Christmas Special (part one)

©2011 David Jasmin-Green

This tale told itself pretty smoothly. Well, mostly it did, but when I was almost done I ground to a sudden embarrassing halt and I couldn't decide what was the best conclusion to aim for. I felt like shelving the story and starting something new, and I would probably have done just that if the finishing post wasn't just around the corner. That would have been a real shame, because in my experience abandoned stories rarely get salvaged. I was rescued by a series of silly but at the same time enlightening communications between myself and my American friend Durand Compton, whose sense of humour has saved the day on numerous occasions in the past, though I've largely failed to credit him for those free shots of inspiration. I'd love to collaborate on a piece with Durand some day – I think it would be tremendous fun.

©2011 David Jasmin-Green

This tale told itself pretty smoothly. Well, mostly it did, but when I was almost done I ground to a sudden embarrassing halt and I couldn't decide what was the best conclusion to aim for. I felt like shelving the story and starting something new, and I would probably have done just that if the finishing post wasn't just around the corner. That would have been a real shame, because in my experience abandoned stories rarely get salvaged. I was rescued by a series of silly but at the same time enlightening communications between myself and my American friend Durand Compton, whose sense of humour has saved the day on numerous occasions in the past, though I've largely failed to credit him for those free shots of inspiration. I'd love to collaborate on a piece with Durand some day – I think it would be tremendous fun.

