Political Songpost

Tags

General Election, Green Party, Ian Dury, parody, SNP

I wanna be green
(after Ian Dury, I Wanna be Straight)

 

I wanna be green, I wanna be green,
I wanna hug trees and save all the bees,
If you know what I mean
I wanna protect, I wanna protest
Eat organic Quorn on an organic lawn
in an organic vest

I wanna be green, I wanna be green,
I want the sky and the water supply
to be lovely and clean
Yeah, gonna be hip, yeah gonna be true
While I’m saving the whale and saving the Earth
from the twats who vote blue

I wanna be green, I wanna be green,
Give drivers hard looks and read Monbiot’s books
on my Kindle screen
Don’t tell me I’m soft, don’t tell me I’m cracked
You won’t be so cool if we use all the fuel
and we’re totally fracked!

Does meditation
Aid conservation?
Is your elevation
The only chance that we’ll survive — eh?

Yeah! Green, green, green, green
Green, green, green, green
Green, green, green, green, green!

I wanna be green, I wanna be green,
I know that I’m right and I know that you’re wrong
and there’s nowt inbetween
But it isn’t for me, with a capital G
Perhaps I’m an arse, but I’m not middle clarse
so I’ll vote SNP

I wanna be green
I wanna be green etc

 

4/5/17

… and another thing …

Tags

cliches

Some pearls of wisdom

Stop saying, ‘life’s to short’ to do annoying or boring stuff.

Life’s not too short, it’s too long. If it was short, it wouldn’t really matter if the odd bit was dull or annoying, cos it’ll all be over either way before you know it. But if it’s long, then it’s worth trying to minimise the proportion spent doing tedious stuff like reading this blog.

As Clement Freud said, if you give up smoking, drinking and sex, you don’t live any longer: it just seems longer.

So stop using that annoying cliché, because the next person I hear say it will suddenly find out just how short life can be, capiche?

 

and…

 

There’s no such thing as ‘too much information’. Just too much sensitivity.

OK, maybe the finer details of my bowel movements are not something you want to hear at the dinner table, but apart from that, I can simply ignore you if you choose to tell me about your sexual activities, abd who knows how interesting somone might find it.

If that someone happens to be a journalist or a blackmailer, storing up info for a future date, that’s your problem, not mine.

Until then, tell me everything you know and I promise to at least pretend to be fascinated.

 

See you next Wednesday…

er

It’s a busy and complex time right now, do I really want to spend time on a blog? No, I know, I shall distract any passing readers long enough to make my escape…

Look!  Over there!

 

 

 

Nothing to see here. Go away.

Tags

Cannes, Father William, Lewis Carroll, Mad Hatter, poetry

Lots on the old plate this week, two paintings on the go, poems to write for a project I promised my little Chinese friend,

and a book to be getting back to getting on with.

So all you get is a pic of me as the Mad Hatter and a link to me performing, You Are Old Father Peter, from Parodies Lost (still available at £5) at the Scottish Arts Club’s tea party.

 

Harping On

Tags

Edinburgh, Gracie Fields, harp, harp festival

It’s been a busy week here at Grieve-not Lake, what with logging hundreds of last minute entries to a short story competiton what I administer. It was not helped by the payment site we use crashing over twelve of the final 24 hours, which led to an extended deadline and even more entries.

But I did find time Monday, while the dust was lingering just above ground, if not exactly clearing, to go the Edinburgh Harp Festival out at Colinton, at the Merchiston Castle School for the sons of rich bastards.

A visit to this gig once a year is an enjoyable experience, even though I don’t play. Harpists seem to be very nice folk. The lovely Bethan was inveigled into taking a picture of me pretending I do.

