This, for some obscure reason beyond one’s not inconsiderable intellect, is one of Mummy’s all-time favourites. She starts reading it on the first of December each year, carefully husbanding it so that she reads the last few pages on Christmas Eve – inevitably drunk and crying snottily. I have been a party to this inexplicable ritual for most of my life, and, until I reached adulthood, Mumsie was in the habit of sitting on the side of my bed and reading this to me in instalments. In retrospect, this may perhaps have coloured my perception of Mr Dickens’ slight little thing. However, we shall persevere – because discipline is good for the soul.
My Review of A Christmas Carol.
A Christmas classic.
Let us examine why.
In one’s estimation, this book taps into all the overused and overexposed ideas of Christmas sensibility. A major character called Scrooge. A major character notable for his meanness and lack of empathy…. Tell me how that is not jumping on the bandwagon of that name denoting meanness and lack of empathy. Yuletide ghosts. The deserving poor. A crippled child that is so sickeningly cute one almost wishes it would meet with an accident. The lack of originality in this thing almost beggars belief. And the story. The story is the apotheosis of predictability, it is the absolute nemesis of creative thought. Does it not glorify the mundane and deify that which is unbeautiful? Is it not the histoire of a plain old man with little to recommend him beyond his wealth? And by the end of this horrible little book is he not giving his wealth away? One. Does. Not. Comprehend.
In synopsis: An unpleasant old man meets some ghosts and becomes somewhat less unpleasant as a consequence. A story peopled with every overused Christmas stereotype the author could find.
Conclusion: Not for one of one’s exquisite sensibilities. However one must acknowledge its appeal to the undereducated, the maudlinly sentimental, the intoxicated, and those with an oleaginous attachment to an unrealistic ideal of Christmas.
Star rating: No stars for originality. No stars for narrative arc. No stars for one’s own literary tastes. However one must award this author many shiny bright celestial beings for his ability to grasp the populace by its collective scrotum and insert his scribbling into the conscious of a whole nation. One must bow one’s head in the face of such financial acumen.
Classic songs for the festive season, cheerfully and irreverently reimagined for you by the Working Title Blog…
(To be sung with gladness and rejoicing to the tune of ‘The Sussex Carol‘)
On Christmas night all children sing We want the gifts that Santa brings On Christmas night all children sing We want the gifts that Santa brings Gifts of great joy, gifts of great worth Gifts that have cost their parents the earth.
So why do dad and mum look so sad? That is the best Christmas we ever had So why do dad and mum look so sad? This is the best Christmas we ever had. I got a VR Oculus Rift Sis got a new iPad as her gift.
When mum she brought the turkey in She tripped on the cat and it fell in the bin When mum she brought the turkey in She tripped on the cat and it fell in the bin I laughed so hard that I nearly did cry Cos I still had my vegan Quorn pie.
When dad he set the pudding alight He burned down the house, what a hell of a night When dad he set the pudding alight He burned down the house, what a hell of a night So now we’re staying with gran for New Year So I will get to stay up and cheer!
