It was the perfect picture, the little thatched cottage covered in a blanket of snow and the surrounding landscape whiter than an English Man on a Costa Playa on day one of his package holiday. At last, the big day was here, cooling mince pies, golden pastry enveloping the molten contents released their festive aroma into the interior. The fairy lights on the Norwegian Spruce omitted a warming glow that married the crackling of the log fire.
Bugs chuckled as he took a sip of his Calvados, the image of a rosy cheeked choir boy just about to hit the high notes of All for the wings of a Dove having the Vicars hand fondling under his cassock.
With his vessel charged Bugs stood by the small window staring, as if mesmerized by the falling flakes, the tranquillity of the moment had allowed the Bugs to slip into Christmas past mode. Joyous fun drinking 15 litres of Gun Fire before breakfast with the now sadly departed Jimmy Mac. A wide smile crossed his face as the internal slide show ran it’s course.
BUT WHAT’S THAT? Alerted, as if by a B&B breakfast gong, the Bugs struggled to control the rising tide of discruntlement. It was as if someone had done it with a deliberate precision, it was equivalent to a zit on the Mona Lisa’s face or a sly wink and a smile on The Scream
There, yes there, smack bang in the middle of the lawn, it’s warmth now melting the pure snow and encircling itself in a brown puddle was the most unfestive sight.
All thoughts of little Robin’s wearing bobble hats and casually flung over the shoulder scarves were washed away by the sight of the biggest Raindeer turd this side of Helsinki.
Santa, yes, that’s the one, Santa the bastard Clause, never even cleaned it up. He didn’t bring festive joy and good cheer, he just swooped in here, used my front lawn as a crap house and bogged off. Fat twat.
Anyway the moral of this festive jape is simple. Don’t give Dunallog to many mince pies
Categories: Burning the Midnight Oil