I remember my dear owd Mam often quoting (probably for allegorical purposes) the title of the Gracie Fields song, I Took My Harp to a Party, to which I have related maungily my whole life,

But I took me harp to a party, nobody asked me to play
The others were jolly and ‘earty but I wasn’t feelin’ so gay
I felt so ashamed at not strikin’ a note
That I tried to hide the thing under me coat

and which I have brought up to date for you here…

I took me ‘arp to a party but nobody asked me to play
I’ve always been quite arty-farty, so imagine my utter dismay
That the music were all One Direction and stuff
And they all played guitars and they played ’em reet rough;
I took my harp to a party but nobody asked me to play
So I took the damn thing away

They asked Morag from Stronsay to sing some Beyoncé
And somebody else sang Adele,
And the whole bloody crowd murdered poor Girls Aloud,
Until I was left feeling unwell.
At the end of the session, Bert’s Tom Jones impression
Collected a fair pile of knickers
Including the pants of me Sisters and Aunts
And more than one pair of the vicar’s

But I took me ‘arp to the party and nobody asked me to play
I’ve always been quite arty-farty, but I found to my utter dismay
That it wasn’t my scene, I were like a sore thumb,
So I sat like Jack Horner and feelin’ reet glum;
I took my harp to a party but nobody asked me to play
So I chucked the damn thing away

Toodlepip!

Brochure for the novel

Tags

Coaching Inn, humour, spayne, Tavern

xxx
Welcome to the Peigne’s Arms Tavern and Coaching Inn.

A hostelry has stood on this site since Medieval times, taking its name and ‘weasels rampant’ shield from the local landowners, as mentioned in the Doomsday Book.

xxx
In the late 18^th Century, a series of fires destroyed the original buildings and a few others nearby. This presented the owners with an opportunity to rebuild and extend the property as a ‘post house’, servicing the mail coaches from London. Not being on an actual route to anywhere else however, it went through a number of overoptimistic owners, before falling into a state of neglect in the early 20^th Century, after which it struggled on as a ‘charming’ local watering hole, well-placed to slake the thirst of worshippers leaving the picturesque Norman church of St Rantipole.

The decline of religious worship in British life paralleled the decline of the ‘Arms’, until it was acquired by the Shreckley Blabe hotel and health spa chain, who embarked on a major restoration, with the aid of an EU grant, which many believed was meant for a country with a similar name. The duck pond was dredged and cleared of its rustic detritus of supermarket trolleys and white goods, making it once again an ideal spot for humans and waterfowl alike. Today the pond, village green and church present an idyllic prospect for diners drawn to the al fresco facilities on our forecourt.

The old coaching accommodation was extended and tastefully modernised in Sixties style. Three large rooms, the Alhambra Ballroom, Peigne’s Vault, and the Weasel Lounge, were adapted as ideal venues for conferences, receptions and entertainments. Today the Peigne’s Arms is the area’s premier venue for hens & stags, weddings, christenings and even divorce celebrations ☺.

Our 39 bedrooms, many with four-poster beds, all with en suite, tv, wi-fi, minibar and tea-making facilities, are ideal for your guests and relations, or for that intimate, relaxing weekend break. Whatever your desires (well, almost!), our fully equipped health spa, cordon bleu restaurant and well-stocked bars will make your stay at the Peigne’s an unforgettable experience!

---

(From Knights in the Gardens of Spayne, Part III

That thing I was scribbling last week will be concluded next week)

A Modest Proposal: My Object, All Sublime

Tags

crime, Godwin, punishment

My object, all sublime,
I shall achieve in time:
To make the punishment ludicrously disproportionate to the crime
xxxxLudicrously disproportionate to the crime …

xxI often think that spot executions would solve a lot of society’s ills.
A friend recently shared a meme asking if it was a good idea to have schoolkids put their smartphones in boxes at the front of class during lessons. So I said that they should learn to control their own use of them, encouraged by spot executions of anyone whose phone rings. I don’t think they took me seriously.

xxOne of the things societies do wrong, imao, is to grade punishments to fit crimes. But this has the constant effect of making it possible to weigh up committing the crime against the risk of being caught. A small fine might not be enough to deter littering, but any larger sanction may seem draconian, whereas a few years away might be worth risking when temptation to steal presents itself. I know many people have considered even a life sentence a small price to pay for bumping me off, though none has yet succeeded (obvs!).

xxNow, your correspondent being an anarchist, he of course is not keen on the idea of state-imposed punishments at all. As Godwin pointed out in Political Justice (BkVII Ch1), to punish cannot undo the crime, but to punish to put someone off doing it again or as a deterrent for the rest of society is to punish for something that hasn’t even been done.

