Christmas Dinner

Menu:

Prawn cocktail

Roast turkey, sausagemeat and apricot stuffing, chestnut stuffing, sage and onion stuffing balls, pigs in blankets, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, roast parsnips, mashed swede, Vichy carrots, braised red cabbage, ratatouille, leeks au gratin, cauliflower cheese, Brussels sprouts with bacon and walnuts, peas, gravy, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, apple and orange sauce.

Christmas pudding with brandy butter, custard and clotted cream

I would be willing to wager a good portion of my pension that this approximates what at least some of you young things think you need to provide.

Well I’m here to tell you it’s unnecessary.

Simplify.

One: You. Do. Not. Need. A. Starter. Half of your guests will be too pissed to handle anything delicate, and none of them need their appetites blunting. We don’t want to be eating turkey until Valentine’s Day.

Two: Only serve what people will eat. Thus. Small helpings of turkey (breast meat only), a good handful of roast potatoes, twelve peas, as many pigs in blankets as will fit on the rest of the plate. Some gravy. The only exception to this being if you have guests from the colonies who will eat mashed potatoes.

Three: Nobody. Eats. Christmas. Pudding. Give them vanilla ice cream with a generous dollop of dried fruit you have soaked overnight in rum.
This will push even those who are not quite pissed yet over the edge and with only average luck they will fall asleep at the table, leaving the prosecco and mint chocs for you.

Result!

Happy Christmas!

The Little Engine

It was just past midnight, though the sky seemed extra dark
And all the little steam engines were gathered in the park
Then something broke the silence with a rattle and a creak
The oldest engine cleared his tubes, and he began to speak

“There are not many nights”, he said, “when we are gathered near
So I would tell a tale if you might have the will to hear”
The wheezing and the whistling was no louder than a breeze
And yet a tiny engine whispered, “Will you tell us please?”

“It happened very long ago, my father’s father’s story
When Owen Owen rode the rails to fame and shining glory
He was just an engine, and his livery quite worn
He pulled the ore from down the mine and worked from night to morn

But then one day in winter, he was give a big surprise
His driver and an engineer they fitted him with eyes
Clear and shining brass they were and bright to light the way
And driver said they made the mine as bright as any day

What Owen engine thought of them was never very clear
But those bright eyes they lit the miners way throughout the year
For two days every winter the pit was put to bed
And Owen Owen engine was left peaceful in his shed

He quite enjoyed the rest he felt his heavy toil had bought
And closing down his brassy eyes he sat in happy thought
Until one night when all around the fog was thick and yellow
His rest was interrupted by a fat and jolly fellow

‘Owen Owen’, said the man, ‘I’ve come to ask your aid
I’ve toys to take to children but the reindeer are afraid
They cannot see through this thick murk and fear to break their legs
Will you help us out dear chap? Or do I have to beg?’

And Owen Owen smiled a smile as wide as wide could be
‘Open up the shed’ he said, ‘that’s just the job for me’
And so it came about upon that darkling winter’s night
That Owen Owen guided Santa with his eyes so bright.”

And every engine in the park gave a quiet beep
Before they closed their iron minds and tumbled back to sleep.

©️jane jago

The Christmas Cake

Conventional wisdom will tell you that you should have baked a fruit cake of the size and consistency of a breeze block sometime last January and that you should have been feeding it brandy weekly ever since. That you should have handcrafted marzipan from ground almonds and other ingredients too numerous to mention. That you should have spent many hours making Holly Leaves and Christmas Roses from sugar paste. And that your icing should be as smooth and hard as a frozen pond.

Pfft, I say. And again pfft.

Number one. Nobody eats Christmas Cake.

Number two. If they did it’s fattening.

Number three. Whatever…

But:

If you must make a cake, just chuck together whatever is your usual fruit cake recipe and shove a quarter bottle of rum in the mix. Buy a slab of ready rolled marzipan, ditto icing. Shove on cake. Sprinkle Maltesers, chocolate raisins, and dark chocolate buttons. Job done. If you can be arsed.

More sensibly, pop along to Waitrose and buy a (insert name of famous chef here)  thing. It will taste like shite but the neighbours will be impressed….

Presents bought, food sorted, lights put up and the tree decorated. Time to chill out and how better than with some sci-fi fun reading. Sci-Fi Lampoon Magazine is full of speculative humorous stories. 

An excerpt from “Stop Continental Drift!” by GD Deckard, who this issue’s Featured Author.

