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Xmas is coming the goose is getting fat…
buy me a pint you tightfisted ****!”
Why is that some folk love the c-word and others loathe it? It’s a fact that not all Christians are aware of the true meaning of c-word. That, for instance so much honour and grace be attributed to overindulgence. Like weddings it’s a good excuse for getting drunk, having your picture taken and enjoying a good feed. However, most people are not that god fearing as too many simmering Brussels sprouts are usually scary enough.
I see, dear Saint Bob beckons again. Isn’t the new Band Aid song a bit tame? I don’t denounce him for another ‘begging bowl’ ditty (err, it’s the same one again. Not exactly original then?) and his efforts as a ‘force for good’, but he’s hardly giving out of his want, is he? I’m sure it is not going to inhibit his career as he hits middle age. Bono, for instance is a crosspatch all year round, snubbing awards and wearing one of his huge selection of Foster Grant’s even when it’s raining, but at least he is not ‘grudging’ like Cliff Richard.
Cliff Hanger-on.
Remaining single just so he doesn’t have to share anything with anyone. If you look at his fan base with an average age of 3 billion, is it any wonder he can afford a couple of hours on stage for charity when he has sold shit-loads of calendars with pictures of him in his Algarve swimming pool wearing Speedo’s and sipping on a Pimm’s.
When celibacy is preferable because money and fame is more important then we have to question this whole Christian ‘giving’ thing. The theocratic maxim goes, “You received free and so give free.” Like, all two for the price of one ‘discounts’ they don’t really exist. If Bono had gone to Specsavers or Vision express he would have got two pairs but that is not a true discount. You just pay more for the first single pair. If you were getting such a good deal you would see car salesmen doing the same with 4x4’s. They don’t throw in a hatchback, just for the hell of it.
Vicars still get paid and live in big houses with free uniform. Yet, they rely on volunteers to do all their work for them. If giving is such fun why don’t the High Street banks see the pleasure in it? Oh, they will give you free credit but at a price. They will say ‘nothing to pay for 6 months’ simply because they know that interest rates will rise in that time.
God thinks that way. You can have the promise of eternal life but you have to die first, and then you only have his word for it. You are hardly going to demand a refund when you are already ‘brown bread’. God relies on long-term investment. You get immortality for just accepting him as Lord. Oh, and attending Sunday services and giving up all your free time to run church events. Not to mention, no sinning and buying a Bible.
Being saved is like having the washing machine break down the day after the warrantee runs out.
Is the Bible worth the papyrus it was written on? Or is it like our pension promises in this country? You might get something back out of it but it’s probably won’t be worth a lot. I give freely into my pension every month. I got a projection last week that said that if my sum total years of service and present age were added together and it came to 85 or over I could retire and start drawing the meagre and almost worthless pension. So, in my case, death in service is looking far more lucrative.
“Stay ill and die in debt” is my motto. Who wants to be healthy and with disposable income when they die?
Have a weary Cliff-mas
Of course Sir Cliff’s Christmas song each year is a bit like herpes. Irritating and persistent. I’m sure he has done this for our Lord out of total unselfishness. Yeh, right? I bet JC is looking down, right now and thinking “I thought Judas hung himself?” If Cliff is not going to have sex again and continue to be so smug, then the least he can do is pose for Playgirl and give the money to his local church or mission. He could do a centrefold where his wrinkles could be stretched with duck-tape and disguise the colostomy bag as a cushion. If you hear Sir Cliff prattling again on talk-shows about his disappearing Elvis ‘pout’ through old age, just ‘cut and paste’ this pair of Leslie Ash lips on his face below. This is a cool Xmas game for all the family.
 
Paste the lips across Cliff’s glib little thin-lipped gob (Cliff is the one on the right)
You never hear much about Hank Marvin. Is he hidden in a cupboard with the rest of the band? A sort of shadow cabinet, perhaps?
What is the true meaning of Christmas?
We all think Christmas is about “PEACE ON EARTH AND GOODWILL TO ALL MEN”.
