Advent 1955

The Advent wind begins to stir
With sea-like sounds in our Scotch fir,
It's dark at breakfast, dark at tea,
And in between we only see
Clouds hurrying across the sky
And rain-wet roads the wind blows dry
And branches bending to the gale
Against great skies all silver pale
The world seems travelling into space,
And travelling at a faster pace
Than in the leisured summer weather
When we and it sit out together,
For now we feel the world spin round
On some momentous journey bound -
Journey to what? to whom? to where?
The Advent bells call out 'Prepare,
Your world is journeying to the birth
Of God made Man for us on earth.'
 
And how, in fact, do we prepare
The great day that waits us there -
For the twenty-fifth day of December,
The birth of Christ? For some it means
An interchange of hunting scenes
On coloured cards. And I remember
Last year I sent out twenty yards,
Laid end to end, of Christmas cards
To people that I scarcely know -
They'd sent a card to me, and so
I had to send one back. Oh dear!
Is this a form of Christmas cheer?
Or is it, which is less surprising,
My pride gone in for advertising?
The only cards that really count
Are that extremely small amount
From real friends who keep in touch
And are not rich but love us much
Some ways indeed are very odd
By which we hail the birth of God.
 
We raise the price of things in shops,
We give plain boxes fancy tops
And lines which traders cannot sell
Thus parcell'd go extremely well
We dole out bribes we call a present
To those to whom we must be pleasant
For business reasons. Our defence is
These bribes are charged against expenses
And bring relief in Income Tax
Enough of these unworthy cracks!
'The time draws near the birth of Christ'.
A present that cannot be priced
Given two thousand years ago
Yet if God had not given so
He still would be a distant stranger
And not the Baby in the manger.

                        (John Betjeman)

Adapted from 'Christmas in NW1' by Alan Bennett

Scene: The home of Simon and Joanna Stringalong. Simon is on the telephone. Joanna is on the gin. Neither is very happy.

Simon: She must be out.

Joanna: A schoolteacher? Where?...Let it ring.

Simon: …she could be anywhere - oh hello. Is that Jessica's teacher? This is Simon, Jessica's father. I'm sorry if I'm ringing at an impossibly late hour….

Joanna: It's only half past eight!

Simon: …I just hope I'm not interrupting a candlelit dinner a deux. But what I'm ringing about, Miss…Pru. (To Joanna) She says I've to call her Pru.

Joanna: Pru!

Simon: What I'm ringing about, Pru, is that we've just put little Jessica to bed in what quite honestly was a very distressed condition. She came home from school with this letter…

Joanna: Letter!

Simon: …about the nativity play. All pretty straightforward. I probably wouldn't even have read it…

Joanna: No.

Simon: …only, Joanna, my wife, gave it to me so I glanced through it to see what part Jessica was playing. But I couldn't find her. I couldn't find her at all. It was only when I got right to the very end, the bottom of the bill as it were, that I came across her name; 'Pauline Greenwood, Kevin Strutt, Charlotte Hindle and Jessica Stringalong - Icicles'. Now Joanna, my wife, and I may be getting hold of the wrong end of the stick, Pru, and it may be these icicles have a sizable part to play in the action, but judging from the billing it doesn’t look like it.

Joanna: What do these icicles do?

Simon: Sorry, that was my wife. The icicles do what? They drip. I see. (To Joanna) They drip.

Joanna: Oh!

Simon: Do they drip verbally? No? Ah. What is worrying Mrs Stringalong and myself, Pru, is that in last year's show Jessica had quite an interesting part as…

Joanna: A Bethlehem housewife.

Simon: A Bethlehem housewife. We hear a lot about falling educational standards and…now we find that last year Jessica played a housewife and this year she just drips. What kind of progress is that?

Joanna: Jessica had a long speech last year.

Simon: Last year she had quite a bit to say. What was it, Joanna?

Joanna: "You can't move in the middle of Bethlehem. I understand there's not a bed to be had."