Piper’s insistent grip was pulling him towards the Alien. Decision time. Go with her or fall on his face. “OKAY.” He stumbled to her, muttering. “But I ain’t walking. We hitchhike.”
“What’s hitch hiking?” Spice asked.
“You stand by the road and hook your thumb out like this,” Bob showed Spice, who stepped into the intersection holding up his thumb just as a blue bus covered in colorful lettering careened from around the corner into him. The spherical Alien concaved like a collapsing basketball then rebounded ahead of the bus now screeching to a halt. The bus and alien rolled to a stop in front of Bob and Piper. She rushed to him. “Spice! Are you alright?” People piled out of the bus. “OMG!” and “It’s an alien,” some said while others checked the front of the bus. Bob helped Spice to his feet.
“My suit saved me.” The Alien brushed himself off.
Piper fingered his suit. “It looks like regular spandex.”
“I backed it with duct tape,” Spice explained, turning thoughtful. “Say, if you people are
ever allowed to export, I’d start with duct tape. It would sell just about anywhere in the galaxy.” “Are you injured?” A bearded young white man broke from the group of diverse young
people around the bus. He stopped to look twice at Old Spice. “You’re an alien! Not that that’s bad.” He added hastily. “Aliens are welcome.”
“You’ll take us to Denver? I need to get there to catch the next ship home.”
“Uh. Well, we are headed west.” He extended his hand. “My name is Jackson, Jackson Pfizer.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jackson Jackson. May I call you Jackson?”
“Please do.” Jackson’s smile broke through the confused look on his face. “I just received my Doctorate in Social Media.” The confused look returned. “Well,” he backed away. “If you are OKAY….”
“I am, Doctor Jackson. Let’s go.” Spice boarded the bus.
Bob studied the bus. It was hand painted in the style of wall graffiti, a blue base covered with orange volcanoes erupting over yellow buildings toppling in earthquakes. Scrawled below the windows in big fluorescent lime green letters was, “Stop Continental Drift!” and “Pin The Plates!!” He grinned and followed Piper aboard. They headed west.
It didn’t take long to meet the other Doctorates on the bus, it being a short bus. Each had recently completed their PhD in a socially acceptable field and were doing their Residency on a government funded tour. Sitting with the group gathered around Spice, Bob studied their eager faces while Piper told him what he was seeing, one of her professional talents as a journalist. “Each represents a different culture.”

A bite of… The Lampooning Team 

The following answers were provided by Executive Editor Margret Treiber. The rest of the team claim to be as innocent as Pontius Pilate.

Question 1: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

I think we all strive to be as inclusive as possible, and we love to her all manner of voices. While we don’t necessarily control the stories, we do enjoy submissions from people of diverse backgrounds. So yes, it’s important. Now, do we expect every single combination of human being to be represented? I’m not sure that’s possible. But we’re game. We could use a few more submissions from purple and green people.

Question 2: Why do you write? Money is an acceptable answer.

Because we are all geeks with no life outside of our imaginary universes. We find solace in each other’s geekiness and try to connect with just one person, once a day so the loneliness and emptiness abates. Nah, we just dig being funny. So we all decided to make funny together.

Question 3: What is worse, ignorance or stupidity?

Ignorance. Stupidity isn’t necessarily the stupid person’s fault. Ignorance is laziness. I mean read or something for crap’s sake. Come on. Of course even in this band of super geeks nobody knows how to travel faster than light. Is that ignorance? Are we being lazy? Hmm, maybe we should be hating on ourselves.

Question 4: Facing your demons? How much of what you write could be classed as therapy?

I imagine a lot of us start out as therapy writers until writing becomes a living,  and then the scales tilt toward the money-making side. But let’s face it, the lot of us need a ton of therapy.

Question 5: Have you ever written somebody you dislike into a book, just so you could make them suffer?

We’ve written bad jokes to make our readers suffer. If that counts

Question 6: You are at a dinner party. Name the four people living, dead or fictional you would most like to be sitting with.

Muses, four muses that whisper ideas in our ears so our little keyboards go clickity-clack and we write a ton of funny stuff. They gotta be funny muses, though, like the kind that do slapstick and pratfalls when they walk into the room. Maybe the muses of sarcasm, and comedic timing would be great.

The Lampoon staff team are:

Ian K., Publisher, (actually) wears a clown’s red bulb on his nose. Ian’s New York City born and bred, so this attracts no attention.

Adam Stump, Editor-in-Chief, talks to God daily. Also a United Methodist Church Pastor.

