All the family’s sparked out Now the feast is eaten Roast ‘taties and brussel sprouts Left in heaps uneven Brightly burned the brandy flame When the pud was served up But although I can’t complain I’m so stuffed I could throw up.
‘One more mince pie, help yourself’ That was my undoing Now I can’t see my feet no more ‘Cos of all that chewing Washed it down with cherry schnapps And some fine prosecco Now I need a good long nap As the carols e-echo.
Now its least an hour past Since we all were dining Memories of that repast Rapidly declining Then someone brings in the cake And we all have slices Oh yes, a second piece I’ll take Or maybe three suffices…
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.
It was Christmas Eve and the darkness of the library was alive with twinkling lights as children, and small creatures carrying glow worm lanterns, climbed the stacks to the floor and joined an ever-growing procession to where a noble Norway Spruce speared the darkness with its scented branches. As the crowd around its feet grew thicker, the Christmas tree seemed to grow ever taller and more majestic, then, one by one, the candles on its branches took light. A dumpy little human female stepped into the light and immediately a clamour went up around her. “Miss. Miss. Read us the story. Read us about the baby in the stable. Please miss.” The librarian smiled and went to the place where Holy Books of many callings were shelved. A heavy, hand tooled volume leapt into her arms and for a second she staggered under its weight. She smoothed its tooled leather, reflecting on how the stories within its covers had conquered the world with more effectiveness than all the guns, and all the bombs, and all the wars. Back beneath the tree an overstuffed armchair had materialised. It smiled and beckoned her into its wide lap. As she sat and opened the huge Book, there came a loud bang and a furious face appeared. “No,” the creature cried in a voice like thunder. “No. You shall not read this lie.” “And is it any more of a lie than that which your children purvey on Walpurgisnacht? Or at any sabbat in any sacred grove?” It lifted its insubstantial muzzle and howled defiance and misery. “I will drag that book from your hands and rend it to pieces with my bare claws. I will make it burn as it sits on your frail human legs. I will…” The creatures around the Christmas tree began to be afraid and the librarian held up a hand to stop the enraged grumbling of the shadow demon. “You will,” she said firmly, “do nothing. You can do nothing. You are a creature of smoke and mirrors not even as substantial as the book children gathered at my knee. Now begone with you before you make me angry.” The demon attempted a sneer, but it was of very little consequence when faced with the strong will and common sense that defined the straight backed little human who faced him without a shred of fear. Even as he made an effort to draw in his will she pointed a finger. “Did I not just tell you to go away?” It seemed as if the sending would defy her and she frowned, muttering a brief incantation under her breath. There was a strong smell of sulphur then the face collapsed into itself leaving only a momentary pool of blackness before even that disappeared. The Night Librarian stood up. She put the Book on the soft chair and smiled at the little ones. “I just need to make sure there are no interruptions to your story. I shall not be a moment. You all can sing the candle song while you wait.” A chorus of small, and it has to be said mostly tuneless, voices followed her as she crossed the shadowed stacks. When she reached the section devoted to dark magicks she clapped her hands sharply. “Who was responsible for that little outburst?” There was no answer, only a feeling of oppression in the air. The librarian sighed and took a small knobbly stick from her pocket. She held it in both hands whilst turning a careful three-sixty degree circle. Widdershins. “Now then. I asked a question.” Two figures materialised behind the locked gates of the shelves where the grimoires squatted. “Oh. I might have known it was you two. You may come out to explain your actions.” Beelzebub and Dambala Ouedo shouldered their way out from behind the grating and came to tower over the small human. “It isn’t fair,” Beelzebub said, and his voice sounded surprisingly like a toddler whining. “This place is for all faiths. You should not read them that thing.” “You never,” his companion by contrast was both smooth and insinuating, “tell the children our stories. We are here to demand our moment in the candlelight.” The librarian sighed. “Did we not burn candles to you on All Hallows Night? Were there not stories enough for you then?” “But you did not read them.” “You did not come from your warm bed in the dead of night, on a day when even you are not needed here, just to read our stories.” “No. I did not.” “And what if we demand that you