Simon: "You can't move in the middle of Bethlehem. I understand there's not a bed to be had." And there was a bit more (and I'm not sure this didn't come off the top of Jessica's little head): "Next thing you know they'll be sleeping in the stables." That was about the gist of it…Quite an interesting part, with a significant piece of plot-laying. Which Jessica did superbly. Very clear. Very sharp. "You can't move in the middle of Bethlehem. I understand there's not a bed to be had. Next thing you know they'll be sleeping in the stables." And this year she just drips. It's so disappointing….We….were looking forward to this Yuletide to see what she made of a more taxing role. I'm sure she'll throw herself heart and soul into the part.

Joanna: But why isn't there more of a part for her to throw herself heart and soul into? Pru.

Simon: My wife again, I'm afraid. She's a bit upset, yes. I imagine from the cast list you are filling out the gospel story a little. Icicles hanging on the wall, Dick the Shepherd blowing his nail and so on?....Now who else is in the gospel story?

Joanna: Who is playing Mary?

Simon: Who is playing Mary as a matter of interest? Tracey Broadbent!

Joanna: Tracey Broadbent!

Simon: Yes we do know Tracey as a matter of fact…I have a very vivid memory of Tracey as Herod in last year's offering….Let's get back to the icicle, the part for which you've got her pencilled in. What is it hanging from? I see…I'm not sure that we are totally in agreement with that, Pru. Mrs Stringalong's father is quite prominent in wholesale floor coverings and I think we would feel that if Jessica was going to be involved in making a direct political statement, even if it's only by dripping in silence, then we might have to keep her at home. No, Pru. We are not just talking about a nativity play. We are talking about the most precious thing in the world, a child's mind.

Joanna: Forget it.

Simon: No, I'm sorry. That is final. Pickets? What sort of pickets? (To Joanna) There's a part as a picket….

BC : AD

This was the moment when Before
Turned into After, and the future's
Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.
 
This was the moment when nothing
Happened. Only dull peace
Sprawled boringly over the earth.
 
This was the moment when even energetic Romans
Could find nothing better to do
Than counting heads in remote provinces.
 
And this was the moment
When a few farm workers and three
Members of an obscure Persian sect.
Walked haphazard by starlight straight
Into the kingdom of heaven

                       (U.A. Fanthorpe)

50 Words For Snow

(This year, Kate Bush has released not one but two new albums, the second of which features Stephen Fry listing the eponymous fifty words over a plodding beat, which Bush cheers him on from the sidelines with "Come on man, you've got forty-four to go...". Many of the words here were made up for the song, but some are real. Can you work out which is which?)

1. Drifting
2. Twisting
3. Whiteout
4. Blackbird Braille
5. Wenceslasaire
6. Avalanche
7. Swans-a-melting
8. Deamondi-pavlova
9. Eiderfalls
10. Santanyeroofdikov
11. Stellatundra
12. Hunter's dream
13. Fallop'njoompoola
14. Zebranivem
15. Spangladasha
16. Albadune
17. Hironocrashka
18. Hooded-wept
19. Phlegm de neige
20. Mountainsob
21. Anklebreaker
22. Erase-o-dust
23. Shnamistoflopp'n
24. Terrablizza
25. Whirlissimo
26. Vanilla swarm
27. Icyskidski
28. Robber's veil
29. Creaky-creaky
30. Psychohail
31. Whippoccino
32. Shimmerglisten
33. Zhivagodamarbletash
34. Sorbetdeluge
35. Sleetspoot'n
36. Melt-o-blast
37. Slipperella
38. Boomerangablanca
39. Groundberry down
40. Meringuerpeaks
41. Creme-bouffant
42. PeDtaH 'ej chiS qo'
43. Deep'nhidden
44. Bad for trains
45. Shovelcrusted
46. Anechoic
47. Blown from polar fur
48. Vanishing world
49. Mistraldespair
50. Snow

Extract from "The Other Side of the Dale"

(If you don't know Gervase Phinn, he took a school inspector's job in rural Yorkshire in the mid 1980s, and wrote a series of books about his exploits. Think James Herriott, with eight-year-olds. This passage is an account of an incident that took place at the end of the first term of Gervase's inspecting career.)

I arrived at the small Roman Catholic primary school at Netherfoot the week before the school broke up for the holidays. I had volunteered to narrate the Christmas story to the infants but never reached the end. Dominic, a massively freckled boy with spiky ginger hair that stood up like a lavatory brush, positioned himself at my feet on the small carpet in the reading corner. To say he was hyperactive would be an understatement. He was lively and interested and his questions and comments came fast and furious.