It was the longest night, and the cold was such that standing still would be a death sentence. There was no snow, but the frost was so deep that the world shone coldly white in the moonlight. A procession of dark-clad figures marched through the forest, moving in and out of patches of moonlight so they seemed to appear and disappear like demons or frikii. Nothing could be seen of the figures except their silhouettes, as each was clad from head to foot in dark coloured fur, and had a deeply cowled hood obscuring his or her face, and they kept their hands tucked inside the wide sleeves of their robes. Their pace was a measured one, taking into consideration, one has to assume, the smallness of some of the party and the consequent shortness of their legs. Nobody spoke, and it wasn’t until a dog fox coughed somewhere in the undergrowth that the solemn processional progress of the group was interrupted. A small figure in the centre of the line jumped, and gave voice to an undignified squeak. The figure behind her, reached out a hand and briefly touched her shoulder, for this was surely a young girl by the voice,. “‘Twas naught but a fox,” the voice was deeply masculine and amused, though not unkindly so. They fell silent again, and the only sound was the crunching of booted feet on frozen loam. As they came out of the shadow of the trees, the air behind them was rent by a scream. It was the sort of a sound one might associate with an animal in a trap so desolate and fearful was the sound. Only this was not an animal in torment, this voice was human. Each figure in the procession bowed his or her head a little lower, and the leader made a sound of disgust deep in his chest. “If only we had time…” “But we do not.” The voice was female and authoritative. “We must keep moving. The lady is almost at her time and she must be somewhere warm.” The leader shrugged his heavy shoulders and the column moved on. Far ahead of them, a light appeared on the edge of the next patch of forest. It blinked twice, then was extinguished. The leader of the column looked and his shoulders dropped. “We have to leave the path. There are soldiers in the forest.” “The lady will never make it over rough ground.” “I will make whatever I have to. Lead and I will follow.” The voice was low, and cultured and beautiful. There being no proper response to such courage except to carry on, the column left the relative smoothness of the forest path and struck out uphill. It was bad going, and steep, and even the strongest had all they could do not to founder. However, the smallest figure of all remained ramrod straight and even though all her companions felt the effort each step cost her, she gave no sign of her travail. The bulky-shouldered leader, who had been reluctant to set out on such a mission on such a night began to admit in the darkest recesses of his soul that this woman might just be worth the effort. There was movement in the undergrowth and for a second he thought them betrayed, then the face resolved itself in the brutal moonlight. It was a wide, plain face with strangely green eyes and a bedraggled beard, and it belonged to the hermit whose forest chapel they were aiming for. “This way,” the man hissed, “the chapel is surrounded”. The column turned wearily and the hermit led them down a scree-littered slope and along the margins of a frozen river to where a goat track wound its way up the valley. The leader’s heart sunk to his boots at the thought of leading his weary folk up that black thread of track, but their guide made no attempt to climb, turning instead up a steeply cut valley that led, if memory served, to what was a crashing waterfall in most weathers. Now, of course, the forest was silent save for the laboured breathing of the column of weary walkers. Just as the leader of the column was beginning to fear at least one of their number would soon founder and have to be left to perish in the cold, the hermit stopped and indicated a narrow crack in the rock wall. Too cold to do anything but trust the big man bent his head and wriggled through. As he popped out of the short narrow passage he felt hands guiding him, passing him from one person to another in the darkness. He seemed to be heading for a patch of less blackness, but not by any direct route. It was not quite so cold in the vowels of the earth, and the air was fresh and sweet. The feeling of guiding hands was reassuring so he just went where they directed. He might have been moving through the dark for ten minutes when a voice spoke quietly. “Head down seigneur.” He ducked obligingly and when he could stand again found himself on a dimly lit sandy walkway with rocks on his left and a wall of solid ice on his right. It came to him with a sense of wonder that he was behind the great waterfall and that perhaps his party was even safe. He came out of the ice passage onto a ledge where a skin-clad figure awaited the figure lifted a perfect curtain of mossy frondy vegetation, and pointed to an arched opening in the hill through which he could dimly discern the glow of firelight. He went inside, but instead of following the siren call of the warmth he waited for his people to file in. Next to last came the lady, almost being carried by the young man who had insisted on accompanying her from the castle. Her hood had been thrown back and the bones in her face were standing out against the skin as she struggled for breath. “How long have you been in labour, my lady?” “Since just before we branched off the forest path.” As that had been more than two hours by his estimation the leader bent and picked her up in his great arms. “Come then, let us take you where there is warmth and light.” In the end there was more than warmth and light, there was food and safety as well. But as the lady’s pains came swifter, the forest dwellers withdrew leaving only his column around the silently suffering woman. The one other adult female wrung her hands together. “I know naught of birthing, save that women die of it daily,” she sounded on the very edge of panic. The young girl who had jumped and squeaked at the bark of a fox stepped forward. “Don’t be silly. The reason we are here is to make sure nobody dies.” The older woman was about to round on her when the lady spoke. “The pains are coming thick and fast now.” After that the young girl took charge with a calm competence that inspired both admiration and trust, and there, beside a charcoal brazier and on a bed of straw the king’s leman gave birth to the child his lady wife had sworn would never be born. It was a lusty boy, and both mother and child bore the birth well. Once they were comfortable with the babe asleep in his mother’s arms, the young midwife stepped back. “How do you come to know so much about childbirth?” the column leader’s question was idle but still demanded an answer. “I don’t really sir. But the way I saw it it couldn’t be much different from lambing. And nobody else was going to take responsibility.” The stunned silence was broken by the sound of laughter from the makeshift pallet where the lady lay. “Perhaps,” she said carefully, “we should call him lamb”. Forty years later, when the babe born on the longest night ascended to his father’s throne and the priest called out his names to those who would swear fealty the assembled lords and ladies learned that their royal master was to be known as King Rollo Antonius Lamb the First.
