I have been inundated with a request to reprint the recurring Christmas nightmare described below.
On the night after Christmas when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,
Silk stockings were still in their Brown Thomas pack,
The wife planned as usual to take them right back
And exchange them for strong heavy-denier tights,
A more sensible choice for these cold winter nights.
Myself I was nestled all snug in my bed
While credit card nightmares revolved in my head
With seasonal greetings so tender and sweet
The most touching of all: "Did you keep the receipt?"
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
"Relax" the wife muttered, "don't get so excited,
It's just one more party to which you're not invited."
But the next thing I heard was a tap at the door,
And downstairs I found there were neighbours galore,
Who explained that their party had run out of beer,
Which took all the gloss off their seasonal cheer.
Their singing and dancing had lost all its rhythm
And the drink that they had was all on them, not wythm,
So they wished me a loud "Happy Christmas to you!", and could I help out with a bottle or two?
Now I've found as a fact that wherever I roam,
The virtue of charity begins in the home,
And I just couldn't find in my heart to refuse,
So I brought them all in and I broke out the booze.
They all cheered and insisted I wasn't the worst
For no fate could be crueller than dying of thirst.
So we partied all night and we drank the house dry,
After which we had breakfast, a huge Ulster fry.
Then they all staggered off and I crawled up to bed,
With the vaguest of notions as to where was my head.
When I pulled off my clothes it was only to find
That my legs and pyjamas were all intertwined
As I foosthered and groped, the wife lifted her head.
"You're up very early this morning," she said.
There was nothing to do but put back on my clothes
And go downstairs again - where my blood duly froze
At the scene in the kitchen, the mess on the floor,
Not to mention two neighbours asleep by the door!
Well, I gathered the bottles and cans in a sack
And dropped Harry and Joe in a skip out the back.
Then I sneaked back upstairs but was trapped on the landing
For something had clicked in the wife's understanding,
And she asked me a question that made my heart sink,
Well buoyed up as it was by an ocean of drink.
"You haven't forgotten, my sweet honey-bunch,
That my mother and father are coming to lunch?
And you promised to cook that nice dish of roast pheasant
From the recipe book that you got as my present?"
I could sense myself poised on the edge of a row
The very last thing that I wanted just now,
So I just had to do what a man's gotta do -
From the depths of a hangover serve cordon bleu.
If you ask me how lunch went
I'd have to say, well sir
I winged it myself with a few Alka Seltzer,
But there with the in-laws as I toyed with my plate,
The last drops of my energy I could feel dissipate,
To keep my eyes open I just wasn't able
And I saw myself slipping right under the table,
But I managed to croak, as I slid out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
bglacken@irish-times.ie