Tuesday, 27 December 2011

I went on a three day binge with Santa. . . .

Oh Jesus, son of Mary, Joseph and the almighty, I know it was your birthday and I totally forgot all about you but please, I've only just managed to kick Santa out and wave him good bye.

I went against everything I stand for and invited him in this year. Normally I like to leave a mince pie, a thank you note and a shot of brandy out for him but the neighbourhood has turned and unless it's tied down, locked up or wrapped in barbed wire you can't take your eyes off of anything, not even for a second.
I often hear my next door neighbour shuffling up and down after midnight, scratching about for loose change and cigarette butts so the last thing I wanted was her getting a sniff of alcohol and a taste for shortbread around my backdoor. This is the type of person who uses bin liners for curtains so I wasn't about to let that penny pinching old bint any where near to Santa's velvet sack.

I was a little nervous about inviting him in. You hear so many horror stories don't you? I am loathe to letting strange men into my house unless I've spoken to them for at least 10 minutes online or they are carrying some form of ID, but it's difficult to get anyone to verify Santa. There isn't a main switchboard or a helpline to call and even if there was I'd never trust an elf to tell me the truth anyway.
My rule of thumb is never trust anyone who's mouth is level to your genitals, you don't know where they've been.
In the end I decided to trust my instincts and just check the quality of the red suit. If it wasn't red velvet trimmed in ermine and if it didn't match the exact shade of Rudolph's nose then this Santa was an impostor and the only thing he would be getting from me would be a kick to the crotch and a tug on his beard.
It's a fail safe method to check his authenticity, if he hasn't got a Rudolph then you can bet he isn't Santa. Mr Clause will not be arriving in an unlicensed mini cab and expecting you to foot the bill, he's in a sleigh and he should be jingle belling all the way.
That's actually how I heard him arrive, by the sound of the bells. It made such a pleasant change to the wail of the police sirens that I was up and out of my bed quicker than a pensioner with a prostate problem. I saw him circle my flat a couple of times looking for a safe place to land so I decided to guide him down safely with a few shots of the pistol I keep in my bedside drawer.
Like I mentioned earlier, it's rough where I live. Rough enough that every time my next door neighbour hears a police siren she thinks it's a wolf whistle. I just knew the warning shots above her roof would lull her back to sleep and I'd have Santa all to myself.

Santa landed pretty quickly once I'd let off a few rounds and after I'd managed to get him inside and he'd stopped shaking we really hit it off. He let me check the authenticity of the suit. In fact he was very agreeable once I'd said he could put his hands down and he stopped screaming. I explained I didn't want to take everything he had and that I was sure Rudolph would still be able to fly once we'd fashioned a splint for his leg.
I question why the reindeer need legs when they are flying anyway? Okay, they may need them to land but I've seen a rancid pigeon land with a broken foot so Rudolph should just man up and stop being such a cry Bambi (or I'll shoot him in the other foot).

Santa's suit was beautiful, although a little ripe. I know the gun shots may have frightened him but my word, a diet of mince pies and brandy does not make for a happy ending. Let me just say that it will take more than a rinse through and a squirt of Febreeze to get them pantaloons fresh again. I offered to lend him a pair of old Abercrombie jogging bottoms but he could barely squeeze a thigh into them.
That man is so fat!! There is no excuse for any man to be that fat. He works one day a year and he can't manage to drag his fat ass to a gym the other 364? I checked his list to see if he delivers to Jenny Craig because I'm sure the two of them could work out some kind of deal.
It's no good those Reindeer's doing all the cardio and Santa just holding the reins - he should make like they are a resistance machine and rock that sleigh back and forth every now and again.
I wrote a note to Jenny asking for her help:

Dear Jenny Craig,
Seeing as you're the weight loss Queen, please help Santa lose some of his girth or you are not getting ANYTHING next year (and I'll make Mariah Carey balloon to twice her pregnancy weight and maybe even start "singing" again).
Love Rudolph.

I hope it works.

Once I got Santa indoors and I'd tied the Reindeer to a lamp post I managed to speak to old Father Clause about what was troubling me:
I asked him why he was such a tease and only turned up once a year?
I asked why every year he gets me to blow a whole wad of cash and get really drunk when the end result is I wake up alone anyway?

Why do I always have a huge amount of bows and ribbons left over? I am a grown man not a prepubescent drag queen.
Why did I buy a cheese board and five jars of pickled onions? I live alone . . .
Should I really mix the port, with the tequila, with the whiskey and the cough medicine again?
Why didn't he bring me a sack full of Valium like I'd requested?

What kind of moisturiser does he use?
How has he managed to look like he's in his late 50's for the last 100 years?
Why the hell doesn't he buy some "Just for men"?
What's his profile name for online dating sites?
Has he ever seen anything below his belly?
Doesn't he know nothing will ever grow in the shade?

Does he think Rudolph will be able to fly with only three legs?
Can he bring my neighbour some new curtains?

He answered all of my questions and he ate his mince pie ( I was still holding the gun at this point). He had a shot of Brandy and we bandaged Rudolph's foot, he even managed to fix some drapes up at my neighbours windows.

As he flew off this evening I saw her hanging out of her window, she was shaking her fist and screaming "I don't believe in you Santa, I asked for a 36" plasma TV and all I got was these crappy curtains". . . . .

But I believe in him all over again and I can't wait until next year when he comes calling, especially if he brings me that rifle I've asked for and Rudolph gets a new prosthetic. . . .

Friday, 16 December 2011

Christmas Crackers.

