Christmas is a time for spreading cheer and goodwill to all; I hate it. It has some positives though as you can get away with behaving like a demented halfwit and simply blame the festive beers.
And just when you think you could actually survive as an alcoholic and live in soiled pyjamas for the rest of your days, soon it is time to pull down the tree and tear up the cards convincing yourself that next year you will send some back in return.
If I am totally honest, I find Christmas trees pointless; after all do you you sit there all night thinking “nice lights mate…must invite somebody round”.
Occasionally, “friends” have managed to get the keys to my place and sneak in with some monstrosity in an effort to promote festive cheer, generally at the same time as I am enjoying it round at The Scruffy.
On my return I’m faced with the glistening relic of some Nordic forest already shedding piles of pine, threatening to choke the Dyson and force me to the New Year sales to fight with the chavs.
The Jolly Green Giant
My old neighbours always went for the biggest tree you could find. One year, they plumped for the tree version of The Jolly Green Giant. Lit up at night, I am sure it confused the pilots coming in to land at nearby Leeds Bradford Airport and consumed enough energy to warrant its own sub-station.
No matter how spectacular it was soon it would be coming down again for a trip to the local tip.
It was then that I had a moment of madness and offered to dispose of the giant myself; it seemed cruel to simply mash this giant up without one last stance in the sun so to speak and I had a plan.
My Day As A Tree Surgeon
Big Al has a sizeable garden but bereft of anything but a scruffy patch of grass. What a lovely surprise if, on his return from work with the now exiled Mrs Hardy, they were to find a new garden feature in the form of the Jolly Green Giant complete with a bit of residual tinsel as well.
So, given it was another quiet day in the world of Barclays Bank, I set off with tree over my shoulder and shovel in hand on the short journey to its new home.
Walking down the road I explained my plans to several neighbours who clearly thought I’d been in The Scruffy all afternoon.
Indeed, I think I hastened the premature exit from this Earth of dear old Donald who could barely stand up laughing at the thought of Mr and Mrs H coming home to find a giant Christmas tree in the middle of their prized scrubland.
Wiping away tears from his ruddy cheeks, he had to hold on to the gatepost to steady himself before going for a calming pint.
On arrival I was greeted by an unexpected accomplice in the form of nutty neighbour, Millie, a half-Austrian octogenarian with a mean sense of humour.
She almost planted it herself, giddy as a schoolgirl, manically stamping down the ground to secure the giant tree muttering “yah zis is so funny!”.
Surprise!
By this time it was past four in the afternoon and darkness was closing in; we were worried that the surprise may be spoiled by the onset of dusk.
It was time for a well earned cuppa and to hide the shovel just in case my friends were not as delighted as I was at the vision of an eight foot, half dead Christmas tree in their garden and sought a murder weapon.
Evening passed without any contact from down the road and I sensed that this was perhaps a tad ungrateful given the efforts of Millie and myself; come the morning though and all hell broke loose.
According to Big Al, they had got home late and simply pulled the curtains, failing to notice the tinsel glowing in the dark. The following morning he had pulled back the kitchen curtains, taken a step back, rubbed his eyes and stared out at the tree with disbelief.
“Love…come look at this…you’ll never believe it!” he had yelled up the stairs.
Dutifully Mrs H, expecting Big Al to have Sky+ ready to demonstrate the weekend’s best goal, wandered downstairs, somewhat irritably. Sure enough, there it was an enormous Christmas tree right on the middle of their garden.
“What is it?” she asked laying bare her state education for all to see.
“It’s a ****ing Christmas tree you daft cow” retorted Big Al, not starting the marital day off on a harmonious note.
“Who could have planted it?” asked a bewildered Mrs H.
“Bastard” he exclaimed “I’m going to kill Willy!”
Special Branch
Believing in the principle of innocent until proven guilty, Mrs H sprang to my defence and suggested that the gallows should not be erected just yet. After all, I had had no Christmas tree as usual and had not been seen for days.
As if to further prove my innocence she rang my mobile and, fortunately for me, I was just pulling off the M1 so avoided sending the company car into the central reservation, unable to see for tears of laughter.
She explained that Big Al was now in a demented rage walking in circles around the tree like a giant Red Indian on a war dance.
“He’s sure it was you but you were working yesterday weren’t you?” she pleaded hoping to avoid a murder in the neighbourhood.
“He’s hopping up and down and just accused the lads from British Gas down the road of doing it…they look like they might stick him down the hole they are digging. One of them suggested that he might want to call Special Branch.”
Whodunnit?
Tears were dropping down my face as I tried to purchase my breakfast from a very confused assistant in the service station. Mrs H then went on to explain that Big Al was now trying to follow a trail of pine needles up the road despite the fact that they were now both late for work.
The thought of a greying, eighteen stone bloke with a bad back bent over on all fours like a giant sniffer dog was too much to take. I protested my innocence and even suggested it might be a feature of the garden but all I could hear was Big Al and threats of bodily violence.
I was unable to understand their lack of gratitude; the tree was sadly consigned to the shredder and Big Al suggested I might follow. All there was left was a hole in the ground in the middle of the scrubland.
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