Margret Treiber, Executive Editor, motorcyclist. She & her partner regularly terrorise Senior Citizen drivers in South Florida.

GD Deckard, Instigator of the magazine. Regarded by the working Staff as a mascot.

Our first issue is available now in paperback and eFormats from online book retailers Galaxy wide at Amazon, Books-A-Million, Google Books or Lulu.

The next issue is planned for first quarter 2020 and if you are a writer of humorous speculative fiction our Submission Guidelines are here.

Ah. Christmas the time of cheery carollers, sleigh bells, and happy families. Or, looking at it less romantically, the time of burnt dinners, family fights, and divorce.

That first Christmas together. That’s the one that sets the pattern for all the others. Do not go to his mother’s. Or yours. Ideally, see no one and do a lot of sex.

Given that that isn’t happening, here are a few ground rules.

1. Do not be cozened into buying them tins of mixed sweeties. There will be at least two thirds that nobody likes. You will be reduced to feeding them to the dog in August.

2. Booze. Do not buy eggy stuff. It looks like snot and it tastes like snot, and nobody will drink it. If granny likes a Snowball. Buy a couple of ready made ones in pouches. She will only go to sleep with her face in the sprouts if you give her proper booze.

3. The Turkey. You do not need something the size of a Shetland Pony to feed you, your husband, and granny. Small is beautiful. After all nobody really likes turkey anyway.

4. Cooking. There’s a lot of rot talked about Christmas dinner. Do plenty of roast potatoes and a ton of them little sausages wrapped in bacon, because that’s all anybody eats.

5 Most importantly. The Punch. It should be very strong. And to begin with it should taste nice. After The Queen’s Speech it pretty much stops mattering. By that time people will drink meths.

And that is the secret of Christmas in a nutshell (NB do not buy nuts. Somebody – usually your new husband’s cousin from Reading – will inevitably display the symptoms of anaphylactic shock if you do).

Granny’s Punch

1 litre brandy
1 litre vodka
1 bottle ginger wine
1 litre pineapple juice
1 litre ginger ale
1 net of baby oranges
1 large tin pineapple chunks
Loads of glacé cherries
Punch bowl/clean plastic bucket/WHY
Ice

Cut the oranges in halves, then throw everything in the punch bowl. Drink much of it yourself.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you missed previous episodes you can start reading from the beginning.

Julia awoke to the vicious burn of smelling salts and found herself in a windowless room, lit only by a dim ceiling light and a squat brazier full of red-hot coals. She was strapped to some sort of a wooden contrivance with her legs apart and all her weight hanging from her wrists, that which were bound to the crossbar with tight leather thongs. To say she was uncomfortable was to understate the case, and she had the feeling things weren’t going to get any better.
“Is she awake?” it was an educated female voice, rendered thick by excitement and bloodlust.”
A big hand lifted Julia’s head and a dark face stared down at her.
“Oh yes, she’s awake.”
Julia heard the whiplash before she felt its bite. Part of her felt as if she had fallen through time and was back in the hands of the Mongol slavers. It was as if her life was repeating the horror like a sick rerun. She set her teeth and concentrated on not making a sound. It was difficult, as the cut of the whip was exacerbated by the drag of her own weight on her wrists. It would have been only too easy to pander to the desires of whoever was wielding the whip, but she wouldn’t give in. The beating went on for some time and Julia could feel the blood running down her back. Suddenly it stopped, and she heard the sound of harsh breathing instead.
A man spoke, in the thick accent that took Julia back to her youth.
“Enough. Let her hang for now.”

