Low life
Christmas bores
Jeffrey Bernard
Here we go again. The obligatory Christmas piece. Well, where were we? Oh yes, the December dialogue.
`What are you doing this year, George?'
`Not a lot actually. We thought we'd have a pretty quiet time really. Sheila's parents aren't coming over, thank God, but her aunt — you know the one who's pretty gaga who lives in Weybridge — we might have to have her. Otherwise it's just Sheil and the two kids, yours truly dressed up as Santa, pissed as a newt and the old turkey plus all the trimmings. Mind you, I must say I'm pretty fed up with turkey, it's so dry.'
`Quite, I couldn't agree more. I, per- sonally speaking, love goose.'
`Too fat old boy.'
`No, not if you roast it in the oven on a grill. Drains all the fat away like that. Mind you, tricky animal to stuff. Barbara swears that celery heads, apples, onions, grated lemon, a soupcon of rice, prunes, an egg to bind it all and any bloody thing will do. Anyway, we thought we'd go to Charlie's do on Christmas Eve, dump the children with Susan Boxing Day morning so's we could go over and see Shell's parents in Clapham on the Tuesday. Normally we'd have asked George but Susan can't bear him. But, if we get through that, we thought we'd drive over to see Basil and Gwen on the Tuesday. Tuesday's a holiday too, you know. Bloody marvellous. Here we are, going down the European drain like a lump of shit, and no one wants to work until Jan five. Of course, you know all the crackers this year come from Japan? Yes, saw a box in Harrods or somewhere yester- day, 15 bloody quid for a damp squib and a joke you could tell your maiden aunt. Anyway, what are you getting Cynthia? Nothing too daring I hope. Don't want to give the game away, eh?'
`Good lord no. Little brooch or something. You know, nothing too osten- tatious. Christ, Christmas has become so bloody commercial. Chap in the Dog and Duck yesterday told me that the lights in Regent Street cost £500 an hour and they talk about an energy crisis. That reminds me. You know Margaret's eldest boy, Jim- my or James or something — works at Harwell, scientist johnny — he said he was thinking of dropping in on us for a cocktail Christmas Eve lunchtime before driving over to Bodmin to stay with Esther's peo- ple. Never could get on with Esther. But what are you doing New Year's-Eve?'
`Oh, I think we'll take it easy. Haven't got the stamina any more. Sheil fancies popping over to the Dalcott-Smiths for a jar but I think I promised Rupert and Her- mione that I'd drive over from Leckhamp-
stead for the one, breathalyser bag permit- ting.'
`Yes, they're bastards at this time of year, aren't they? You'd think they'd mind their own bloody business just for once. In '78 I winged a chap — old farm labourer — didn't hurt him much, just knocked him in a ditch and stunned him and the next thing I knew they had me breathing into all sorts of contraptions. Season of goodwill my arse. Anyway, they kept me for two hours and I was bloody nearly late for the Smith-Wilbur party in Hungerford. Have another? Bran- dy?'
`Just the one then, thanks. Cheers. Did I tell you, by the way, Barbara and I have booked up to stay in Honfleur next Christmas? Yes, well I mean, it's so bloody commercial here isn't it? I mean why not piss off. Forget it all. I've never liked Christmas. The carols from King's College are all right mind you and that kid who leads them out with "Once in Royal David's City" brings a lump to my throat, but you can keep the rest. Which reminds me. We had a marvellous Christmas once near Cambridge with the Bruce Partingtons on the way back from Wisbech and ....'
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