xmas everyday
another story full of christmas traditions, but not quite in the right order
note: Hi. I just wanted to do a quick preface of ‘xmas everyday’, a story centred on the fortunes of one Bob Cratchit the Twelfth, a distant but direct descendant of the one you know from the Charles Dickens tale, ‘A Christmas Carol’.
What you need to know is that Bob is a little better off nowadays than his famous ancestor, but not by much, and his financial situation is still a little too precarious for him to consider himself truly rich.
You see, Bob is part of a neighbourly syndicate that won the first ever Postcode Lottery Xmas Everyday prize draw jackpot, all of which would normally be great news, except it really was Christmas every single day, courtesy of a political prank played by a party going by the name of Wizzard, who won a landslide majority one General Election under the manifesto promise of ‘Christmas Everyday for All Britons’, and were now duly delivering on the transition to a Permanent Christmas Economy in order to show that they were indeed serious about Governing In The National Interest.
This meant that the calendar year was now about 40 days, and in that shortened period, skiing became the most common cause of accidents on Britain’s roads (although the Ski Lobby somehow managed to get e-sleds banned for their menacing motor power), food-wise, Britain became the biggest consumer of panettone globally, and present giving had cannibalised the economy as the only genuine source of economic growth: this year, the big craze amongst children was to get a Smart Dog rather than a real one (mainly because they could be hacked to miaow rather than bark), and Sad Labubu Dolls were in vogue amongst adults, courtesy of a tearjerker of a John Lewis advert.
Bob’s daily winnings from the Postcode Lottery were also potentially assets, and so he became a full-time investor, banking on the right trades in the secondary markets paying off to secure generational wealth for his family. What are Bob’s winnings then, you ask? Simply the gifts sent by one’s true love in the traditional 12 Days of Christmas carol, sent everyday, in sequence, for the rest of Bob’s life.
Anyway, we join Bob on the thousandth day of Christmas, roughly halfway into the ‘Wizzard’ era of politics, where ‘tough decisions’ are about to be made over the hoarding of festive treats.
Apologies to Wizzard, Shakin’ Stevens, Chris Rea, Dmitri Shostakovich, and Charles Dickens, of course. And for the many subpar accents you can hear in the audio recording. I’m afraid it’ll remain this way until I get the actors, to fulfill my vision, haha!
On the thousandth day of Christmas, Bob Cratchit the Twelfth’s true love sent to him 4 calling birds, for the 84th time. He resolved to be more careful with what he wished for in future as he wrestled with the day’s winnings, delivered courtesy of the Postcode Lottery’s Xmas Everyday prize draw. Receiving festive presents was Bob’s lot for life now, so every day was his lucky day, even if it didn’t always feel like it for the rest of his family. Bob was quick to remind them of the hard times they found themselves in a few winters ago, which they only survived because of an unexpectedly large windfall from the stock options owned in his now former boss Mr Coogers’s business.
Speaking of which, Bob’s wife, Mrs Cratchit, remained suspicious of Mr Coogers, who had stayed in regular contact with the family since Bob became a full-time investor. She felt that Mr Coogers was a little too invested in their youngest, Lil Tim, and as a result, wouldn’t let him out of her sight whenever he visited their first floor flat.
Bob felt no such animosity towards his mentor. He was preoccupied with taking advantage of the relative comfort the Cratchits now found themselves in, attempting to leverage his daily rewards into assets that could be exchanged for the sort of wealth that would see them move into a more respectable socioeconomic bracket.
Which prizes could be turned into assets in this economy though? The price of calling birds was almost as volatile as they were endangered. In fact, the market value of almost all Yuletide fowl spiked at first, and then plunged to worthlessness, when the government declared that pigeons would replace them due to shortages supplying the lottery winners with their rightful gains. As the most similar bird in profile to its less illustrious relative, the turtle dove was the exception, thus becoming the first casualty of the so-called Great Pigeon Replacement that speculators had predicted on an episode of the Diary of a CEO podcast a while ago.
Bob followed the speculators, and having noticed that pigeons were by far the most common bird he’d ever seen anywhere he ever went, reckoned they had a point. So, he traded most of his prize-winning stock for scores of them, in the hope that the gamble would pay off when the Postcode Lottery would have to bulk purchase the bird in order to make good on their present-gifting lifetime promise.
