07 December 2009
A Christmas Carry On
A Scintillating Seasonal Special Starts To-Day!
‘TWAS THE night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…
Which isn’t quite true to say in this instance. There was plenty of stirring going on beneath my bed-covers, as Lady Chuffbury and I were engaging in a bout of festive fornication in my luxurious bed-chamber. Like some kind of randy Father Christmas, I was readying myself to empty my bulging sacks, when all of a sudden there was a knock upon my chamber door.
“Um…milord?” came my man-servant’s feeble tones through the woodwork. “Are you awake?”
“Gah! Go away, Botter! I’m busy…stuffing a bird!” I shouted in reply.
“But…there’s a gentleman here to see you, my lord…”
“What a kinky devil,” I replied.
“Nothing, Botter! Tell him to go away!”
“Um…but…but he says he has a case for you, milord!”
“‘Tis Christmas, you poltroon! I am on holiday!” I snapped, eager to return to the intercourse in progress.
“He…he says it is rather urgent…”
“Bah!” I moaned, reluctantly disentangling myself from Lady Chuffbury’s inviting form. “I can see I shall have to remove this uninvited guest myself! You stay there, m’dear,” I said to her ladyship. “I have something to give to you, provided you have been good, of course!”
“I fear I have been terribly, deliciously bad, your lordship…” Lady Chuffbury replied, biting her lower lip.
“Oh, you minx!” I beamed, throwing a robe over my handsome body. “You shall get it anyway!”
Lady Chuffbury giggled excitedly, as I swept out of the room in a naturally glorious fashion.
I FOLLOWED my miserable man-servant down the stairs, making it quite clear along the way at how displeased I was to have been called away from my pressing business; to whit, the business of pressing myself upon Lady Chuffbury. Botter apologised a dozen times, but I decided to clout him about the head anyway, just for good measure.
We walked into the drawing-room, where an older man dressed in a rather tatty suit was pacing up and down, muttering to himself. Shocks of grey hair extended from underneath his topper, and his half-moon shaped face bore a ferocious scowl, making him look somewhat like a grumpy comma.
“Ahem!” I coughed politely. “Good evening, sir.”
“Good?” spat the stranger. “And what pray tell is so good about it? No, sir – ’tis a most decidedly awful evening! A most awful evening indeed!”
“Well, my own evening was progressing most favourably, until a few minutes ago.” I said, stepping forward and offering my hand to the sour-countenanced gentleman. “Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action…and you are?…”
“Most unhappy! Most unhappy indeed!” gabbled the old fool, dismissing my hand in a rather rude manner.
“Yes, I’d rather gathered that, sir,” I replied, my patience wearing thinner by the second. “But your name? What is your name, man?”
“Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge,” Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge answered, resuming his frantic pacing.
“Well then, Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge, perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me as to what is so damnably important that you felt the need to come knocking on my door at some ungodly hour on Christmas Eve? CHRISTMAS EVE, no less!”
“Bah! And what is so special about Christmas Eve, hmmm? ‘Tis just another day on the calendar, yet for some reason people feel the need to go about the place with foolish grins upon their faces and ‘Merry Christmases’ tumbling out of their mouths. If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with – “
“Yes, yes. That is all frightfully interesting, I’m sure,” I said, my desire to listen to this old coot moaning far outstripped by my desire to return upstairs and give Lady Chuffbury a damned good rogering. “But pray, what do you actually WANT, Mr. Scrooge? You seem awfully agitated, if I may say so…you look rather like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Ha! ‘Tis funny you should say so, Mr. Likely,” Ebenezer began, looking around him furtively, before lowering his voice to a whisper. “For you see, I was visited by my former business partner tonight.”
“And I hope you had a delightful evening, Mr. Scrooge, but I hardly think that warrants rousing me from my leisure…”
“No! You do not understand! My business partner – Mr. Jacob Marley – has been DEAD for SEVEN YEARS!”
“Well,” I mused. “That must certainly have made conversation rather tricky…”
“He appeared to me in the form of an apparition, sir! Oh! It was horrible! He was wailing and howling, and covered in chains and money-boxes! ‘Twas an awful sight, awful!” Scrooge relayed, his cruel expression softening with fear. “And then…and then he told me that I would be visited by three spirits to-night!”
“By the sounds of it, I would wager you have already been visited by three spirits; most probably whisky, gin and vodka, I shouldn’t wonder!”
“No, no, not a drop has passed my lips, I swear!” Scrooge cried. “I understand your doubt, however. I was sceptical too, at first – I wondered whether this spectre was not the result of some undigested bit of beef, or the by-product of an underdone potato. I said to the ghoul, ‘There is more of gravy than of grave about you!’”
I chuckled inwardly. That was actually rather witty, I had to admit. But not aloud, of course.
“But yet…the whole episode has troubled me greatly…what if these other spirits do appear? What horrors could befall me? What if a similar fate to Jacob’s awaits me?” Scrooge gulped and turned to me, his face as white as a sheet. “And so, driven wild with panic, I now find myself here, seeking your aid…as I understand it, you are considerably skilled at combating dark forces and terrible foes.”
“Indeed I am, Mr. Scrooge, indeed I am! However, it is Christmas, and I have some stockings that need filling as ’twere, so if you shall just excuse me…” I said, turning to make my way back upstairs.
Ebenezer let out an audible sigh. “Need I really mention that my business, Marley & Scrooge, are the firm dealing with your accounting, Mr. Likely? And need I also state that in dealing with your finances I have noted several curious irregularities that might make for interesting reading for the relevant authorities?…”
The barely-concealed threat hung in the air like a particularly foul stench. I cursed silently under my breath, and then spun round to face Mr. Scrooge, a fake grin plastered across my face.
“After careful consideration, I have decided that I’d be DELIGHTED to assist you with your dilemma, Mr. Scrooge!”
“I thought you might,” Scrooge replied, a wry smile creeping across his wretched fizzog like a snake slithering across a slab.
“Well, it is Christmas, after all!” I chirped.
“Humbug!” snapped the miser.
“No thank you,” I nodded, leaving to make my preparations. “I have just eaten.”
- Lord Likely.
Dedicated to Mr. Stuart Munro – Happy Birthday, you hum-bugger!