We’re having a Merry Christmas And we’re all becoming pissed as The rats underneath the Christmas Tree. This good year We’ve brandy and gin, and sweets in a tin We’re having a merry Christmas and a whole lot of beer
We all like a Christmas dinner We’re not getting any thinner We all like a Christmas dinner So bring it round here We’ve brandy and gin, and sweets in a tin We’re having a merry Christmas and a whole lot of beer
When Gran falls in the gravy We’ll have a good laugh, maybe And all go a little crazy To ramp up the cheer We’ve brandy and gin, and sweets in a tin We’re having a merry Christmas and a whole lot of beer
We’re having a Merry Christmas And we’re all becoming pissed as The rats underneath the Christmas Tree. This good year We’ve brandy and gin, and sweets in a tin We’re having a merry Christmas and a whole lot of beer
It’s that time of year again when we at the Working Title reveal our topten best reads of the year.
Please bear in mind that this list is not an exclusive list of all the great Indie books out there – or even all the great indie books we have read this year. It is a well-considered recommended reading list of books we have really enjoyed in the last twelve months, consciously spanning genres and including non-fiction too.
The main thing is we recommend these books wholeheartedly and if you have yet to read them you should consider doing so if they are in a genre you enjoy. So, onto the list. This is given in alphabetical order of author name and there is no ranking. All are stonking good reads!
The Working Title Blog 5 Star Golden Reads for 2020
A welcome return to Roshaven where a world of magic and ambition, where the good guys have their backs against the wall and the bad guys are as bad as they can be.
Hear the carol singers yowl Make a noise that’s bloody foul Make their way from door to door Take the cash to sing no more Joyfully they stamp around Bringing misery to the town Every household full of fears Stuffs its fingers in its ears Praying they will go away Not come back another day
Hear the carol singers feet Ringing loudly on the street Singing chorus, chanting verse Voices getting worse and worse As they drink the hip flasks down All the melodies they drown Singing songs so raucously Nobody asks them in for tea Because they yodel so badly In their ears they get a flea
Hear the carol singers yowl Make a noise that’s bloody foul Make their way from door to door Take the cash to sing no more…
Just before they entered the plaza, Caer noticed a figure leaning in the doorway of a tavern that had yet to open for business. The man wore a cloak of subtly embroidered, dark, felt cloth which trailed to the heels of his boots. His bright, golden hair was uncovered and exploded in uncontrollable curls over his collar and shoulders. His eyes gleamed with a brilliant intelligence and, as their party approached, there was a delighted smile warming the contours of his square face. Caer had never met Durban Chola before but knew in an instant from every description he had ever heard that this was he. So Caer looked away quickly and fixed his gaze between the ears of his pony, hoping against hope that they were not the reason for Chola’s early morning outing. But the cloaked figure detached itself almost lazily from the doorway and moved to stand in their path. Behind, Caer heard the slight rasp as one of the soldiers drew a sword. His own Zoukai reined in, hands on their pistols. Durban Chola made a sweeping bow in the middle of the road. “Good morning, Most Honoured One. The city of Alfor is graced with the presence of Qabal Vyazin this Fairtide.” He managed to make the compliment sound sincere and as he rose from the inappropriate act of respect, his gaze was clear and guileless. “The Castellan of Lynaz must be distraught I am sure at your absence from his city. Unless, of course, the Black Vavasor remains there to keep him company in your absence and assure him of your continuing invested