I Will Kiss Your Cool Bark

Dingle of Christmas, there was a spark by the fire and hot coals rolled in unison, in time, to the gentle throng of the carols whistling and rising from somewhere outside. By the fire’s glow this Christmas eve lay Gentle Rogue, the family dog and chief flea-catcher who, by morning, would, through no fault of Santa’s, not really, be stone cold dead with his eyes ripped out. Stone cold, that is, even though the fire will still be roaring and happy, unlike the kids who will be roaring over their dead dog, for sure, but not at all happy. But still, for a few hours at least, what we have here is a Christmas scene straight from a jolly Christmas postcard that gets you, so to speak, right here, and gets you, moreover, longing for the warmth, comfort and joy of the vagaries of what you seem to recall was some kind of halcyonic childhood. Snow can even be seen falling outside, great fat flakes of it puncturing the deep blue of a flawless Christmas sky. Look, there are angels swimming in it, stars dazzling through it. The perfect Christmas scene for you to cut out and keep.

But surrounding the house and so far yet invisible to your naked, watchful eye, the ghosts of Christmas past, those ruiners of everything. Held tight in their tiny fists, holly-cornered post-it notes from which they recount the highs, the lows, the fun-filled dramas of Christmases you hoped had long since been forgotten:

Christmas One.
How you have the nerve to look back on this Christmas without vomiting from shame is, actually, beyond us. You recall, I assume, your children beaten with huge striped candy walking sticks? Your wife bundled out into the snow, naked, while you gorged yourself on the hottest, tastiest mince pies in all Christendom?

Christmas Two.
The elves at the Co-Op grotto were treated for shock. As were the children. There was confusion, at first, as to whom you were referring when you ran through the grotto screaming Beware the little cunts! Beware the little cunts! In fact, now that we think of it, just who were you referring to? The elves or the children?

Christmas Three.
Pissing into the Christmas punch. Forgetting you’d pissed into it. Drinking most of it, later. Remembering you’d pissed into it. Throwing up into the Christmas punch. Watching your guests drink the Christmas punch.

Christmas Four.
It was Christmas Day at the Franklin Pangborne Hospice and the children there, like most children across the land, greeted the early day in excited anticipation of finding their stockings filled to the toes with all kinds of fantastic goodies and cracking stuff. Imagine their surprise then when they discovered that their stockings were, in fact, empty and that all of their fantastic goodies and fantastic stuff had been taken out and smashed into pieces in the car park. By you, of course.

Christmas Five.
Christmas cards filled with shit sent out to all the pensioners in your area.

Christmas Six.
You killed Santa and fucked his wife.

Christmas Seven.
Etc.