A Christmas Waiting Story: the Walrus’s tale.

I am The Walrus. Goo goo g’ joob I hear you tenors mutter but no amount of back chat is going to detract me from the fact that I am indisputably The Walrus. Not a walrus, not any old walrus but The Walrus. So listen up, pay attention and learn fast. We’ve got three hours to turn you miserable lot into a golden angelic host of Serabim and Seraphim so there’s no time to waste.

I am the egg man, you are the egg men. Yes, you at the back, keep up. No, it’s not red men, blue men or any other sort of men other than of the egg variety.

Altogether now. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. Ladies: keep it together please, this is no time to query the theological nature of the carol. Just accept it for what it is. Pardon? I have no idea what it is, I am just The Walrus, I know nothing other than how to whip together a scratch choir in the time it takes to shake a llama’s tale.

Now, a tempo please. Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come. That’s right you basses.. Mind the accidentals… Steady now… Enunciate Mr. McCartney, you’re not in a bloody grunge band now lad.. Cor-por-ation tee-shirt, stu-pid bloo-dy Tues-day. Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long. Do I really have to spell it out for you?

Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog’s eye. What’s the matter Mrs Lennon? Distasteful? When have Christmas carols ever been anything but distasteful? They’re all about global warming, homeless men and illegitimate births so a dash of dead dogs eye has nothing on Good King Wenceslas.

Ok. Mrs Piano, hang back and get yourself a mince pie or something. Let’s just tap this out slowly on our knees shall we, just to feel it before we hurtle our way through it. Wait for it, wait for it… 2 3 4 and Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess, excellent lets go for it boy you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down. Superb, superb.

Ok ok ok let’s hold it there. Mrs Harrison, what seems to be the problem with you and Mrs Starkey? No Mrs Harrison, I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. That’s right, egg men. I don’t know, just use your imagination.

Semolina pilchard, climbing up the Eiffel Tower. They’re breath marks Mr Geldorf, they’re telling you where to breath. Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna. Hold it, hold it. And your problem Mr Bono is what? No problem? Are you sure? Are you quite sure? Are you really really sure that you’d rather not be standing up here being me? Being the Walrus and master of all you survey? Quite sure? Ok, well shut it from now on. And 2 3 4 Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.

I am the egg man, they are the egg men.
I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob.
And coda, once more with feeling.
Goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob g’goo.
Yes, even you Mr Bono.
Goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob g’goo.
Oompah oompah stick it up your jumper
Goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob g’goo
.Goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob g’goo.
Job done ladies and gents. This is your half hour call. Mr Bono – I need to see you in my vestry please. Now.

A Christmas Waiting Story: the Ant’s trail.

I am an ant and I move in mysterious ways. Not only am I an ant, but you are an ant too, we are ants and they are ants in case you were wondering. In fact I am not so much an ant but Ant: you too are not so much an Ant but Ant; we and they too are Ant.

I / we weave my / our trails up sunny hillside and down dusky dale, up and under fishy pet shop and over and through derelict railway station, trailing my / our scent in all corners, leaving no hoof unsullied by our preying antennae, no goldfish bowl unrimmed by our Antness, no detritus left uninspected by our unending inquisitiveness.

I / we taste all around me / us and glue together all the disparate voices and noises with our invisible slime trails, visible only to those who have Ant-Spectacles, obtainable from all top quality high street opticians.

We’re weaving a tapestry of Ant glue across the earth, ready for the moment to catch you when you fall and then spring you back up on your feet, waiting for your next steps in Ant World.

A Christmas Waiting Story: the Pigeon’s tail.

I am a pigeon, a regular boy pigeon who jauntily hops along railway platforms looking for the next bird to pull.. Ooo there she is, hang on lady, just let me get a bit closer… dammit, she’s flown the coop.

Never mind, here I am, a regular boy pigeon who’s got a bit on the side, a bit back at base, a bit on the front and several bits of fluff scattered around this derelict railway station just waiting for me to fluff their tails, coo sweet nothings at them all night long and then hop off before the going goes from good to soft and from soft to swamp-like.

Cos as a fully paid up boy pigeon I am not partial to birdy ladies who coo and sweat and then angrily swish their tail feathers when little ol’ me tells ’em that the time has come for me to fulfil my potential and explore new lands and lady birdies, they don’t like it a bit… Ooo there’s another one now… ‘Ello darlin’, how can I be ‘elpin’ you… Just stand still for a minute, yeh that’s it, look away now and I’ll be right with you… Dammit, she’s flown the coop again.

But no matter. I shall saunter myself over to the nearest waste paper receptacle and have a good old rummage around the chip cartons, cardboard coffee cups and discarded Christmas cards to see what I can salvage before the long cold night sets in and then seek some refuge in whoever takes my fancy.

