So, another failure of a Christmas has come and gone; a new year has been begrudgingly let in the house, but not after it’s wiped its feet. January is here: frosty mice, frozen fur and a whopping great mantrap lying unsprung in the garden after another failed attempt to catch Father Christmas. My ex-wives persist in bugging me for their maintenance, my mother persists in buying me tasteless woollen knitwear and my employees continue to beg me for their paycheques. What is this month but a time for grasping and whining?
I had a wonderful Christmas, now that you ask: the butcher’s down the road doesn’t know what hit it. I had turkey, pigs in blankets, stuffing, partridge, swan, the full deal. Winston the postman had a potato and a roast parsnip and was grateful. We took enough port and amphetamines to keep us happily balanced till New Year’s, then did it all again and spent the next fortnight sleeping the whole thing off. Now I’ve woken up to find the sky’s fallen in.
So, the big stories: snow – there’s nothing for it, I’m just going to have to whack out the flamethrower and burn my way to the off-licence. I spent today making myself an army of snowmen, and together we invaded the office block opposite. Gave the desk cattle in there quite a shock, I can tell you.
Belfast is sliding further into anarchy. You know what they need? A nice bunch of roses – impregnated with sleeping gas. Everyone feels better with thirteen fluid ounces of Methoxypropane coursing through their bloodstream.