Bob had researched the viability of his plans, meaning he had a mate who was an amateur ornithologist who assuredly informed him that pigeons ‘are almost bacterial in their ability to survive extreme weathers and mass extinction events’, having existed as long ago as the last Ice Age. And in this current one, Bob figured it’d only be a matter of time before people would be desperate to have pigeons to eat, as couriers, to game with, even as companions, to stand-in for all the other soon-to-be-extinct birds.
He had to invest in storage space for his flock though, and upkeep, and do the same for the actors playing the human roles of drummers, pipers, lords, ladies, and maids. And so Bob came to learn the hard way that stockpiling is a costly business.
Off he trudged, in the confected snow — brought specially from the disputed Arctic circle region by an opportunistic British government — to store the chirping quartet with all the other livestock in a storage unit run by Harry (aka The Christmas Hoarder).
Bright lights and tinsel hogged Bob’s eye line along the way, plastered over every house, shop front, lamp post, post box, those random cabinets that no one knows what’s in them, sprinkled over traffic lights and road signage, as well as lifesize decals of baby Jesus Christ held by adult Noddy Holder in the mid-distance, and billboards displaying phrases such as ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE’ and ‘IF YOU’RE READING THIS, YOU KNOW IT’S XMAS’, and ‘YOU MAY KNOW IT’S XMAS, BUT AFRICA STILL DOESN’T: LET THEM KNOW IT’S XMAS TIME WITH THE GIFT OF A DONATION TO LIVE AID’, not to mention the fake fir trees on every street corner, draped in baubles, candy canes and nativity figurines, next to gastropubs heaving full of customers tucking into heavily discounted bird-based dishes, while church choirs teamed up with Salvation Army brass bands to busk a twice-daily Bleak Midwinter mass service as a reminder to consumerists that a religious Christmas still existed, if anyone wanted it.
A stern faced Harry greeted Bob with a warning at the storage facility. ‘You’ve got to take better care of your birds lad, they’re becoming a nuisance.’
‘How so?’ asked Bob as he shoved the new set of calling birds into an overpriced and flimsy bare bones Fågelbur, as the minimalists at IKEA would have you call it.
Harry sniffed in disgust. ‘Can’t you smell them? They stink so bad punters from the other units are complaining about it.’
‘Would you say my pigeons are turning the air something fowl?’ Bob joked.
‘Knock it off, lad. You’ve got to shift your crap, one way or another.’
‘Why? I paid full fare for storage. I’ll use it how I wish,’ Bob said defiantly.
‘No you won’t.’
‘Says who?’ challenged Bob, with increasing menace. He was ready to respond more forcefully if Harry’s answer annoyed him.
‘The government, that’s who.’
Bob didn’t like that answer, but not so much he could lay into Harry for it. Instead, his body stiffened in anticipation of a different fight, involving shadow meanings and legislative clauses. ‘What has the government got to do with it?’
‘Oh,’ Harry cooed, ‘haven’t you heard? They’re gonna set limits on live goods held in storage, for welfare reasons, apparently.’
Bob dismissed Harry’s claim as pure speculation, to which Harry explained that a high-ranking Cabinet Office civil servant had leaked the news to The Times, ‘which makes it as good as gospel, doesn’t it?’ The bookies seemed to agree, having paid out on all bets over the prospect of a statement from the prime minister later that day. Only one issue remained up in the air: what would be classified as “livestock”? ‘I mean,’ Harry pondered, ‘it could mean more than just birds, eh?’
Panicked at the thought, Bob rushed over to the facility annexe, where his other flock resided in bedlam: pipers playing pranks on each other, leaping lords harassing maids for ‘a-milking’, dancing ladies and drumming drummers squabbling over the best Christmas rhythms to practice their respective skills.
Bob clapped at the chaos to bring it to heel. ‘Everyone listen up! I have an announcement to make’, he said.
‘More important than the prime minister’s?’ Undercut by the interjection, Bob instead followed the current of conversation started by an unseen voice. ‘Err, who told you about that?’
‘Why didn’t you tell us about it,’ a dancing lady shouted from the pack. The warehouse roared in agreement with her indignant tone.
‘Well, I was about to,’ Bob lied.
‘No you weren’t,’ said Harry, who’d just stepped into the room. One look at the grin on Harry’s face intimated that it was he who had told the group. Bob’s eyes flashed at him with anger.
‘Look,’ he continued, ‘nothing’s been decided yet, no matter what any random person has told you. What you need to know is that whatever the government decides, you will not be materially affected.’
‘Scrrrrooooooooogggggge!’ The audience of dormant workers wailed in unison. Amongst the groans of discontent, one voice was heard to have said ‘he’s planning to underpay us! Or sell us off!’
