Crispy The Christmas Clown

Nose of beacon and whipsnade-like, Crispy the Christmas Clown was afire and aglow as he crimped his way through the snow towards the boundless festivities of the Hollyhocks and Boon, newly late licenced and twenty-four hour zoomed. And oh, what a sight awaited him there in the merry banded throng of seasonal types from down the village and around. There, in the blue corner, the Mistletoe Twins, Half Barry and young Sooty and Snow. Perched at the bar, ring fingers entwined, Sid Sleigh and his frosty new bride, Giddyup. And in the red corner, the finest gathering of just about everybody else, from Sancho Hup right through to Dave and Ansel Collins.

Merry bands indeed as Crispy took his seat by the roaring chestnut fire and waved, if you please, for his usual Christmas snifter of brandy curl and coke. Ah, and tonight, because it was the night before Christmas Day, he further indulged himself by way of eight mince pies and a touch of the finest sparkling glitter. In no time at all, his belt wide open and a curious peek from the Hollyhock’s one-eyed cat, he settled deep into his chair and raised good cheer to all and sundry in that bloody room. Merry Christmas to all! he cried, as he wished them all that they wished for along with good long lives and a healthy fear of computer crime.

But tension mounted on this Christmas Eve as the new licensing laws and things added extra pressure to the Hollyhock’s werewolf landlord who had to cope with both the pull from the moon and the certain push of the Christmas rush. It was gone midnight, you see, and worries were afoot that if these people and types didn’t get home soon there would be the whole questioning and scratching around the Christmas bit about so-called family warmth. Questions which our Crispy now pondered as he took sight of that werewolf landlord and felt something for his plight on this cold Christmas eve night.

So, taking his cue from the jukebox lull, Crispy rose fast and threw into the air a gathering of Christmas fillers that amounted to chocolates, baubles, crackers and cheese. Up they rose, and down again, as the hushed throng watched like open-mouthed gawms as up again they rose, those Christmas fillers, and danced the dance of Crispy’s fingertip sleights. Up and down, around, as these Christmas fillers were alternately replaced by other thingies that amounted to the likes of jars of cranberry sauce, tin whistles, oranges, sixpences, penny chews, twisty springs, walnuts and upside down turkeys. Captivated by the sights and sounds of these Christmas trinkets and flies, the collective mates and pals of the Hollyhocks and Boon soon found themselves susceptible to all manner of suggestions and hints.

But it was all not quick enough for the werewolf landlord who was now out in the snow, eating the snow and biting hard on the passing leg of a passing stranger who screamed to no avail about seasons of good will, peace to all men and the need to get back to his rounds. Crispy, his inside audience now agog and awash, crashed out into the snow to see the werewolf landlord gnawing on a black boot now soaked red, Braille dotting the snow. A message to the reindeer at least, to say get out of here, get out of here and go! And as they rose, those servants of hoof and pie, Crispy leapt up and forward to make it by the skin of his yellowing teeth to fling himself in the driver’s seat and take control of this precarious Christmas situation. Don’t you worry my Santa! he wailed, as the magical sleigh cut deep into the stars and meandered its set-pattern path from rooftop to rooftop, from brickened chimney to welcoming open fire.

What a night it was! Crispy and Rudolph, their red noses aflamed and shining like one, blazing through the fog and the snow, the blackness, as Prancer, Dancer, Duncan and Heartache pulled tight at the reins through gritted teeth and supreme elfish determination. At every home, in every land, where every child slept, Crispy the Christmas Clown cut a terrifying figure as he fell noisily down chimneys, helped himself to presents and threatened dreadful clownish horrors to any protesting parents. Ah, but the important thing was that Christmas was saved - and if anyone had any issue with what was, after all, the mere details, then they’d do well to re-imagine themselves as parsimonious churls of the first and finest water and perhaps think of ending it all as soon as humanly, or otherwise, possible. Christmas was saved, and that was the main thing. Oh, holy night!

Back at the smouldering embers of the Hollyhocks and Boon, Santa was dusting himself down after an all night long engagement battle with the werewolf landlord who, notwithstanding the injuries he’d inflicted on Old Saint Nick - by way of a chewed off leg and some bitten off mores - was now recovering, bewildered, in human, hairless form and making all kinds of apologies and no end of rambling stuff. Santa, as big of heart as he was of belly, laughed aside these proclamations and told the werewolf landlord to get a grip of himself and to, more importantly, get a grip on that big old sherry bottle while he was at it. And with a twinkling smile, plus the beams from his beard of gold and true, he grew back his best leg and used it to step forward to the opening, welcoming arms of the fabled Hollyhocks and Boon.