interest?” If Qabal was angered by this insolence he gave no sign of it. His narrow face remained expressionless. “Step aside, Chola,” he returned quietly, “or I will have you removed.” Chola’s eyes, the colour of freshly gathered honey, suddenly danced with mischief and swept across the two soldiers, pausing there as if appreciating an excellent joke, before their gaze briefly embraced Caer. “But of course, Most Honoured One. How inconsiderate of me to delay you. You must be eager to see the cargo Alexa the Fair has rescued from the Wastelands.” Caer felt the nobleman stiffen in his saddle. “And what is your interest in that? Tell me,” the Warlord demanded, his voice low, but crisp as with frost. The amber eyes glittered, holding something that could have been mockery and belying Chola’s disarming smile. “I have no interest, Most Honoured One. The cargo is way too rich for me, although I would think it well suited for your needs and your purse. But be sure to view it all and don’t forget to ask to see the kashlihk fighting-slave. I have heard he is better in hand-to-hand combat than the Vavasor Jariq himself,” the blond man said, his gaze moving to rest on a point somewhere behind Caer with an expression of sublime innocence. “I am sure the Vavasor would be deeply disappointed to miss out on a chance to put that to the trial.” Caer felt a chill of apprehension. He did not understand what Chola was trying to do, but instinctively felt it was dangerous in some way. He could not think of any reason why either Qabal or Chola should be interested in the Kashlihk and it worried him that they were. The blond man made another overdone flourishing bow and stepped aside leaving the road clear. “I do hope the Castellan of Lynaz does not pine away in your absence, Most Honoured One, but Lynaz’s loss is undoubtedly Alfor’s gain. And please give my sincerest regards to the Black Vavasor – when you return to Lynaz of course.” The honeyed eyes were lit with secret mirth as he turned and sauntered away to vanish around the street corner. Qabal watched him go with hooded eyes and an expression that made Caer feel very glad that he was not a friend to Durban Chola.
Watch now merrily on Sky Netflix and Freevision Look for Dr. Who and try The latest Disney version Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious, New boxed sets out for Christmas Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious, We’re sorted now for Christmas
And so safe at home we go To watch the latest movies And I know, I know, I owe My subscription still due is. Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious, New movies on this Christmas Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious, We’re sorted now for Christmas.
Action, drama or romance The choice is ours to make now And we even get a chance To catch up now or later. Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious, More reruns on this Christmas Glor-or-or-or-or-or…rious, We’re sorted now for Christmas.
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.
Come closing time they ring a big brass bell And tell the customers to go to hell They banish us to our exile drear Out in the street whereat there is no beer
But look! But look! There is a golden arch Where we can burgers buy. If we quick march Rejoice! Rejoice! A teenager called Matt Will rescue us with saturated fat
Within that place there is a menu clear Which promises both cheese and things of cheer Despite the gloomy clouds of night They offer boxes brimming with delight
But look! But look! There is a golden arch Where we can burgers buy. If we quick march Rejoice! Rejoice! A teenager called Matt Will rescue us with saturated fat
Come closing time they throw us to the rain No matter if we grumble or complain And into exile dreary must we go Which would be dreadful if we did not know
That over there! There is a golden arch Where we can burgers buy. If we quick march…
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