The difficulty here arises only from the consideration of the general nature of punishment, which is abhorrent to the true principles of mind, and ought to be restrained within as narrow limits as possible, if not instantly abolished.

xxBut let’s accept the vengeful nature of society, that puts people into need and temptation and then likes to scourge them for giving in to such horrors.
xxThe idea proposed here is that we start with the draconian punishments for the minor offences. And it can be argued that the ‘nastier’ ones do not need their punishments ramping up, because no one undertakes such complex or harsh actions as burglary or murder lightly anyway. And those that might be tempted so to do will be victims of a well-established laxity of morals — a laxity that begins with a lackadaisical attitude to minor offences.

xxYour blogger recalls reading a story a minnellium ago (probably For All the Rude People by Jack Ritchie), in which a guy starts murdering people for being rude to their fellow folk. Quite soon, the whole community begins to be more polite, at first out of fear of this vigilante, but later because they actually find it more rewarding, and a general conviviality breaks out.
xxNow, it seems unlikely that anyone would drop litter if they knew that a licensed executioner could gun them down from an unseen sniper’s nest, nor would many folks text while driving if they thought a bazooka shell might suddenly wipe them and their car from the face of the earth. So, extreme though many might find the punishment, the number of people that would actually be shredded in a hail of bullets for spitting would probably be negligible.
xxThere is a sort of proviso here, in the effects of a prevailing culture. Apologists for the laws in Islamic theocracies argue that fear of being parted from their hands deters many a thief from using them inappropriately. But it must be considered that the vast majority in these societies also accept the fundamental moral teaching of their religion, that tells them the act is wrong and even puts them in danger of a far longer-lasting punishment to come. Perhaps sadly, some in less religious communities, which have not found a way to inculcate similar but humanistic values, do also have a stronger tendency to believe that, in the words of Yul Brynner, “Wrong is when you get caught.*”
xxAnd indeed, some would say that assigning a punishment to any act implies and therefore condones its desirability, if not its performance.

xxSo if we are going to punish at all, let’s say to people that it is tempting of course to drop that sweet wrapper, to add a few quid to your insurance claim, or to put the green bottle in the white recycling bin, but let us also educate and explain patiently why it is wrong and deleterious to the whole of society, even the perpetrator, to do those things — and let’s shoot the tiresome bastards who still don’t get the fucking message.
xxAnd all this without wasting time and money on trials and so-called ‘due process’. Clean streets, polite and considerate citizens, dosh saved to spend on much-needed services and, in the longer run, far less crime of the more serious kinds.

And still the government shows no interest in hiring me as a special adviser!

xxxx

*Surprise Package (1960)

So what?

Tags

neuroscience, Peanuts, Sally Brown

The great experimental philosopher, Sally Brown, once said, Some philosophies take a thousand years. I think of them in two minutes.

Among the gems of wisdom she bequeathed us, we can count, Who cares? Where will it all end? What’s that supposed to mean? and Wolves are making a comeback.  And who can forget her classic, all-purpose phrase for coping with life, Drop dead!?

But perhaps it is the wisdom of her ‘sweet babboo’, Linus van Pelt, which provides the best way for putting life’s little, and even huge, problems into perspective.

Five hundred years from now, who’ll know the difference?

*

Well, fundamentally opposed to oversimplifying as he may be, your humble correspondent has found himself adopting a handy phrase a lot of late, and if you’ve read the title, you’ll know what it is.

But it isn’t simply a dismissive, though, worryingly, some might see it as one.  In a recent conversation with some chums, somewhat interested in new strides in neuroscience (as well as ‘mindfulness’), one of them made the statement that we now know there are neurones in the walls of the digestive system.  And there is this fear that the response of So what? was taken to indicate a belief that it didn’t matter a jot.  As the conversation veered off in other directions at that point, there was no real chance either for clarification of the intent behind the phrase or the actual question in hand, but the wrong impression (understandably) seems to have been left by that So what?

