“….on the 13th day of Christmas my true love gave to me…” Hic! - sorry, forgive me.
Of course there aren’t 13 days in Christmas. There are – hic! – 67. And the 12th day wasn’t yesterday! That was the 67th. Yes, the - hic! - 6th of January is now the 67th day of Christmas.
It doesn’t really – hic! – scan, does it? “On the 67th day of Christmas my true love gave - hic! - to me…etc….” Nawh! Anyhow, Christmas, as we now know it, begins - hic! - after Halloween, on November 1st every year.
(Editor: “Mr McGarry, could you please remove that `hic’ tic. It’s irritating.
I went to the cinema to see Small Things Like These. By the time I emerged I had concluded the film was crap
Jack Reynor: ‘We were in two minds between eloping or going the whole hog but we got married in Wicklow with about 220 people’
Forêt restaurant review: A masterclass in French classic cooking in Dublin 4
Charlene McKenna: ‘Within three weeks, I turned 40, had my first baby and lost my father’
Me: Sir. Mr Editor Sir….giveusaminute. It’ll make sense….soon...
Ed: Mr McGarry, were you drinking?
Me: Sir, me? Moi? Not I, Sir!.…well not for at least 10/12 hours…
Ed:…hmmm....along with it then.)
Dear reader, as I was saying before being so rude..er..kindly interrupted about this being the 67th day of Christmas…but, let’s not talk about that.
I’ve been on an almighty binge (Don’t tell Mr Ed. What? No, he’s not a talking horse. Smart ass!).
Since January 1st I’ve been at the longest wake in history. One of the traditional Irish variety with loads of drink, craic and all those things that are good for you but banned. (Shhh!)
We even…and promise not to repeat this to a soul…we prepared an effigy of the corpse. We had agreed “to do a Rasputin on him”.
December 30th, after all, was the 106th anniversary of ‘putin’s alleged death. So we poisoned, shot and attempted to drown “him”, to no noticeable effect, as with Rasputin.
Mad, of course. But have you ever drunk poitin?
We were marking the death of unloved 2022 – the corpse referred to above. And if – hic! – our “celebrations” may have gone somewhat over the top, who can blame anyone who survived the year that gave us that new word permacrisis?
It “gifted” us the Ukraine crisis, the refugee crisis, a worsening housing crisis, the cost-of-living crisis, the climate crisis, the Covid-19 crisis, the energy crisis, the A&E crisis, the private schools’ child abuse crisis, and whatever crisis you’re having yourself.
So long, farewell, bad cess to you 2022 – hic! – .
Isn’t 2023 a beautiful baby!
Wake from Old English wacu, ”to sit up at night with a corpse”.