“I'm going home,” Ian James said out of the blue on that fateful Christmas Eve in 2010. He was in the middle of a supposedly pleasant Christmas drink with a couple of mates in the Dog in a Dicky Bow, his favourite watering hole. One minute he was laughing and joking and eyeing up the local talent and the next he was overcome by a dark cloud of gloom and an urgent, overwhelming desire for solitude. He had to get away from the raucous and up to that point thoroughly enjoyable festivities, because the weather in his head had suddenly and inexplicably deteriorated.
“'Ome?” Pete said. “Fucking 'ome? It's Christmas Eve! What are you gonna do at home, dress up in your sister's tutu and tie yourself to the Christmas tree until Santa arrives, you great fairy? It's barely half nine, and the night's young and virginal - it's only just been born, damn it. This place is overflowing with pussy, and most of the birds in 'ere'll be struggling to balance on their 'igh 'eels before much longer. You can't go home yet, you total prick!
“'Hear hear!” Justin added. “Bugger me, look at the jiggly wobblies on that. The totty standard's pretty 'igh in here tonight, lads - all right, Sal! - and there's something for every taste. There might even be a girlie good enough to tick all the boxes for a fussy fucker like you, Jamesy. There's pussy in 'ere the likes of which we couldn't 'ope to conquer most nights, but this is a special night; it's a gold top night, a night when we can 'ave the pick of the crop if we play our cards right, which is why I'm staying stone cold sober.”
“Me too,” Pete replied. “Well, relatively sober. Maybe we could 'ave the pick of the litter rather than the pick of the crop. 'Ave you seen those twin puppies over there struggling to get out of their lacy, under-wired cage? They're bloody massive! The bird that they belong to wants spanking for imprisoning tits like that - I can just imagine her arse cheeks wobbling like a couple of jellies as I dish out 'er punishment..... Tits like that need fresh air and freedom and maybe a bit of tongue, as long as it's mine.
You can't go home yet, Jamesy, you tool. It's a bloody sin! You're normally the life and soul of the party, man. What the 'ell's got in to you?” Justin took his leave and set off in pursuit of the boisterous puppies that Pete had pointed out to him, and he left without so much as a “cheers, mate.”
“I dunno,” Ian replied. “I really don't. Perhaps I'm just overtired, I haven't been sleeping too well just lately. Maybe I'm coming down with something..... I feel really low all of a sudden, I feel as if the Grinch that stole Christmas has moved into the spare room of my mind.
I've never liked Christmas all that much. Don't get me wrong, I can yo-ho-ho with the best of 'em when I'm in the mood, but when I've had enough I've had enough, and believe me, I've had more than enough this year. I don't want to sound like a bloody vicar, but most people seem to have conveniently forgotten the real message behind the bling and tinsel.....
I'm sick and tired of decking the halls with boughs of holly and tra-la-la-la-laaing, and I'm sick of hearing Jingle Bells and Rudolph the red nosed fucking reindeer everywhere I go. I'm sorry, but the way I feel right now I can't bear the thought of listening to Slade singing 'Merry Christmas Everybody' even one more time. As for Wizard singing 'I Wish it Could be Christmas Every Day,' heaven forbid - just think what it would be like if we had to put up with that crap every day of the sodding year. And if I see another prannet wearing one of those stupid flashing Santa hats I swear I'll knock his teeth out..... I think I'll be better off at home, mate, because if I stay here I'll just ruin everyone else's fun.”
“There's a bird over there eyeing you up as if you were made of chocolate,” Pete said. “She's been casting furtive glances in your direction for a while now, and if you ask me she's got the 'ots for you. She probably wants you to dress up as Santa, slip down 'er slippery chimney, firk about in 'er more than likely saturated Christmas pudding pretending to look for shiny sixpences, fill 'er stocking with your Yuletide log and pop your champagne cork with an expression on your mush that wouldn't look out of place at the international gurning championship.”
“Where?” Ian said. “I don't believe a word of it, you lying fuck.”
“There,” Peter replied. “The one by the table in the corner where those two fat birds are demolishing their third plate of scampi and chips, the one with the pert, pointy tits standing next to the tall blonde that I sincerely 'ope you don't fancy. She's wearing a green blouse and grey jeans, and she's got long black hair with a bit o' gold tinsel in it.”
“Oh, her,” Ian said, casually checking the woman out. Though she was undeniably appealing he wasn't at all interested - even if she sauntered over fluttering unmistakably come to bed eyes at him, dropped her kit and blatantly offered her naked, no doubt fragrant delights on a silver platter he would still have made his excuses and slunk off home, he told himself.
For his own peace of mind, though, he had to ascertain whether or not Pete was telling the truth, because he suspected not - he suspected that he was the victim of a cunning ruse to persuade him to stay put. The woman dutifully smiled when Ian glanced in her direction again, but he pretended that he hadn't noticed. Actually she was quite a piece of work, he mused, but it was the wrong place and the wrong time, it was as simple as that. “I don't fancy her,” he lied, downing the last of his beer. “Actually I'm thinking of joining a monastery. Or tying string tightly around my tackle and becoming a eunuch. I'm having a mental breakdown, buddy. No, I take it back. I'm a closet queer, how does that sound? Fucking satisfied now, are you? And even if I did fancy her I've made up my mind – I'm going home.”
Actually Ian felt more than a little drunk, though he had only consumed four or five pints of lager. He guessed that Pete and Justin had been covertly spiking his drinks with whisky or vodka, a trick that he had caught them red-handed at a number of times before; the notion of watching some unwitting dolt staggering around blind drunk and slurring a load of complete rubbish (preferably in the ear of some unfortunate, probably totally unsuitable woman that he suddenly took a fancy to) struck them as remarkably funny. They didn't realise or indeed care that the notion of being paralytic frightened the shit out of Ian, who preferred to remain in control at all times.
“Right,” Pete said. “I suppose you've secretly planned to attend the midnight mass with your mum and dad in some empty, soulless church to contemplate the true meaning of Christmas, you daft, misguided twat. So be it, see if I bloody care.
While you're saying endless 'ail Mary's, rubbing your Rosary beads to take your mind off your throbbing cock and achin' balls and repenting your sins, spare a prayer for me - in a little while I'll probably be forced to indulge in an orgy of ungodly but nevertheless thrilling sexual gratification with your bird as well as mine, so I've got my work cut out. Oh well, somebody's got to do it.....
Actually I've always fancied a threesome, and I've got a feeling that tonight might be the night that the Christmas fairy grants my wish. It doesn't look like Justin'll be any competition 'cos 'e's well on the way to copping off with tremor tits – if she rolls over during the night she'll probably bloody flatten him. I'll see you tomorrow then, you great, steaming, party pooping pooftah. You are still coming out for a couple of bevvies at lunchtime, I trust - you don't 'ave a compulsory sack cloth and ashes Christmas morning mass to attend before you eat your bread and dripping 'cos you've given your turkey to the poor? Good. See ya, mate, and take care. Don't get doing anything I woudn't, which doesn't leave much, I suppose.”