do?” Beelzebub drew himself up to his full seven feet and reached out a burning and cicatrised claw to grab the librarian’s upper arm. There was a smell of burning flesh, but it was the demon who flinched. The librarian raised a weary brow. “You may not demand anything of me. I am my own mistress. I do this because I so choose. This night is to give hope to the children and the small things. It is the one night they may safely leave their story books and be happy.” Damballa Ouedo actually shuffled his feet. “Sorry ma’am. Never thought about it like that. Can we come and listen then?” “If you can take forms less likely to cause distress.” The light shattered before it coalesced into two toddlers who stood hand in hand with identical hopeful looks on their faces. “Very well. You may come.” They followed her sturdy little figure to the edge of the gathering where they were easily absorbed into the waiting crowd. The librarian took her seat and opened the Book. Her audience grew silently attentive as she began to read. “And it came to pass…” As the story unfolded those spoken of left the pages of the Book and enacted their parts as they stood on an invisible stage high in the cold air. Each was greeted with an outpouring of love from those who listened, even the sweet-faced donkey, and the herders of sheep, and the eastern gentlemen bringing unsuitable gifts brought gasps of delight from the children, and the small creatures, who heard the story at this time every year and loved it more each time they heard it. All too soon, it seemed, the story ended and the librarian closed the book – leaving only a star shining brightly high in the dome of the library ceiling. A dragonish voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd. “Even though I know it ends badly, I like that story.” There was a wave of laughter, and the audience settled back with an aura of expectation that almost broke the librarian’s heart. And now, she thought sadly, we wait and eventually the little ones will go to bed disappointed. I wish he would come. Just once. Just for the little ones. The silence was stretching a little thin when, from somewhere and nowhere, there came the sound of silver bells. The librarian clasped her small square hands, hardly daring to believe, as the bells came closer and hearty laughter filled the air. They came with a rush and the smell of snow: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph. They came with the sound of bells and his laughter warming the hearts of the tinies around the librarian’s warmly slippered feet. He turned his ruddy cheeked, snowy bearded face towards her and smiled. “Have your charges been good children?” She nodded, hardly trusting her voice, but it seemed he understood because he thrust a hand into his sack and broadcast shiny wrapped presents with seemingly no regard for what went where. But he must have known as each creature and each child got a gift suitable to themselves. Nothing was ostentatious but nobody was missed. Even the dragons got chocolate wrapped in gold paper. The librarian watched them play for a while before getting up from her chair and returning a slightly disapproving Book to its place on the shelves. She turned her back on the happy children and made her way up the worn stone stairs to her tower room where she fell into bed smiling. As she slept, a gnarled hand smoothed the sandy hair from her broad brow before placing a hand knitted sock bulging with treats at the foot of her prim little bed.
To say The Crown and Sceptre was crowded was to understate the case. Em found herself wedged firmly between Agnes and Ishmael listening to Ginny with, she was very much afraid, her mouth half open. “So. I was digging through my files on DumpCorp and I came across some allegations about the behaviour of company employees when they were in Scotland ‘negotiating’. Nothing, it seemed, could be proved, but I knew in my gut that DumpCorp was as guilty as hell. I sat and read them through again and I promised myself that this time I wouldn’t be silenced.” Agnes pushed a glass in Ginny’s hand. “You sup up and explain properly missy.” Ginny grinned. “Okay. In addition to the suggestion that at least one croft was torched, there were some complaints from the families of barely of age girls. And they concerned Dump and Schilling. Sadly it was the usual case of somebody’s word against somebody else’s. And it got swept under the carpet. Then there was the case I was involved in personally.” She stopped speaking and Em thought tears were very close to the surface. But Ginny, as the sisterhood was beginning to learn, was made of stern stuff under the fluffy exterior and she pressed on. “Okay. We had all the evidence and everything should have been on our side. But then Schilling took my ex-husband out to lunch and suddenly the bottom fell out of our case. It ended my marriage. And it took me five years to find out why the weak fool