Good cheer and a merriment sigh to one and all and all!

A Shower of Winter

Outside there is snow in the courtyard. The scene is banal, overwhelmingly so. But still, still - there is an element of that summer winter magic.

Marie, Marie, you hold on tight. You hold on tight you hear?

They took the turn elsewhere. There was a grotesque snowman at the bottom of the hill. A grotesque snowman with a golden carrot for a nose. Black diamonds for his eyes.

The grotesque snowman threw out his scarf. He said: Marie, hold on tight.

The stern Bargersee. He had crosses for eyes. A nose on his face. His eyelids tied tight. He squinted through pince-nez, peered through the nook. He said: Marie, you will fall if you don’t hold on tight.

They lived together, the stern Bargersee and Marie, in an evil, empty flat. Mudlarks in the flat below, their early morning starts. Broken necked evils strewn on the stairs. Repellent plastic twine and the first snap of frost. Marie said: Please, turn the radiator on.

It was a Moscow hurricane. A snap of spikes, the cold deaths below. Broken necks below. Bodies in the snow. The young prince, the young prince said: Everywhere I look I see things I shouldn’t see. I can’t get my eyes closed. I can’t get them not to see.

Winter had arrived. The summer too. A grey scrape against the walls. They lined the streets, ripping apart white bread, dropping crumbs for their way home. Through the spotlights their snow floated bigger than it had ever floated before. The cavalry said: We can see evil as far as our eyes can see.

The grotesque snowman stood at the bottom of the stairs. In his mind the perfect picture of Marie. His breath melted his chin. His carrot sank into his face. His tears burned channels from his diamond black eyes. He said: Marie.

The prince, at the top of the stairs, picked up the discarded pince-nez. A stricken look to her bedroom door. The muffle from within. The prince whispered: Marie.

The stern Bargersee, his hand over the thermostat. Marie beside the radiator, fingerless gloves running its length. She held herself from the snow that came in through the open window, from the courtyard below. The stern Bargersee said: Marie.

The mudlarks gathered, apace with the snowman’s sighs. The prince, pince-nez held tight, led them forward with a cry. A battle cry. He cried: Marie! Marie!

Broken necks at the puddled dawn. Whose was the broken glass, the scorch marks, the burns and the chill? The mudlarks flapped, the snap of capes as they flew on their way. The pince-nez, caught in the trap of the sun, melted a sure spot of surprising ice. Kick it away, kick it away.

Between the posts, between the banisters and the stairs, a voice was heard to say: Marie, Marie, you hold on tight.

And Marie. She held on tight.

The City Step

The last time I was in the city I was a baritone nervosa with a speech impediment and a visible limp - courtesy of my left leg being a good centimetre shorter than my right leg. That time, the last time, I was in what I now realise was a state of accelerated flux. Like the city itself, onward, onward.

My limp has now, as you ask, vanished. On account of the fact that the shoe I wear on my left foot has a heel a good centimetre higher than the heel on my right foot. I am fuller balanced and much happier as a result. I neither lean nor lurch. I step, not stumble.

My speech impediment has similarly va-vanished. I jest, of course. My speech impediment has similarly vanished. On account. Of the fact. That I. Decided. To get out there. And get the. Damn thing. Sorted out. An event of how now brown cows and a confidence shot in the form of pills and powders that did the very trick. I can speak with impunity now and not worry, at all, of a potential fall.

In the city I am of the now, a different character of stripe than I ever was before. I walk tall on an even keel and sing my words as I think and feel. If you didn’t know me you’d think I was gliding on stilts or vaulting via the monorail. Look at me go. Zoom I go.

No Cure For Nature

I was dreaming in a strange land. I was west of the fields and cutting paths through to the bigger fields somewhere up top. Farmers, on four pounds an hour, doffed their caps as they spilt their last few drops of petrol. Or free red diesel. Or whatever it was.

I was in the fields and feeling decidedly agrarian. Behind me were the neat stacked rows of cow bells that somehow whistled. As the birdies also somehow whistled. I had to be careful in front of the finches and deathly quiet for the parakeets.

This was my weekend with real shit on my shoes. I walked the fields, trod the mud and got real shit on my shoes. The wind and the rain flattened my face but refused to wash the shit from my shoes. I was lost in a sea of countryside shit.