The ‘Pit’ had its uses and in the past Dai had found the fact that Bryn knew and was on good terms with a fair few of those condemned to work there, meant that he could get hold of information that others might be left waiting for – or might never get at all. Those who monitored and reviewed the surveillance data were not inclined to be so helpful when asked to provide evidence of some minor misdemeanour by a fellow Briton. They were also notorious at spending hours trawling through surveillance that they knew would be of no value, if they felt so inclined. The abduction of a Roman was not likely to be something they would be pulling any stops out for and Dai was not surprised to find the Tribune had been given the standard response that they were working on all possible sources and had instigated overtime to ensure sufficient eyes were available. Which was at least half true.
Bryn had looked sick when Dai told him what had happened to Julia.
“You know she could already be d-”
“Yes. And I also know the longer we have the Pit playing the anti-Roman card, the higher the chance of that will be.”
Bryn chewed his lower lip for a moment.
“Can you stake me a couple of tickets to the Game?”
Dai stared at his decanus.
“Can I -?”
“Not for me. Just it never hurts to have something to offer people as an incentive – and a bit of a competition with a nice prize is incentive.”
It would cost him over a month’s salary and be completely beyond the pocket of Bryn who had a family to support on half as much and probably in dream territory for those paid little more than a minimum-wage pittance to work in the Pit. He didn’t hesitate longer than that thought before nodding.
Less than an hour later Bryn and Dai were in the dark recesses of the Pit looking at the rear view of two men running. One with something slung over his shoulder.
“So why do we think that’s her?” Dai was puzzled.
“If we run it back to where the bloke carrying her changes shoulders, there’s just a glimpse of two bare feet,” the operator explained patiently.
The man brought up a still on another screen, and Dai felt anger burning his throat at the sight of what had to be Julia’s feet poking out of some sort of heavy duty binbag. He turned his attention back to the moving picture.
“That’s Via Flumen,” Bryn said pointing to a low arch where the two men vanished from view. “And if they’ve gone into that estate of boxed up insulae and allies, the Caligula’s a gods-forsaken maze.”
“No surveillance?”
“You don’t waste money watching rats shitting, fornicating and fighting each other, do you?”
Dai stared at the image and tried to catch the thought that was playing at the edge of his mind. He was suddenly sure there was something he was missing. He signalled, and the operator ran the piece again. A small dog pelted out of the alley just as the two men reached it and went in. Then his heart rate shot up.
“Filius canis, how could I be so stupid, Bryn get us transport to that place and I want all our people there when we get there.” He jabbed his finger at the arch on the screen marking the entrance to the estate. Then as Bryn obeyed, Dai used his wristphone. “Edbert? I need you to go to Via Flumen entrance of the Caligula Insulae Estate – and bring Canis and Lupo, they have work to do.”

Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

I dream this night
Of snowflakes white
And frost that bites
I smell the smell
Of pine as well
Whereat I dwell
In my mind’s eye
The Christmas pie
Goes dancing by
I dream today
Of games to play
And words to say
Oh Christmas Muse
Whose shiny shoes
Give one the blues
I dream of thee
Incessantly
Along with Street of Quality.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

They left the house as one party – with the addition of Cariad’s two children, who Julia was pleased to find were both quite delightful, taking after their mother in looks, but seeming to have their father’s easy-going disposition. They had an escort: servants carefully sanding the paving in front of them and a ceremonial guard clearing a path through the seething crowd. Julia craned her neck to look at the three Llewellyn boys, who walked hand in hand with Baer behind them like an anxious mother hen. She smiled at the girl and gave her a thumbs up. Then they were in the great open atrium of the temple of the Divine Diocletian where the brazen gongs were just sounding. Caudinus excused himself to join the group of officials at the steps of the sanctuary.
The service droned on and on. Julia was very glad of woollen stockings and fleece-lined boots as the marble floor struck like ice underfoot. As the priests reached the loudest part of the invocation, she slipped one hand into the pocket of her cloak and came out with chewy caramel sweets, which she passed quietly to the children. Enya looked a question.
“About now,” Julia whispered, “my grandmother always gave me a sweetie, otherwise I started to flag and fidget. So I thought…”
Enya smiled radiantly. “Genius.”
Eventually, the long religious ritual was over, punctuated by chants and hymns everyone knew. Traditional shouts of ‘Salve Diocletian!’ and ‘Diocletian Invictus!’ and from the less religious: ‘Saturnalia Optima!’ rang around the crowd.
Julia was relieved when Caudinus’ soldiers escorted them to a reserved table at the edge of the atrium, where they could sit and sip mulled wine sheltered by a colonnade and wait for the Magistratus to join them once the final formalities were completed. An outside heater warmed the air enough to take the chill, but not enough to actually warm anyone. Julia thought the children looked cold and tired, even Baer.
“We may have to stay,” she said decisively, “but the children should be indoors.” She deputised a group of soldiers to take the little ones back to the Magistratus house, where the family was due to dine, asking that they be given a hot drink when they got there. The children left under escort, Baer gripping the hands of the youngest Llewellyn boys. Julia wished she could go with them. She cupped her hands around her mug of mulled wine and sighed.
“Domina?” Julia looked up to see one of Caudinus’ guard of honour standing with a respectful expression on his face. “Domina, the Magistratus asks if you would be willing to deputise for your husband in the gift-giving ceremony.”
So it was that Julia found herself a reluctant participant in the ceremonial at the temple, joining the select group of Romans who were presenting the official gifts from the City of Viriconium to the Divine Diocletian on his dies natalis to show their love and appreciation for his beneficence and to bribe him into keeping it going for another year. She tried to suppress such impious thoughts as she stood in line, breath frosting the air in front of her. She had been asked to present a small silver boar, symbolic of a prophecy made to Diocletian by a druidess about how he would come to power. Julia wondered if that was why the Druids were largely left alone by the Roman authorities even today. Not acknowledged, but not actively persecuted unless they openly declaimed anti-Roman theology. It was the only religion she knew of in all the Empire that did not bend knee to the divinity of Diocletian and yet it was permitted to practice its rites unhindered. Then it was her turn to step up and place the statuette on the table of offerings, bow her head in respect and walk carefully backwards to her place as the rest of the gifts were given and long speeches of thanks were made by lesser city luminaries.
Even Caudinus had to put a hand up to his mouth to smother a yawn. But then Julia knew he had been attending endless civic functions, ceremonies and receptions over the last four days of Saturnalia. Far from being a holiday in the sense people usually thought of one, like most other feriae stativae, Saturnalia was a five-day round of official appearances for the Magistratus. Dai had deputised at two such, uncomfortably toga clad with Julia in jewels and stola.
After a final blessing, the doors of the sanctuary were closed behind the shivering priests, who scuttled inside bearing with them the expensive offerings of a grateful city.