The motivation behind the query is a worry that, in many areas, people sometimes take what might be a simplistic view, based on pre-existing beliefs, attitudes or other baggage.   Not that this did or didn’t apply in the example stated, but there are those who look for, say, a mystic, mind-body-spirit take on things or, equally, a decontextualised scientific scepticism (and your correspondent admits tending to the latter).

So the statement that there are brain-type cells in the gut could be taken to imply a number of things.  It actually can lead to fascinating ideas and questions — from how can we now view ancient ‘scientific’ and artistic musings based on the guts/heart/liver/big toe as the ‘seat of the emotions’ to what this might tell us about the treatment of mental and physical conditions alike.  But there is a tendency to make statements like this, in all fields (particularly, nowadays, political ones, and especially out here in webland) as portentous and sort of final.

The idea of the ‘mic drop’ has become an infectious one.  Yrs Trly asked a question in a facebook discussion and was snappily accused of trying to shut down the conversation with it, as if it had been meant rhetorically.  It may be getting tiresome, but the idea of trying to move to a more Socratic dialectic dialogue in arguments is one you have yet to hear a lot more round these parts (Nooooo! Come back!).

And the fascination remains, even though the other folks from that café chat probably forgot about it minutes later, that it would be very interesting to pursue the question of, So what does the presence of neurones in the gut imply or signify (vestigially or functionally), where else might they be found, and what is the interrelation, if any, between them and the brane itself?  Is there a connection between this and the secondary brain of the dinosaurs?

And your bloggist will go on asking So what? in all sorts of circumstances, sometimes even using it in a way to match Ms Brown’s Who cares? or even Drop dead!  But most often as a way of trying to take an idea deeper and hopefully find a common premise at the bottom of the pit, from which to climb back out to a fuller understanding of and perhaps even agreement on the question at hand.

To which, all one can say is, So what?

 

The Reign of Spayne

Tags

Cabaret, Comedy, football, humour, novels, spayne, Wyberton

The idea of this bloggitude was to keep the pen flowing and stimulate other stuff. It’s working too well. I’ve been ensconcing myself (they can’t touch you for it) in the National Library of Scotland and writing almost fervently with a pencil (they actually confiscated my ballpoint and I had to ask for it back when I left, like a naughty boy) most days of the week.

And what have I writted? I’m glad you asked me that.

On the night before the night before the night before Christmas, I finished the first draft of the second part of the third novel, Knights in the Gardens of Spayne, about the unlikely progress of a rubbish soccer team, the overambitious attempts of a small town to put itself on the map, and the frustrated desires of the local lothario to bed the high-powered consultant who comes to help pursue that dream.

So, rather than waste too much time writing anything superfluous to that, I hereby present part two of chapter two of part one, to give you a taster.

* * *

 

