all have to go at the same time??

BASTARDS!

Not only that... but I was stuck behind a couple of enormous Toyota Land Cruisers and Land Rovers ... with fucking "Baby on Board" stickers plastered all over them.

C***s! Garrrgh!

Disgruntled!

Now the unfortunate pig industry is fecked, what with all this dioxin shite scare that's gotten into the meat. And, as if there wasn't enough bad news, hundreds of workers in the industry have been laid off. Dismal news for yet more families. It makes me cringe lately when I read about this depressing stuff and all I can think of is my tum.

I'm one of those annoying "flexitarian" fence-sitting people, who purport to be vegetarian, but who occasionally get cravings for meat products. I live for the most part on lentils, vegetable curries, Lidl Margherita pizzas and houmus. But not always. For instance, I love traditional Christmas dinner - all but sprouts. I sometimes crave a floppy, shadow-of-its-advert Supermacs' burger after the pub. And, about once a month, a bagel filled with tomato, lettuce and... bacon. Today was a BLT craving day, but I was obliged to opt for something healthier.

A nice brown wholemeal scone. Mmmm... roughage.

And I was wondering, is it still safe to get stuff off Pigsback.com? It's just that I won a load of points (points, not pints... still, never look a gift horse in the mouth, eh??) off them last week... (Edit... good old Curly has come up trumps again!)

This recession is turning out to be apocalyptic. I'm feeling really grateful for my job right now.

Stink

Today you walked past me as I was out for a walk on my lunch hour. You were well-dressed, well groomed, altogether a fine specimen of a man. I admit, I ogled you as you passed by. You had that nonchalant, devil-may-care jaunt in your step. Then, a blue-hued waft of carcinogenic death hit me in the face. As an adjunct to that carefree bounce in your walk, you were puffing on a fag. Bleargh. I pulled my scarf around my face in the style of a yashmak and quickened my step to get down wind of the smoke. I succeeded. I thought, "yeah, his tar-ridden lungs will prevent him from getting past me again." I was wrong. You cannoned past me, oblivious to my irritation. This time I did not ogle you. You weren't as cool as you thought you were.

No.

You fucking stank.

Minger.