From Dying as a Druid by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

A gathered hush
Like a silent breath
Condensed in freezing air
The night sky
Ruled by a blazing star
That they say was never there.

A stable scene
With shepherds standing
All around the manger.
A newborn child
Whose wise mother knows
And whose father sees the danger.

A thousand legends
Born and fade, some carved
In stone, some blown away like sand
Each page written
In blood or ink – or tears that cleave
As history turns the leaves.

And yet again
Another child born
A hostage to fortune.
Princess or pauper
God or humble clay
Mortality awaits each in their day.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It is that time of year again when tinsel and fake snow are seen liberally strewn over windows and every house in the neighbourhood is illuminated by thousands of watts worth of multicoloured flashing bulbs. Giant inflatable Santas bend at the waist as they slowly prolapse onto the lawn and herds of plastic reindeer can be found grazing on every municipal greensward.

Ah yes, Christmas!

The time every writer remembers the magic as a child of seeing the Christmas tree lit up after hearing swearing coming from the front room for an hour. Or the apparently endless amounts of food on a groaning board, whilst relatives are sitting, groaning, bored and picking fights for the sake of it. Or the sound of carols through the shopping-mall loudspeakers being interrupted by non-sequitur advertisements and announcements. Or the excitement of unwrapping presents so quickly replaced by the despair as another Christmas jumper hand knitted by Great Aunt Tracey is revealed beneath the gaudy paper or a pair of thermal, odour-reducing socks in vibrant tartan from Mumsie.

This, dear RWW, is the very magic you need to ensure you capture on the tip of your quill and then spread in decorative loops and swirls of language to fill the pages of that essential for every aspiring author – the Seasonal Short.

To be honest, a wise beginner will start with the lesser festivals of the writing calendar. Maybe a little romantic flash fiction for Valentine’s, working through to a Halloween Horror so that by the time you reach the height of over-played, sentimentalism that is Christmas literature, you will have the technique somewhat practised.

But fear not, mes petites, even if you have not been preparing, even if you have never set pen to paper or finger to keyboard in a literary endeavour afore this moment, follow my three golden rules and you will be in with as much of a chance as the most famous author.

Rule One: Make it Maudlin.

Do not stop at soppy and sentimental, instead toboggan through the more flaccid emotions and pitch straight into the point where Merry marries Melancholy and keeps up an affair on the side with Nostalgia.

Rule Two: Make it Short.

This is Christmas. Your reader will be well sozzled, exhausted from family rows and trying to avoid the Queen’s speech. Their attention span will not be long. A novella is too long.

Rule Three: Make it Shiny.

Use lots of words like ‘sparkle’, ‘glitter’, ‘glow,’ ‘luminescence’, ‘coruscation’, ‘shimmer’, ‘gleam’ and ‘twinkle’.

So there, in a Nutcracker Suite, dear Reader Who Writes, is my Christmas gift to you. Use it wisely and every future festive season will bring you joyous prosperity from your literary endeavours.

Happy Christmas.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.