xxxThe town now known as Spayne features in the Domesday Book of 1086 as a nondescript patch of farmland called Peigne’s Stedde.  Nondescript it may have been but in those days its owner was an ambitious Anglo Saxon known as ‘Pain’ by all his neighbours. His family motto being ‘Start at the bottom and then lick it’, as soon as he heard of the Norman invasion, he changed the spelling to the more Frenchified Peigne. He then travelled to London and hung around the court, sucking up to the new rulers until they married him off to a distant and equally annoying cousin of King William. Thus he was able to return home as a right royal Peigne and thus did the lands of his fiefdom wax and prosper and all that sort of stuff.
xxxCentury followed uninteresting century and a pleasant English Country Village grew up around the duckpond, the parish church of St Rantipole and the Peigne’s Arms Tavern and Coaching Inn. Feudalism and Frenchness fell out of fashion, the Lords of the Manor became the Local Squires and changed the spelling of their name back to Pain. Then to Payne, to avoid the obvious jokes. And then moved abroad when the Illiterate Yokels failed to notice the difference.
xxxIn the meantime, a civil servant, undertaking another census, asked one of the Illiterate Yokels for the name of the place but was confused by the incomprehensible accent of inebriation. “‘S Pain ye’sh’d ask.” “Spane, is it? How do you spell that?” “Eh? Why?” “Ah, Spayne. Thank you, Sir.”
xxxThen one day an Industrial Revolution appeared, followed closely by a Canal and a Railway Line. As the once distant town of Wyberton became an ever-nearer metropolis and more children refused to eat their greens, the old sprout fields to the South of the village now sprouted housing estates for the better-paid employees of the soap factories and flannel mills that kept an Empire clean behind the ears. To the North, newly rich merchants and estate agents built spacious Mock-Tudor Mansionettes with Prize Lawns and hawthorn hedges, while to the East the old hamlet of Spigwell grew in similar fashion. Once half a day’s walk across muddy fields, it was now separated from its neighbour only by Nogget’s Burn, a smelly, grey-green stream that joined the not-so-mighty River Wibble just West of the Big City.
xxxThe Twentieth Century saw a final growth spurt with the building of the Broxville council estate — and the Badger Hill football ground, the long-awaited permanent home for the Wanderers. Now the badgers were long gone but, thanks to the black and white strip of the team, the name lived on. The wealthier burghers to the North provided the board and the investment, while the workers to the South provided the spectators and the profits — and ate the burgers. Spayne had matured, if that is the word, into a typically mixed British Suburb. Two communities, united by a common disdain and resentment, but each dependent on the other.
xxxBut then came the decline of the once-loved team. As the Wanderers’ star sank, Wyberton Town’s rose. The city team had more money, more money meant better players, better players meant a bigger stadium. They might never have made it to the very top, or even tasted as much glory as the Nostalgic Granddads of Spayne had known, but they had a Firmer Financial Footing. And fans. Eventually, even the non-nostalgic supporters of Spayne deserted the Badgers, to climb aboard the 47 bus or the football specials (The Train from Spayne has Footie on the Brain!) and watch the Flannelers instead.
xxxAnd, just as the kids from the Broxville Estate no longer aspired to play in black and white, the Money Men from the Mock Tudor Mansionettes went the same way, no longer so generous in their support for a failing team. Eventually the Badger Hill Ground itself was sold off and became the Badger Hill Bathroom Emporium and the No Spayne, No Gayne fitness and tanning centre. The once proud team had become such an embarrassment, not to mention owing all that cash to Mr McBogle’s bank, they couldn’t find anywhere to play their home games. Attempts to book even a pitch in the local parks were met with mumbled excuses about special needs teams or donkey grazing rights.

xxxIn the earliest days of organised football, Spayne Wanderers got their name because, having no ground of their own, they played on any park or patch of ground available. And now, in the early years of the Twentyfirst Century, that name had once more become painfully appropriate.

* * *

So now, as the Festering Season progresses into the terrifying darkness of 2017, the first 28,000 words are being proofread and scribbled on and thought about, but then really need to be buried in soft peat while I plan in more detail part III and maybe even draw maps of the area to check and ensure consistency.  And maybe the early part of the New Year will be spent sending samples to agents and publishers.

Then when I return to them with a fresh eye, I may end up crossing most of it out while sobbing in despair.  But hopefully enough will be salvaged to carry on to the hilariously satisfying conclusion(!).

And if you, gentle reader, want to get a fuller flavour, the whole thing can be found online!  Yes, just click on this link here, to go to a page where you can find other links to click on, giving you a .pdf, a .mobi or a .epub version of the file, suitable for ereaders, tablets and even paper.

* * *

Oh, by the way, I is doing a gig along with some Fringe friends tomorrow night, if any of youse buggers is in the Leith area of Edinburgh … silly pomes and songs in a great wee bar, feat. Woodstock Taylor, Max Scratchmann, Beverley Wright, Yours Truly and the Laird of Lounge himself, Martin Waugh.  See ya!

Oh yes, and for those of you of a jollier and more sociable disposition than me, have a great Hogmanay.