I began: "It was cold and dark that December night many, many, many years ago, and on the hillside, where the icy winds whistled through the dark trees - "
"I can whistle," said Dominic, puckering up his lips.
"And the grass was frosted and stiff with cold - "
"Do you want to hear me whistle?"
"Not now, I don't," I said, "perhaps later." I continued with the story. "Matthew, the little shepherd boy, huddled in a dry hollow with his sheep to keep warm. The cold winter wind blew about his ears, and high above him the dark sky was studded with millions of tiny silver stars - "
"Miss Stirling gives you a star if you do good work," said Dominic.
It wasn't that sort of star," I said. "These were like tiny diamonds sparkling in the darkness. This was the night that a very special baby was to be born."
"Jesus."
"That's right, it was Jesus."
 "I've heard this story already!" exclaimed Dominic. "I know what happens."
"We all know what happens, Dominic," I responded, "and we are going to hear what happens again."
"Why?"
"Because we are."

At this point, I caught sight of the priest quietly entering the classroom and positioning himself unobtrusively at the back.
"Now, very soon a very special baby would be born and his name, as Dominic has already told us, would be Jesus."
"Was he induced?" asked Dominic.
"Pardon?"
"Was baby Jesus induced?"
"No, he wasn't induced."
"I was induced."
"Well, baby Jesus wasn't induced."
"How do you know?"
"Well, I know because it was a long, long time ago and they didn't induce babies then."
"Why?"
"Just listen to the story, Dominic, and then we will all find out what happens."
"But I know what happens," he replied.
At this point, a little girl, with long blonde plaits and an angelic face, raised her hand.
"What does seduced mean?"

"Oh dear," I sighed wearily, catching sight of the priest and the teacher attempting to stem their laughter. "I will tell you another time - when you are older. Now let's get on with the story. And then amidst the tiny diamonds that sprinkled the dark sky there appeared a great shining star, a star that sparkled and gleamed with such a wondrous brilliant light that - "
"How much did he weigh?" asked Dominic.
"Who?"
"The baby Jesus?"
"I've not got to the baby Jesus yet."
"I was an eight-pounder. My grannie said I was like a plucked turkey when - "
"Dominic!" I said very quietly and slowly. "Now just listen to the story. You are spoiling it for all the other children."
"I know how this story ends," he replied undaunted.
"Then why don't you come out here and tell us all, Dominic," I said, throwing in the towel.

And so he did. Like a seasoned actor taking centre stage he came out to the front of the class and recounted the Christmas story in such a simple, animated and confident way that we all listened in rapt silence.

"Once upon a time there was a man named Joseph and a lady called Mary and they were friends and they played games together and they had fun. Then they had a wedding and after the wedding they went home and then they had some lunch and a drink and then they set off for Bethlem on their honeymoon and they went on a donkey. When they got to Bethlem there was no room at the inn so they had to stay in a barn round the back and then Mary had a little baby and she called it Jesus and she put him in a manger and all the animals were around him and the big star shone up in the sky and then the shepherds all came and then the three kings came and they all gave him presents because it was his birthday and baby Jesus had plenty of milk because there were lots of cows about."

There was silence at the end of Dominic's story, then he looked at me and said, "OK?"
"OK," I replied. "Very OK."

On my way out that morning the little girl with the blonde plaits and the angelic face approached me shyly. "I liked that story," she said quietly.
"Did you?" I replied. "I'm glad. Thank you for telling me."
"But Dominic tells it better than you do. Happy Christmas."

Monsignor Leonard, who had been watching and listening, placed his hand gently on my arm. "There is an old proverb, Gervase, which goes like this: 'Here's to the child and all he has to teach us.'"

Wuthering Heights

The horizons ring me like faggots,
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.

There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.

The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.

I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people and the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.