We are all roused at this time to rejoice in the birth of Christianity. To do this we have to throw ourselves into ceaseless debt. Carry a packet of ‘Resolve’ wherever we go. Smile sweetly when we unwrap some hideous and incredulous crap we will never use and wish we hadn’t wasted good money on a slightly more stylish bit of the same sort of gratuitous junk for a person we thought had less taste than us.
We drag ourselves around these overkill grottos with shelves groaning with more shiny shit than a day centre in the wake of ‘gunpowder in the stuffing’. You weave through dazzling displays of trinkets and life-sized animated Santa’s. You know gyrating robotic Santa’s that entice small children to think that sitting on his lap might lead to his arrest. (I’ve always wanted to have him mounted on a same scale reindeer and watch the fun.) The National Grid must power our own local Grotto. It has more amps used than at a Robbie William’s concert. Kids so drunk on Cola, and already high as a kite, bombarded with sensory stimuli that is almost as much fun as dropping an electric hairdryer into the water at bath-time to wake Mum up.
I saw how even wooden clothes pegs are sold as Xmas card clips to secure them to string and display all those cards from people you never see. For about 35p each, they have been covered in glitter and shoppers have being buying them by the boxful. Handy, eh? How, ingenious? Why, after Christmas they can be used the rest of the year round as attractive aids to hang out washing for gay men.
I wish I had thought of that. Mind you I wish I had invented Tippex. People could pay me for their own mistakes.
The things that make me go Bah! Humbug! About Xmas are……………..
That children bring home nativity monstrosities from school prior to their holiday made from gallons of PVA glue, toilet rolls and cereal boxes that make them look like a rocket attack at Fallujah and then used as temporary sheltered housing for the cat. The cat’s fur then gets covered in more sticky foil all attempts for the feline, not to be seen by the dog and other predators impossible. The creature is about as inconspicuous as Gary Glitter getting a job at a day nursery, as It then runs up the Xmas tree, fusing the lights (again), after you have taken three hours fiddling with the little bastards like a demented ‘bead mumbler’ at confession.
The tree lands across the TV filling every vent with pine needles and sending off ‘slash and burn smells’ prompting you, to turn it off for health and safety reasons, right in the middle of the Queen’s speech. This makes you as popular with the ‘outlaws’ as a fart in a spacesuit.
In the furore you forget that the turkey has been in the oven overnight and you bring it out of the furnace looking like a DC 10’s Blackbox and tasting like Hessian carpet. Your wife’s family now arrive with an entourage of very excited children who have already unwrapped their 5.30am presents and consisting of weapons of mass destruction previously thought non-existent by the entire International community. The children insist on trying out their sabers, cutlasses and daggers with the prowess of Zorro, and want to use the razor-sharp plastic arsenal on their food as target practice instead of using perfectly good cutlery while eating.
Not content with turning the dinner table into a scene out of ‘Gladiator meets Stargate”, Grandma has bought some Xmas crackers from ‘Pennywise’ that are filled with small items of cheap jewellery. They look like they have been fashioned with tin-snips from the metal ‘swarf’ in a machine shop and we as concerned parents end up racing for the diary to see which of the sprogs had their last tetanus jab. The paper hats are too large and force you to make small holes for the eyes turning our guests into rather quaint Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle look-a-likes.
The ensuing stampede to do the washing up after the feast leaves me, the exhausted host, spinning on my heels. Not! I walk into the kitchen as if to my own execution seeing what looks like a suicide bomber has sought revenge from inside the pantry. Every sodding utensil has been used and now fused together with an avalanche of burnt-on cack.
Weighing a stone heavier I shuffle around collecting the organic remains in sufficient quantities to feed a Rwandan village for a month and scrape the mudslide off each plate. Half eaten and masticated, I slip the sludge with a strange expression on my face like I had just had a trouser mistake, and push the food debris, onto a large platter. I wobble to the swing-bin. “Swing-bins” or badly designed booby traps as I call them, are the Brit alternative to a garbage disposal unit. Except, it was invented by a person who likes to live in a skip and prefers rat infestations and squalor, than sensible hygienic environments.