folded. I had always thought that Schilling paid him off. But he didn’t. Turns out my ex had another ‘wife’ and a child and he was simply told that the kid would disappear if he didn’t do as he was told. The rest, as they say, is history. But I did promise myself that I’d have my day with them two.” Jamelia got up from her end of the table and managed to insert herself on the bench next to Ginny. She took Ginny’s hand in hers and Ginny’s smile grew stronger. “Today seemed to me to be my only chance to face them so I made my plans.” She was still wearing the ugly hat and put up her hand in a gesture that mirrored what she had done earlier in the day. When she opened her hand there was about six inches of needle sharp steel in the palm. It was an ornate Victorian hatpin. “Old trick from when I was regularly attending protests. Wear a hat, then you have an excuse for a sharp weapon…” Em leaned forward and picked the thing up. “That’s some weapon. Are you telling me you stabbed Dump with it?” “Yup. Right in the fat bit under his thumb. I never thought I would be able to do that to another human being…” She looked so shocked that Agnes laughed her most comfortable laugh. “I reckon you’re off the hook there, sister, whatever that thing may be biologically it isn’t a human being anywhere that counts.” “That’s sophistry, and it shouldn’t make me feel any better. Although it does…” Em put out a hand and touched Ginny’s shoulder. “You, my sister, have nothing to reproach yourself with. Your intervention may just have turned the day and stopped that madman blasting around him with his popgun.” Ginny’s smile was so bright that it was all but blinding to look on. “Are we safe then? Have we really won?” It was Jamelia who answered. “Oh yes. We’ve won right enough. And there is no wriggle room. The housing estate is safe.” “And Dump?” “Oh. Him? They hailed him away in a police van. Kicking and screaming. They were talking mental instability and asking for a doctor to be in attendance.” Em took over. “His goose is cooked. Plus, of course, this is going viral online.” She passed Ginny her phone and watched her sister’s face break into a delighted grin as she saw a grainy image of herself facing up to the two men and the close up of Schilling spitting in her face. Jamelia put a finger on the screen. “And that, my brave friend, has just about put a huge nail in the coffin of DumpCorp’s plans for world domination.” There didn’t seem to be much left to say when a huge pair of hands placed a tray of drinks on the centre of the table. “Drink up ladies. I reckon you are owed a few drinks.” Em looked into the eyes of one of the Saturday night fighters and he dropped her a huge wink. “Wasn’t just us, you know.” “Yeah. But you lot were like the bloke that stands in front of an orchestra waving a stick. We can all play our instruments, but we needed somebody to herd us together.” Em supposed he had a point although she hadn’t a clue what to say to him, but it was okay – Agnes had her back. “Just so long as everyone is safe,” she said. Then she chuckled fatly. “You and the Jocks made up your differences?” The young giant gestured with his thumb and Em turned for a look. Almost all of the pub garden seemed to have been taken over for some sort of a congratulatory party involving the Saturday night boys, the older majorettes, the marching band, and the Scottish pipers. Someone had dragged in an electric piano from who knew where and the dancing was energetic if less than ballroom. Em felt her grin grow wider as one of the majorettes came into the room and dragged a pair of rather rusty swords off the wall. “It’s a challenge,” her speech was slurred and her eyes were bloodshot, but she was game for all that. “Them bliddy jocks has challenged us to have a bash as sword dancing.” Agnes elbowed Em in the ribs. “Get out there will you. The honour of the village is at stake.” Em got up and toed off her shoes. “Let the dog see the rabbit,” she said firmly. As she formed the antlers with her fingers the Scottish pianist struck up Ghillie Callum. Em’s feet flew and the place fell silent around her save for one very pissed Caledonian. “Well booger me backwards with a haggis. The old sassenach bird can bludy sword dance.”
A festive episode of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.
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…
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.
My Christmas this year was delivered by Amazon It came in plain packing with odd things within The tree in its big box was left in the shed The baubles and fairy lights came after instead The presents I gave I never did see ‘Cos Amazon wrapped them and sent them for me. The extras and trimmings arrived as I asked In bundles and bags, Christmas unpacked at last It all came by delivery van, I’m ready to go. Oh, except for the food, that was brought by Tesco!
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