Gary Rowley: How many cracker jokes can I squeeze in?
IT’S the most wonderful time of the year. And no, I don’t mean no more I’m a Celebrity for twelve months – I’m talking Santa here; Christmas; eating and drinking to excess against a backdrop of fairy lights, baubles, trees and trimmings.
Now I don’t know about you, but preparations have been hectic as ever in our gaff, inescapable turmoil made a million times worse by a horrendous Nightmare Before Christmas – a very surreal dream in which everything that could go wrong did go wrong.
The Nightmare commenced when I ordered a book online called: How to Avoid Being Scammed at Christmas.
A fortnight later, it still hadn’t arrived. So I phoned the boss, asking if I could work from home while I got things sorted.
“Give your head a wobble, son,” came the curt reply, “you’re a flipping bus driver…”
Headful of tinsel, I promptly resigned.
As one door closed, though, another one opened: I started work in an advent calendar factory.
Unfortunately, it didn’t go well. Realising my days were numbered – see what I did there?– I jacked that in as well, explaining I preferred to wander round the kitchen, opening cupboard doors and eating everything in sight.
Stuffed as a Christmas turkey, money was excruciatingly tight and I still had presents to buy.
Bob Geldof got wind of how bad things were, offering to do a charity single for me. In the meantime, I told the wife not to waste brass buying me a new Xbox; I said, “I’ve just found one, hidden behind the wardrobe…”
She kept dropping prezzie hints by leaving jewellery brochures around the house.
So I nipped into town and got her a magazine rack. I was going to buy the daughter the board game Operation – until I discovered there was a two-year waiting list.
Moseying around like the ghost of Christmas past, I asked this shop assistant what aisle the pigs in blankets were on. He said: “Are your eyes bad, sir?” I asked why and he said: “Because this is Sports Direct…”
I moved on to B&Q, searching for Christmas decorations. A bloke in an orange apron came over and asked if I wanted decking. Luckily for me, I managed to get the first one in, before disappearing to the bookshop next door, enquiring if they had any Christmas turtle books. Assistant said, “Hardback?” I said, “Yup, that’s them… With little heads.”
I did the big shop next. The wife had put cranberry sauce on the shopping list. Smeared red all over now, I couldn’t read a word and so chucked in a leaf blower, a bag of ready-mix concrete and a kitchen sink – just be on the safe side, like. On the way out, I spotted a security guard, chasing a sprinting turkey thief. “Hoy!” he screamed. “What do you think you’re doing with that?” He said: “Peas, sprouts, carrots, spuds and gravy, pal…”
Poor as Bob Cratchit, I managed to land a job waitering. Granted, the money wasn’t brilliant – but hey, at least I could put food on the table. A sign in the window said: Christmas dinners, taking bookings now.
I asked if they did takeaways. When the answer came back, I couldn’t resist it: “Right, then,” I said, “what’s 989,845 minus 898,443?”
Sacked on the spot, I woke with a start: the Nightmare Before Christmas was finally over and everything was hunky dory. In place of the missing book, I received a paperback about how to fall downstairs drunk safely at the works Christmas party – obviously a step-by-step guide.
Oh, and apparently the missus is buying me a stately home for Christmas. Asking for a friend – does anyone know where Sod Hall is?
Before I forget, I got the wife a horse, eighteen hands high. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know how she gets on.
And one last thing: if anyone’s interested what’s on telly over Christmas, give me a bell – I’ve managed to get my hands on a 1979 yuletide copy of the Radio Times – ba-dum-tish.
Merry Christmas everybody. Have a good one – health and happiness from me and mine to you and yours.