Tis the season, apparently . . .

I can tell it's almost Christmas because my family is at war and my mother has stopped talking to me. If you come from a family as dysfunctional as mine Santa isn't coming with a remedy and a whole bunch of sweetness and light within his Santa sack. It's more likely he's coming with a box full of guilt wrapped in a ribbon laced with tears and tied with a handful of fisticuffs.
A fat man in a red suit is not going to be able to fix the emotional turbulence and underlying hostility within my clan unless we're in a boxing ring and he's the referee. I'm sure poor Rudolph only got a red nose because my brother punched him.
Every year it's the same. I give my nearest and dearest expensive and thoughtful gifts when all they want to give me is a black eye. It's terribly hard to sit across a dinner table from someone when you are desperately fighting the urge to pick up a turkey leg and batter them with it. It gets to be embarrassing when instead of saying "pass the salt" you find "pass me a loaded gun" just tumbled from your mouth.
Christmas dinner chez Warner is like sitting the Corleone's and the Sopranos opposite one another and telling them to make merry.
The first time one of my best friends met my family she said "they are great fun but I think they are a little bit crazy". She then sang the theme tune to the Addams family and made it an ode to my family dysfunction "They do what they want to do, live how they want to live, Warner family".
I sometimes surprise myself when I realise I've been quietly humming or singing it. It's become my mantra and code to live by and also my way of excusing any insane behaviour (on behalf of my relatives - not me).
You should try it next time someone in your family upsets you "they do what they want to do, live how they want to live (insert name here) family". Trust me - it works.

In an attempt to bring the Christmas spirit back into my life I bought and trimmed a Christmas tree. It helped that I poured a bottle of Christmas spirit down my throat while doing it. The front of my tree looks like everything I love in a woman, gaudy, overdressed, swathed in tinsel and adorned with huge baubles. The back looks like everything I love in a man, broad, dark, dense and furry. The only thing that ties my love of trees, men and women together is that all three must be able to wear (and totally work) a rope of twinkling, coloured lights.
I never really pay as much attention to the back of my tree as I do the front so I guess my idea of tree decoration is rather shallow. If you can't see it, I'm not decorating it. It's purely about the frontage and kind of like having drapes at your windows but letting your back doors get smashed in. If you can't see it with your eyes then I'm not touching it with my fingers.
As a child I used to believe that news readers only had clothes on from the front and that if by chance the camera went behind whomever was breaking the latest news of famine, disease or strife then you would see the news readers hairy back and arse. I guess it was a way to take away from the awfulness of the world and bring some comedy into it (unless the news reader was a woman with a hairy back and arse, that would be wrong and more scary than famine, disease or strife).
 I had a real craving for black tinsel this year but I couldn't find any. When I asked for some in the Christmas shop at Liberty's of London the girl looked at me like I'd taken the manger from the nativity and pissed in it. I guess black isn't very festive but I knew exactly what I wanted, a huge boa of black tinsel. Thick like a well fed foxes tail but long enough to wrap around a 6ft Christmas tree.
Instead I had to make do with silver.
My tree looks like Cher, Diana Ross and Liberace got into a dressing up box full of dynamite which then exploded into a typhoon of mirror balls and glitter which could only be tempered by a Liza Minnelli impersonator blowing feathers at it. In other words, it's more tat than taste.

Christmas can be a little depressing if you're single. I normally bypass this because I have multiple personality disorder (self diagnosed). I never really know who I'm going to wake up as so if I hate the gifts I've bought myself then I can always blame someone else.
Last year I caused a terrible scene in the denim department in Selfridges because me, myself and I were all trying to fit into a size 30" vintage wash denim with pocket detail. We ended up leaving with nothing but a year long store ban and a tarnished reputation. The only good thing about my disorder is you always have someone else with you to help carry your bags and someone else can open the door when the store detectives come knocking.

If you really can't bear to be alone this Christmas then please don't buy a puppy or a kitten. I know they are cute and cuddly, fun to dress up and give shots of brandy to "oh look how cute the puppy is staggering around and vomiting, let's video it and upload it to youtube" but a pet is for life, not just for Christmas.
 The easiest way to get around this is to "borrow" someone else's.
You're not doing anything wrong because once the owners get their much loved pet back they'll think all of  their Christmas' have come at once (it's best to leave the pet on their doorstep in the middle of the night). Sometimes it's best to remove the reindeer antlers as well unless you've had to cut some of the animals fur off, in that case, it's best to buy the animal a little Santa hat. "Surprise! Muffy's half poodle, half Blitzen".

I think it's time I began wrapping gifts. I'm all for re-gifting but sometimes I get the labels mixed up. Last year I gave my great aunt a pair of knuckle dusters and my two year old nephew a pair of tights. My aunt is now a prize fighter and my nephew a bank robber so it all worked out in the end. This year I'm giving them  a tutu and a flick knife and I'm going to let them fight over who gets what. My money's on my nephew.

 I also need to seriously start thinking about how I'm going to get my mum to talk to me again. I think it's really sad that she's so angry. I honestly thought she'd like the surprise of the 70ft inflatable Santa and sleigh I'd fixed to her roof. It wasn't my fault it was so windy that Santa took flight with the chimney, guttering and supporting wall of her bedroom, she should think of all the joy it's brought to the children who suddenly saw him go whizzing by their windows.
It also wasn't my fault he crash landed fifty miles away in that field full of cows.

I guess next year I'll just surprise her with the inflatable Joseph, Mary & baby Jesus . . . .