No Time Like the Present by Zelda McLeich

Tags

Christmas, Presents, Robbie Williams, tapas, tradition

Here’s a seasonal offering from our occasional guest writer of gory stories … with best wishes of the Festering Season to both our readers.

xxxx

xxxThey say that opposites attract.  Well some of them say that.  Others say we’re drawn to genetically similar folks.  It’s probably a bit of both.  What I’m trying to say is that his easygoing nature had a strong appeal but it also jarred with what he called my ‘OCD’.  And we could both be as stubborn as mules selectively bred for stubbornness.
xxxOr can you selectively breed a sterile hybrid?

xxxSorry, I’m having trouble concentrating.  Sure you’ll understand.
xxxOh yes, stubborn. But I was always told there’s a right and a wrong way to do things.  And especially I love tradition.  Christmas is all about those traditions or it’s nothing.  When you know what’s coming at any given time, it makes the anticipation that much greater.  Same with presents, a pleasure deferred is a pleasure increased.  Then it’s knowing when but not knowing what that makes the surprise that much better, isn’t it?
xxxHe wasn’t like that at all, but he went along with it, for a quieter life.  I still had to hide things well, usually round at Mother’s, or he’d have been  … sorry.  I’m rambling, I know.  But you have to know I like my festive routine just so.  There’s a right way to do Christmas.  End of.
xxxStart of December, put up the Advent Calendar.  Cards hung from cotton along the wall as they arrive.  Tree and the rest of the decorations up on Christmas Eve.  Not before.  OK, I have compromised on that a bit.  His family always put theirs up on the first Sunday in December, with their Advent Crown — all very Blue Peter.  He said it seemed such a lot of effort for something that had to come down again in less than a fortnight.  So I let him put the tree up and hang the baubles then, but the lights and tinsel always have to wait.  So I still got some of that magic of the special night.  And I was sure he’d come to realise how romantic it all was, and how much better it would be when we had our own kids to share in it.
xxxBut presents; yes.  That routine was such an important part of it all for me, since I could remember.   Come down Christmas morning, not before the stroke of nine (though we’d been awake since God knows of course).  Have a full breakfast — evening blow out not for hours — and only then go through to the sitting room to see what was in our stockings or under the tree.
xxxIn the early years he was always badgering me to open a few little gifts early, but I think that was because he wanted an excuse to see some of his.  Like a kid: couldn’t resist the short term stuff to get a bigger thrill later on.  He tried renaming them as Advent Gifties, as if that would change everything.  It took a few years but he stopped asking and I assumed he was cured of all that, round to my way of thinking.
xxxOffice parties, meals out, secret Santa stuff, that was fine of course.  Visits to friends and rellies — presents would be exchanged, but they all knew I wouldn’t be opening mine until the big day, so they never opened theirs from us when we were there.  More fool them if they rip the paper off the second we leave, I always say.

xxxYeah, so we went for this romantic meal for two at our favourite tapas bar a week or so ago — Friday it was, the Sixteenth.  We got there earlier than usual but they’d opened the kitchen half an hour early when he’d rung to book.  He told me it was to save us the hassle of coming home from work and coming into town again; he hadn’t fancied meeting in a crowded festive bar beforehand with all the booze we were already getting through this month and I said he must be getting old.  But it sort of made sense, and we’d be home in time to watch Have I Got News For You, and get an early night before the weekend parties.  It all made sense at the time.
xxxAnyway, we were enjoying a nice meal, cheeses, hams, gambas, a lovely bottle of Rioja, and we had the place pretty much to ourselves for three quarters of an hour at least.  And suddenly he produces an envelope from his jacket and hands it to me, saying Merry Christmas, darling!
xxxWhat’s this, I ask, and he says it’s an early Christmas present, a ‘very special one’.  I say that’s lovely and start to put it in my handbag.  But he asks what I’m doing, with a knowing smile.
xxxI’m going to take it home and put it under the tree, I say, and thank him profusely so he knows I am truly grateful for the thought.  But he interrupts and says it’s really important to him that I open it on the spot.  I say we’ve been through all this before but he says it’s something really special and I say in that case it’ll be even more special if it’s the big finale on the day.  At the correct time.
xxxBut he doesn’t want to give in, though he also doesn’t want to spoil the surprise.  He gets really agitated and starts hissing at me about being stubborn and even calls me ‘anal’.  And I say it’s him that’s being the pig-headed one, opening up old arguments.  He tries cajoling, he tries threats, tells me I’ll be sorry, but of course this just makes me dig my heels in. When he says he’s going to have to tell me what it is, I just say if he does it’ll not only spoil the surprise, it’ll spoil our whole marriage.  It’s true, it really is.  I’m not religious or anything, but Christmas is a very special time of year to me.
xxxEventually he just shouts, have it your fucking way then and calls me a stupid stubborn bitch!  Just as another couple walked in.  I was so embarrassed, moreso ‘cos it was also in front of Juan and Consuela — we’d been there so often, they’re almost family.
xxxWell, that put a damper on the evening, to say the least.  He hardly spoke, just muttered through clenched teeth from time to time.  Things like, I’d be sorry, wait and see, me and my hidebound attitudes and so on.  I tried a couple of times to lighten the mood, but it was pointless, so we ate up, skipped postres, and went home.  I popped into the kitchen to apologize for the scene and assure them we’d be fine, see them in the New Year.  Hah.