                        (Sylvia Plath)

From "A Christmas Carol"

It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrification of a hearth had never known in Scrooge’s time, or Marley’s, or for many and many a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking–pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince–pies, plum–puddings, barrels of oysters, red–hot chestnuts, cherry–cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth–cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty’s horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door.
      ‘Come in!’ exclaimed the Ghost. ‘Come in! and know me better, man!’
      Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and though the Spirit’s eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.
      ‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,’ said the Spirit. ‘Look upon me!’
      Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.
‘You have never seen the like of me before!’ exclaimed the Spirit.
     ‘Never,’ Scrooge made answer to it.
      ‘Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years?’ pursued the Phantom.
      ‘I don’t think I have,’ said Scrooge. ‘I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?’
      ‘More than eighteen hundred,’ said the Ghost.
      ‘A tremendous family to provide for!’ muttered Scrooge.
      The Ghost of Christmas Present rose.
      ‘Spirit,’ said Scrooge submissively, ‘conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now. To–night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it.’
      ‘Touch my robe!’
      Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast.
      Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snow–storms.
      The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and waggons; furrows that crossed and re–crossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off; and made intricate channels, hard to trace in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts’ content. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.
      For, the people who were shovelling away on the housetops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball—better–natured missile far than many a wordy jest—laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers’ shops were still half open, and the fruiterers’ were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot–bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown–faced, broad–girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung–up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers’ benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people’s mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squat and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant–blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement.
      The Grocers’! oh, the Grocers’! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers–on feel faint and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly–decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humour possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.
      But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of bye–streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers’ shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood with Scrooge beside him in a baker’s doorway, and taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner–carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humour was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was!

Christmas

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.
The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
‘The church looks nice’ on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says ‘Merry Christmas to you all’.
And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.
And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children’s hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say ‘Come!’
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true? And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,
A Baby in an ox’s stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?
And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare —
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

                        (John Betjeman)

 

Extracts from "A Child's Christmas In Wales"

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen. 

"Get back to the Presents." 
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why." 

"Go on the Useless Presents." 
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons."

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements. 
"I bet people will think there's been hippos." 
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?" 
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his tail." 
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?" 

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?" 
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town. 
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said. "
Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading. 
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that. 

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

The St. Stephen's Day Murders

(Thea Gilmore does a mean version of this, duetting - of all people - with Mark Radcliffe. A live version is available here.)

I knew of two sisters whose name it was Christmas 
And one was named Dawn of course, the other one was named Eve 
I wonder if they grew up hating the season 
Of the good will that lasts 'til the Feast of St. Stephen 

For that is the time to eat, drink and be merry 
'Til the beer is all spilled and the whiskey is flowed 
And the whole family tree you neglected to bury 
Are feeding their faces until they explode 

There'll be laughter and tears over Tia Marias 
Mixed up with that drink made from girders 
And it's all we've got left as you draw your last breath 
And it's nice for the kids as you finally get rid of them 
In the St Stephen's Day Murders 

Uncle is garglin' a heart-breaking air 
While the babe in his arms pulls out all that remains of his hair 
And we're not drunk enough yet to dare criticize 
The great big kipper tie he's about to baptize 

His gin-flavoured whispers and kisses of sherry 
His best crimble shirt flung out over the shop 
While the lights from the Christmas tree blow up the telly 
His face closes in like an old cold pork chop 

And the carcass of the beast left over from the feast 
May still be found haunting the kitchen 
And there's life in it yet we may live to regret 
When the ones that we poisoned stop twitchin' 

There'll be laughter and tears over Tia Marias 
Mixed up with that drink made from girders 
And it's all we've got left as you draw your last breath 
And it's nice for the kids as you finally get rid of them 
In the St Stephen's Day Murders

                        (Elvis Costello)

Three Wise Men?

(A friend of mine - a local preacher and C# programmer extraordinaire - wrote this. He's graciously allowed me to include it here. It was first performed in Tilehurst in January 2009.)

To fully appreciate this sketch, you really need to be familiar with the Frost Report sketch on which it's based. To mimic the effect, "King" should be taller than "Astronomer" who should be taller than "Camel herder".

The Joseph Story

This was too big to post here. It's a four-part monologue written and performed by John Dowie (although Tom Conti also did it for a spell). It's an irreverant but heartfelt take on the nativity and crucifixion, weaving the two together into a seamless narrative as seen from the perspective of a bemused Jewish father. Dowie's text practically jumps off the page (the scene with the wise men is inspired) and if you can spare a few minutes it makes for entertaining and thought-provoking reading.

It can be accessed at http://www.scribd.com/doc/2169638/The-Joseph-Story.