I prime my aim. I eject the heap of ‘runny shite’ at what I perceive to be the perfect angle. Just as sure God made little green apples, the bloody bin lids slowly shuts, as if by magic, with both my hands already full, and as if possessed by a paranormal force. The lid remains shut during the whole process, where slurry meets gravity, allowing the ectoplasm to slide down the outside of the bin undisturbed, and neatly landing on my slippers. The dog appears from nowhere and comes to my aid for what must seem like a royal banquet. Licking my feet for the rest of the festive period.
What seems like a decade later and Ground Zero before the cleanup is now another feeding arena for the next shift of ‘finger-foods and Christmas cake’. Sure enough the plates and cups all come out again, just when I thought I could wrestle the rubber gloves off for ten minutes.
The lounge looks like the whole family has been machine-gunned. Apart from the children who are still trying to re-live yet another repeat of ‘Mutiny on the Bounty’. The ‘Bounty’ replaced by a cardboard nativity cats home and sails made from a stray apron hanging from what is left of the tree as a mast.
All this chaos still leaves us oldsters with a warm feeling. In Grandad’s case we hope it’s not going to be another dignity issue, like last year, when I got to wear the rubber gloves again for other reasons.
Knowing Mary before she was a virgin
Lets look on the bright side. It is about the birth of Christ. Joseph was not the ‘brightest light on the tree’ that is, if he thought that his wife got pregnant ‘immaculately’. What sort of a knob would think that he had nothing to do with the conception? Especially, when three male suspects walked miles with expensive gifts because it was obviously too late to pay for the abortion.
Look, I know they didn’t have pregnancy testers in those days, but, would for arguments sake, The (virgin?) Mary, really have expected her husband to believe that this happy event was the product of? Sitting on a warm chair?
Imagine the banter.
Joseph: “Well, luv, I’m so happy. Aren’t I clever? You know I must be one of those blokes that just looks at women and they fall pregnant.”
Mary: “Errr. There has been something I’ve been meaning to say to you, for quite some time. Well, about nine months actually!”
Joseph: “Oh, really?…. The baby…It’s not Dirty Uncle Bertie’s, is it?”
Mary: “No…..it’s……errrr….God’s.”
Joseph (points heavenward): “Oh, look there goes another flock of fucking flying pigs, pull the other one…you must think I’m thick or summit. The ‘baby Jesus’ is supposed to be God. So, how can Jesus get you pregnant, at the age of consent, and then once he is done, slip back in your womb, as a bloody foetus, without you even noticing! That’s illegal, that is! Caesar has still forbidden cloning you know?”
Mary: “Well, alright then, I was filled with his holy spirit.”
Joseph: “And that’s not all you were filled with, pet, by the look of things. Well, it wasn’t bread sauce for the turkey, wassit? That’s for sure!”
Mary: “Ok, you win. It was Dirty Uncle Bertie. He forgot his rent one week.”
(KNOCK AT DOOR. Three men are standing in the snow, dressed in finery)
Ist King: “Bert, couldn’t come.” He had an appointment with the Child Support Agency, but he asked us to bring you some presents.”
Mary: “Oh, alright then, whatissit?”
Snd King : “It’s Myrrh and Frankincense, I think.”
Mary: “That’s a fat lot of good. The tight fisted bastard. I was hoping for a bottle steriliser and buggy.”
Joseph: (under his breath) “ Why don’t you get them from the same place you got ‘filled with Holy spirit’?
Mary: “I heard that, you pervert.”
Joseph: (louder and with jeering confidence) “Dirty Bertie seems to be better at ‘giving’ than you are at ‘receiving’, heh, heh!”
Mary: (gets her left breast out for feed time. Fighting off a hungry goat) “Shuddup. It’s supposed to be for the kid. Not that ‘kid’, my kid. Christ, what’s that smell? Is that the donkey, or does the kid need changing again? (a flurry of snow whistles in) Hey, you Three Kings, shut the bleeding door. It’s perishing. Or were you born in a barn, too?”
Joseph: (sullenly) “Fekkit, I’m off down the pub to get filled with me own kind of holy spirit.” (Slams barn door and pisses off to ‘The Northern Star’)
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