Christmas Every Day

Following The Boy’s funeral I went to live with Mona for a week, so that she could “feed me up”.  Apparently, after The Boy died, I’d completely forgotten to eat and everyone was worried about me.

  

“Don’t fret about me fading away”, I’d said to Skins, “There’s more life in my fucking shadow than there is in half the hapless husks of humanity that inhabit this Earth.” 

 

But I didn’t have the energy to resist him dragging me over there, and when Mona put a steaming great pile of food on the table in front of me I suddenly realised I was hungry.

 

“It was a nice send off ,wasn’t it Brian?” Mona said, as I gorged my way through plates of meat; caring not a jot for the splatters of grease, flesh and mess that caught in my beard.  “Everyone turned up, all his family.”

 

“Bollocks!” I spat, a wad of gristle flying across the room as I spoke, evidence that pigs can fly after all. “Was Johnny Three-Fingers there?  Mark Attack?  The Cute but Psychopathic Bears?  Bollocks no, none of the bands he played with after BSQ could be arsed.  Those fuckers helped him drink, snort and flank his way to death, but couldn’t be bothered to show up for his funeral.”  I paused to top up a mouthful of sausage which I grubbled greedily.  “A bunch of accountants, lawyers and fucking Chesney.  What sort of send off is that?”

 

“But Brian, all his friends were there.  You, Skins, Strop, they even let Eric out of prison.  And Chesney was his wife, it was good of her to come after what happened.”

 

“Bollocks,” I said again as I scraped my knife against the plate, careful not to let the slightest pool of grease escape my gullet, “Chesney was only there so’s she could put the scene in her autobiography.”

 

There wasn’t much more to say on the subject of Chesney and a silence unfolded slowly during which I mopped up the plate pattern with a nearby loaf of bread.  With an enormous belch and a small shot of brandy I was happy to leave the table.

 

We shared meaningless banter for a while after that, Mona on the sofa, me sprawled back deep into the easy chair, chortling occasionally like a mad old man, nose gradually reddening as the bottle paled. 

 

“I had a dream last night,” I remembered suddenly.  “I dreamt I was in bed, snoring away happily, when I felt a ghastly cold tap on the shoulder.  I opened my eyes to see a bony grey face staring at me; the face attached to a bony grey body hovering over me."

 

Mona smiled and relaxed back into the soft folds of the sofa – she knew me well enough to let me rant on when I wanted to and bar the occasional nod and enthusiastic smile in the right places, my story required little from her.

 

“'Brian de Maget', the voice had rasped at me, 'I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Pass.'

 

“'Oh fuck off you old fool', I’d answered, as articulate in dreams as I am in life, 'I’m getting my 40 winks of beauty product; come back in December.'

 

“But the chilling finger poked me again and again, as unrelenting as writs from Chesney’s lawyer.  'There are places we must go Mr de Maget, now is not the night for sleep.'

 

“'Oh for fuck’s sake, can’t you haunt me when I’m awake?'  But the ghost wouldn't go, so I had no choice but to climb out of bed. 

 

“'Follow me,' the ghost wailed, as he swooped his body horizontally across the bed and out of the wall.

 

“'Oh, now you’re just being silly', I began, but strangely I felt my feet hover off the ground and I too started to float upwards into the air.

 

“'Hurrah', I thought, 'a flying dream; I like flying dreams.'  I tried to shake off the old duffer of a ghost so that I could do the flying over nudist beach dream, but he was too cunning for me, and I found myself being dragged towards a cemetery.

 

"Oh god, I thought, this old chestnut. The ghost said nothing, intent solely on slicing his way through the cold night air.  We circled the graveyard for a while and slowly descended. 

 

“The grave was covered in dust, the cemetery itself also seemed long-abandoned, as forgotten and disused as the bodies laid down below.  I wiped away the dust from the stone, and as I did so recognised it: The Boy’s grave.

 

“'You must be new to this job', I ventured to the ghastly spirit, this one’s already dead – you’re the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Pass remember, not the Ghost of Yesterday’s News.  Are they a bit short of staff in the next world?'

 

“'Come,' the ghost beckoned, trying to retain its dignity but unable to refute my critique.  We floated off, across a great city that I just about recognised as London. The wind was starting to get up my pyjamas. 

 

“'I hope we’re not flying far, I’m not dressed for this at all.' No sooner had I spoken, than we reached another cemetery.  Again the ghost descended in a vulturesque swirl and we stood before another grave.

 

 “'What is this?' I protested 'The graveyard tour of London?  Frankly I’d have more fun at a Sting concert'  But though I tried to fly away towards the brighter lights, I was irresistibly drawn to the next grave. I followed the point of the bony finger and read the inscription.  ‘Here lies Brian De Maget – watch out God he’s coming to get you.’

 

“Next to my own grave stood another." 