I stood next to a combine harvester and hummed. I pressed myself against the oddly rusting engine of a gleaming red tractor. I spiked stones from my shoe with an industrial-sized rake. When the machinery rolled the fields, I stood up and cheered.

Rabbit hutches offered refuge from the rain. I packed myself in with a row of English Spots. And a bed full of London Tugs. Big-eared, buck-toothed motherfuckers. A crate load of carrot-crunching cunts. We fought over the lettuce.

I was dressed in boots and green. A green shirt and one of those stupid wax jackets with pockets as deep as the sea. Inside I carried sheets of newspaper wrapped within my spiky type jumper. A hat, also of green, topped off my protected head.

I chose the path with the golden turns. At each end a five bar gate. At each five bar gate, a milk maid. And a cow. I took it in turns at each gate, with each milk maid, with each cow. They were frothy white and with a daisy chain to boot.

I galloped a horse and played wellingtons with a red-headed girl. She had smoke in her eyes and fire in her gristle. She was a barnpot and a fair wee lass. We trod bales together and made ready for the winter. A storm came and the storm went.

There was dancing in the village, so I danced. Fiddles. Corn pipes. Fallopian flutes. Bass bassoons. Drumlets. Crashing cymbals. Authority dodgers. Nestling leaves. Wonder kinds. Half loads. A dance beneath the maypole. A grab at the trees.

I was an open wound on the countryside. Me, my house and my six fat kids. My two fat wives. My three fat cars. I was a nappy in the hedgerow, a burn of circle on the dried summer grass. Yes, we said to the people at the village shop, yes we’ll come again.

Turn Off The Machines

The lunar-tick, who had so far suffered bravely the slings and arrows of poisonous spite and vitriolic slander, took his base metallic contraptions (or contrapunctions as he so sagely called them) and fed them into the crunching, gaping hole-mouths of the dastardly and dreaded infernal type machines. Marrrrrgghhh, splarrrrggggh, griiiinnnnnnd they went, those infernal type machines, as they chewed away at the lunar-tick’s once-beloved and specially made contrapunctions (or contraptions as his friends so wisely called them). And all the while, as the gnashing and jawing was going on, the lunar-tick stood there, like an immobile mute whistler, catching, in a small glass phial, the tears that trickled from his eyes and flowed slowly down his large expanse of chubby red face.

The lunar-tick, after witnessing the devourance of his last contrapunction decided, finally, that he would no longer simply stand idly by while infernal type machines and similar fucking nasty things came along to bite and suck away at the pathetic last shreds and shards of his pathetic, tiny life. No sir, the lunar-tick said to himself, no sir and no way. Which was strangely prescient because, at that very moment, an infernal type machine clattered into view and squealed out for the lunar-tick to fetch him, in strict order, the following items:

Ralph clouds.
Seratine gas.
Noose ladles.
Far scapes.
Carry towns.
Either breads.
Loping cigs.
Fancy styles.
Bluff reds.

After barking out his squeaky orders, the infernal type machine (which was, in fact, a screwdown battery-operated Twisting Grater Mk.3), settled down for a short nap, imagining – for he had no reason to think otherwise – that the lunar-tick would soon be about the business of collating his (the infernal type machine’s) list of unreasonable, yet predictably typical, demands. But, of course, this was not, in fact, the case. Because the lunar-tick, now heavily resolved to follow through with his earlier resolve, was quickly crafting an ingenious gun-like weapon which, when fired, would render the infernal type machine – plus all other infernal type machines (and variants of) within a radius of ten miles – completely powerless.

The infernal type machine lived by his own standards of relativity and whatnot. So his short nap was, in fact, a very long nap indeed. In terms relating to us – the likes of me and you – the infernal type machine had been asleep for almost twenty-seven years. In terms relating to the lunar-tick (and all the people he knew), the infernal type machine had been asleep for a mere eight years. Not as long, but certainly long enough for the lunar-tick to fashion the strange and powerful gun of which we first heard about only a few seconds ago.

As the infernal type machine woke he also yawned - a long and stretching yawn that, due once again to the shift in relativity and relation etc., lasted, in the lunar-tick’s terms, three months, allowing him (the lunar-tick) plenty of time to fire the gun and render the infernal type machine – and all the other similar machines within a ten-mile radius – completely and utterly helpless. Ha ha.