xxxI did think he’d get over it pretty quickly.  Even if he didn’t, it was important to nip this ‘early present’ thing in the bud, before we ended up putting the decorations up in October and giving so many ‘Advent Gifties’ we’d have nothing to look forward to on the day but a selection box and a satsuma.
xxxI thought he was just trying to outdo me for pigheadedness  He didn’t stop speaking to me or anything quite as childish as that, but he was amazingly surly for the whole week.  I was tempted to tear open the envelope shouting, OK, so spoil Christmas, Grinchy, or even rip it up and throw it in the recycling unseen, but I didn’t give in.  In fact he made no further direct attempt to get me to open it and I thought he was giving in — ungracefully.
xxxEven when we put the lights on the tree and arranged the parcels beneath it, with his ‘special’ gift in pride of place, his mood didn’t lighten.  My attempts to apply generous helpings of alcohol only made him more withdrawn and grumpy.
xxxEventually I suggested we turn in early.  A cheery ‘I suppose a Christmas shag’s out of the question’ was probably a mistake too.  But I still thought the day would work its magic, that we’d come down at breakfast and there’d be enough surprises to change our moods.  He seemed to find that idea rather amusing though I did notice that his laugh sounded hollow and grim.

xxxSo this morning I came down and prepared the usual — buck’s fizz, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, toast, fresh-brewed coffee.  I had to shout up a few times before he deigned to grace the kitchen with his presence.  He still looked thoroughly pissed off, but also amused in a bitter way.  Grim as he was the night before.  And even then I reckoned on a bit of Christmas magic turning things around when we got to the tree.
xxxIt wasn’t promising.  He hardly touched his food, though he did replenish his glass quite freely.  Then he asked if we could finally open the presents, so I could get what was coming to me — I remember now, that’s how he put it, but I didn’t think about it at the time.  He said he hoped I was ready for my ‘big fucking surprise’.
xxxI tried to keep it light, but it was damn near impossible.  I said if it was so big I’d definitely leave it to last, which he snorted at derisively, but I admit I was really intrigued by now and even excited, despite the atmosphere.  I was sure that it would be really amazing and when I opened it I’d show how grateful I was and he’d be pleased and agree with the value of waiting … and all the nonsense would be forgotten.
xxxBut he opened his gifts in stony silence, the clothes, the box sets, the CDs, even the top-of-the-range power drill set I knew he’d wanted, or grunted some sort of thanks, always staring at that ruddy envelope.
xxxSo I finally picked it up.  My hands were trembling and he had that grim smile again as he watched me open it.  And take out the tickets.  Two to see Robbie Williams.  My favourite singer.  My teenage crush.  The best seats in the house.  For the gig he’d said was sold out before he could book.  Live, in a one-off, rare visit to the Symphony Hall.  Two blocks away from the La Mancha tapas bar.  On December the sixteenth, the night of our romantic fucking opening-early-specially fucking pre-Christmas fucking meal!

xxxSo it’s manslaughter right, not actual murder?  Can I plead diminished responsibilty or something?  No jury would …?  No?
xxxI don’t suppose I can even get the money back on the drill, what with the damaged box and all the blood.   Sorry, I’m still not really thinking straight, am I?  Anyway, thanks for coming down to the cells.  I know you’re  the duty solicitor but sorry you had to get called out for this sort of thing.  It’s supposed to be such a special day, after all.
xxxAnd … Merry Christmas, I suppose.