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!