For Christmas, would you be kind enough to joyfully furnish me with the following gifts… Before you read on, may I remind you that Chrimble is a time where giving is allegedly better than receiving, so you’re getting the good end of the deal here. I know, I’m a kind soul. It is Christmas after all…
1. Please, please, please pretty please can I have a 32 inch waist? I lost mine in the summer of 1982 after inhaling six chocolate bars and a sherbert dip too many and I’ve been unable to locate it ever since. Please don’t heartily scoff that you’re sorry, no can do, that they’ve gone out of fashion or the shop ran out, because that’s a lie. Put it this way, if you do, I can arrange to get Rudolph kneecapped. See, love handles bring out the rancid old bitch in me.
2. Please can I have a golden larynx to sing with? At the moment, mine is like brass. Rusty brass. With mould and bird do-do on it. I sound like a newborn being drowned in a septic tank. Yes, that nice. And I want to sing All I Want For Chrimbo Is You-a-hoo by Mariah ‘the Banshee’ Carey at some kind of festive Karaoke bash. If you could arrange for some form of express delivery (I’m thinking, anytime now would be lovely, if that’s okay), I’d be ever so grateful and will dedicate a Karaoke song to you too. Aren’t you lucky?
3. Can I have my sun tan back whilst you’re dishing out the gifts? I spent six months bronzing my bod this summer. Six months of having to skive off work to languish on my roof terrace in Spain using nothing but tin foil and cooking oil to achieve the desired results. By the time I got home, I looked like something between a Caramac and Ghandi. As I walked through customs upon my return to the UK, an man with a surprisingly high voice (given his robust build) asked me if I had anything to declare. ‘Just my outrageous tan!’ I said in a butch, non-camp manner. Next thing you know, I’m being stripped searched and he’s donning a rubber glove whilst coughing self-consciously. Don’t worry, it wasn’t that bad. In fact, I was grateful – it was the most sex I’d had in six months, if you ignore the time a seemingly rabid dog vomited on my flip flop. Anyway, within a week, I’d stopped walking like John Wayne but my tan had done one. You win some, you lose some. But it’d be lovely if I could start 2008 with a bit of colour. In fact, if you can’t provide a 32 inch waist, why not just make me black? It’s thinning!
4. Can you gift me with the luxury of a good night’s kip? I’m not sleeping too well. Dunno why. And no, I haven’t got a guilty conscience – bar that Bosnian man’s wallet that I need to return at some point soon – I just don’t sleep too well. And when I do, I snore that badly that Hertsmere council are threatening to slap me with an ASBO. This simply cannot happen. I am a pillar of the community. I dispose of my litter responsibly, say please and thank you and drive a sensible car. Do I look like I wear tracksuits and smoke cheap cigarettes? Well then.
5. Tea with Madonna would be nice. In fact, if you sort wish number 2 out, she might take me on as a backing singer. If you grant wish number 3, she might adopt me. I’m cool with either. Whatever is easiest. You know me, I’m no bother.
Thanking you in advance for your uncompromising generosity and kind spirit throughout these special times. Hope you and Mrs. Santa have good one. Don’t work too hard, etc.
Johnny Red Pants xxx