And what do ya know? Lucky old Billy Goat Gruff here has struck lucky for once in his boy pigeon life. A full nine inch rotting frankfurter, a packet of Golden Wonder and a small hip flask of lemon myrtle syrup. God only knows how that lot got here but who am I to wonder about the whys and wherefores. I’ve waited for this moment for years and shall waste no time gathering my finds under my substantial wing span and shield them from those praying-mantis sea-gulls.

Cos mark my words, those gulls are evil bastards. They’ll rip your throat out soon as squawk at you. And if they think for a second that you’ve struck lucky in the jetsam and flotsam of human existence, they’re all over you, beating their wings at you, stabbing and screeching in your pigeon face until you beg them to stop but it’ll be no use unless you surrender your finds to them, no questions asked.

But no this time, no siree. Those fuckwit albatross bastard offspring ain’t frightening me away from my gleaming stash of Rotting Frankfurter, Golden Wonder and Myrtle Syrup. If they think they can scare me away then they’ve got another thing coming to their razor sharp yellow spotted beaks. Cos this find is mine and I ain’t sharing it with any gin swilling cigar smoking anchovy farting sea bird who’s lost his way and is taking it out on some poor hapless boy pigeon who’s only trying to plot his way through his inconsequential life with the occasional assistance of a… Ooo steady on lady, there you go, just one minute... Dammit she’s flown the coop again.

No, this time me and my collection of goodies are going somewhere safe and sound, free from the prying eyes of those thieving vultures and other lesser spotted vermin who take an unhealthy interest in my hard fought collections. Somewhere they’ll never guess in a trillion years. This way my lovelies, just come this way with your friendly old boy pigeon, steady now...

A Christmas Waiting Story: the Goldfish’s tale.

I am a goldfish and we get a very bad press. There are those who accuse us having very short memories; there are those who accuse us of… Well, I forget what it is they accuse us of but it’s not especially complimentary.

But what those fish forget in their accusations about our suspect collective memory is that we have compensations which can only be described in the written word because were we to rely on our oral story telling skills we would fail miserably because… Well, we would just because. I forget why.

These compensations I refer to: they sometimes beggar the imagination. They take all shapes and sizes; they surprise, shock and entertain in equal measure.

Today for example I was swimming around and around looking for something that was hugely important at the time when quite by chance, out of the blue and completely unexpectedly I saw myself, staring at myself, mouth slightly agape.

This was a revelatory moment as I don’t remember ever having had that experience before. Had I ever seen myself before? What was it that had brought about this moment of enlightenment? What did it all mean?

‘No’; ‘no idea’ and ‘not a clue’ were the only answers I could summon up and it seemed I would be destined to wait a long, long time before I would be able to figure it all out.

I do recollect though that the vision of loveliness that faced me quite took me aback. I hadn’t realised quite how lovely a colour orange could be. I hadn’t appreciated how gossamer thin my magnificent tail was. I was astounded to see me floating effortlessly: bobbing slightly yes, but still maintaining a steady float. How did I do that I mused?

For a few moments I was one happy goldfish, although it wasn’t too long before that feeling passed and I settled back into a vague sense of dissatisfaction with my lot in life. Quite why, I don’t know. I don’t even know if I knew at some point but then forgot. Perhaps that was the root of my disappointment with myself.

I firmly resolved to address this seeping unease as soon as I could and certainly before I next encountered myself and my awesome loveliness.

And then… Now, where was I?

A Christmas Waiting Story: the Llama’s tale.

I am a llama, currently sat on a hillside, soaking up the warmth from what’s left of the setting winter sun. It’s not unpleasurable. In the neighbouring field a few ragged old sheep graze their days away, oblivious to their impending fate. It must be one of the benefits of being a sheep: you’re permanently oblivious to what’s around the next corner.

Being a llama however requires you to be in a permanent state of alertness. It’s why our necks are so long: we’re always looking for the next opportunity, the next big deal, the next time the farmer wanders in to the neighbouring field to herd together his oblivious sheep so that they can be carted off to the nearest abattoir. If sheep had longer necks and spent more time looking up into space rather than staring down at their feet, they might be a little less oblivious, a bit more alert and more likely to survive the next visit by the machete wielding farmer.

Today’s a case in point. I’m sat here, soaking up the warmth, stretching my neck and Lo and Behold what do we have drop down from the heavens? Only a host of bloody golden guardian angels blowing their trumpets, strumming their zithers and creating a God Almighty din. The sheep – naturally knowing nothing of what is happening – continue to graze amongst the heavenly host, three of whom are gathered around a satnav. They’re clearly lost; they scratch their heads, twizzle their beards and gesticulate at each other in a bit of a temper. One of them snaps his zither in two over the back of one of his compadres. There’s a bit of a guardian angel fracas.

The sheep remain oblivious to all the commotion apart from a couple of the brighter ones who look up and run off, startled at the sight of quarrelling guardian angels wielding acoustic instruments at each other.

Me, I’m sat here in the warmth of the setting winter sun, waiting for the noise to die down. Once they come to their collective angelic senses, I’ll tell them what they want to know.