 

At this point I paused in my story and looked at Mona; her sleepy eyes returning my gaze, her body, once that of an enthusiastic and thrusting young wench, had somehow morphed into the frame of a tired, middle-aged woman, more in need of regular tea than regular sex. 

 

“Carry on Brian” she said, “it’s getting interesting.”

 

“It was your grave Mona.  Buried next to me.  I never thought you’d die, I thought you’d be around forever.”

 

“We all die eventually Brian”, she said pleasantly, “but I’m sure I’ll be around for a while yet.”

 

“I hope so Mona.  I hope so."

 

“We flew upwards and onwards, to the next cemetery where Skins lay buried; then on to witness Strop’s magnificent protrusion at the Pere Lachaise cemetery; and then on to Eric’s final resting place, a grotty little burial plot at the back of Highgate Prison.  Eric's always liked Highgate Prison, it's really easy to break out of, so he could pop round the corner to his auntie Ethel's for a cup of tea and break back in before anyone noticed.  Of course, he wouldn’t be able to break out now he was dead and buried, and if he did he wouldn't half give auntie Ethel a shock.

 

“Even though these deeds were yet to happen, I couldn’t hold back a tear.  The night had taken its toll on me, so many friends to cry over, so little time.

 

“'Oh Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, when will all this come to pass?  Is this tomorrow?  Is it a hundred years hence?'

 

“'We are in the year 2060..'

 

“As he spoke the wind returned and I watched the vision of the spirit being blown away into a wisp of shadow, then nothing.  The cemetery too swirled into mist, then nothing.  I was left surrounded by emptiness, without so much as a ghost to haunt me.  Unable to bear any more I woke up.”

 

“So that’s it," I concluded bleakly. “We were all dead Mona.  Every last one of us: Me, you, The Boy, Skins, Eric.  Even Strop died. Fourtyyears time, that’s what the ghost said, just fourtyyears and we’ll be nothing but stone tributes. And there were Tiny Tim’s crutches propped up against my gravestone.  He dies too; Tiny Tim doesn’t make it.”

 

Mona touched my shoulder tentatively. “But we don’t know a Tiny Tim, Brian. It was just a dream; he's just a character in a story. You’re just sad about The Boy.”

 

“Not just Tiny Tim, Moan. We all died; we’re all Tiny Tims. Fourty years, that’s all we’ve got, then we can toss our crutches away, lay down and soak up the worms.”

 

“Fourty years is a long time Brian, it’s half a lifetime away.

 

“Less than half a lifetime, that’s my point.  We’re dead in fourty years time, not dying.  It’s all gone. Gone, gone, gone.  Everything.  Everyone.  Everyone that ever was is gone.  Just fourty years Moan.  Fourty bloody years, that’s not time for a bunch of Neanderthals to evolve into a heavy metal band.

 

“Was there a date on any of the graves, Brian?”  Mona’s voice, for the first time, seemed appropriately anxious.

 

“There was on The Boy’s.  They got it right too.  Nothing on yours though, just some nonsense about there being one less flower on the earth and a new one in heaven.  I couldn’t read Strop’s; it was surrounded by fans snapping away at it with their mobile phones, and there were no details on Skin’s or Eric’s; they were never any good at figures anyway.

 

Though the dream had haunted me for the past two days I’d forgotten one detail.  “There was a date on mine though.” 

 

“When Brian, when are you going to die?” 

 

I racked my brain, trying to recall.  Ah yes.  “23rd October 2016.”

 

“”But that was Tuesday Brian. You didn’t die on Tuesday, you’re still here.”

 

I pierced Mona with what she describes as my “bleak” look.  “I don’t feel it Moan.  I don’t feel like I’m here at all.”

 

Mona stared back at me, lost for words, a slight wibble of her chin an indication of the emotion within.

“Sometimes” I said, “sometimes, I feel like it’s Christmas every day.”

 

“Well that’s good isn’t it Brian?  Christmas is a happy time, all those presents, children singing carols, seeing your friends, getting tipsy on sherry.”

 

“Not Christmas morning you fool, Christmas afternoon, with crap on telly, empty bottles all around, not a single present left to open; nothing to look forward to bar more of the same.  Sometimes I feel I spend my life sitting in my chair trying to numb the pain with whisky and pills, waiting for something to happen, like it used to do when The Boy would appear on my doorstep and within half an hour we’d either be legging it from the police or shaming ourselves on national television.  These day’s I don’t even get to disgrace myself in front of the neighbours Mona.  What’s happened to me?”

 

“We’re just older Brian.  Nobody can be a rebel forever.”

 

The evening ended thus, with me in tears, Mona sobbing in return and neither of us quite able to go up to bed. 

 

I awoke frozen cold, half sucked into the sofa, Mona across my chest giving me a dead left arm.