‘I would like to assure you all that I do and will continue to meet your salary entitlements as per the agreed rates set by contracted employers Mitie, G4S, and Serco, for the provision of your services,’ so insisted Bob.
‘But you are underpaying us, in real terms,’ another voice argued. ‘My “gold” rings have been fetching for less on the open market recently, so I had them checked out by a goldsmith, who told me they’re only gold-plated! We’re being cheated! How can we feed ourselves with less money in our pockets?’
Bob could not believe what he was hearing! When did this pool of workers become economically literate? Their behaviour reminded him of a passage in an unauthorised biography of Lord Alan Sugar’s “You’re hired: The story of how The Apprentice became The Master”, which warned to expect a mutiny once your workers learnt what inflation was.
However, this lot would have to unionise to make any headway in that direction, and judging from the disorderly expressions of their grievances — not to mention Britain’s hypocritically pro-business labour laws — Bob was confident that he could quell any such rebellion.
He instead addressed the most current complaint. ‘I am pretty sure you can afford a balanced diet on your salaries, in addition to your recommended daily allowance of Buel [bird-flavoured Huel]. I’ve been reliably informed by some of our finest politicians that thanks to the wonders of modern technology, you can cook a meal for as little as 30 pence. From scratch!’
‘Scrrrrooooooooogggggge!’ The audience of dormant workers came back at him louder.
‘Crikey! There’s no pleasing you lot,’ Bob grumbled as he was run out of the building.
‘Best go home, check up on how many square feet you can still afford, eh lad?’ Harry teased as Bob rushed past him, but not before he picked up a loose lying e-sled. Judging by Harry’s reaction — a shout of annoyance — it was probably his. But Bob was out of sight before Harry could do anything about it.
Speeding through snowfall to return in time to watch the imminent televised address, Bob reflected on the exchange back at the storage facility. He was hurt by what they said. He was a twelfth-generation Cratchit after all. They called him a Scrooge. A Scrooge! Him? A Scrooge? Did they not realise how hurtful their language was? Offensive, even? His great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather actually suffered under a real life Scrooge. He was nothing like that. He paid his workers above the London Living Wage already! A mixture of in-kind and monetary payment, but still… it amounted to a fair wage! So what impact do they think inflation would have on them, anyway? It’s nothing more than haggling over phantom costs, Bob reasoned to himself. ‘Besides, don’t they realise that inflation happens to business owners too? My costs are very real!’
Bob arrived home to see Mr Coogers sat in the family living room, at the piano, regaling the rest of the Cratchits with a one-handed version of Jingle Bells, impressive, bar the fact that he played a lot of wrong notes, slowly, so it sounded more like a dirge. Plus, his other hand held a squirming Lil Tim quite a bit tightly on his lap. Upon seeing this, Bob looked at his wife as though to say ‘what the hell is he doing,’ to which his wife’s eyes replied ‘don’t look at me like that, I told you about this,’ to which Bob’s responded ‘I’m gonna get our boy back now,’ and he grabbed Tim from Mr Coogers whilst politely suggesting he concentrate on one thing at a time.
‘Oh yes, sorry my dear fellow,’ Mr Coogers spluttered. ‘What a nice boy that Tiny Tim is!’
‘Lil Tim!’ his parents exclaimed.
‘Oh, yes, yes, of course, sorry. A very nice boy. Very.’ Mr Coogers got to his feet and assessed the look on Bob’s face. ‘Whatever is the matter my dear fellow? You look like you have been given quite a fright by a ghost, or three!’
‘That would be preferable, sir. I’ve been told the prime minister is soon to make an announcement that might ruin my busin– I mean our Christmas.’
‘Oh dearie, dearie me! Well, there is time yet to be merry!’ Mr Coogers was in typically buoyant spirits, the sort to be insulated from the repercussions of an imminent tax change by massive cash reserves held in Swiss savings accounts. Real wealth. Proper wealth. Endless wealth. Still, you’ve got to be grateful for such generosity, thought Bob. He could choose to be miserly. So his hands might wander a little! So what? His heart is in the right place. Look at the gifts he gives us! This year, Mr Coogers brought a dog, for the children to play with. Not an actual dog as a toy, but a SmartK9000. Mrs Cratchit felt differently. Quite aside from her suspicions of Mr Coogers’s behaviour towards Lil Tim, she believed robot dogs cheated animal dogs out of the chance for a better life. ‘Once upon a time, a dog was for life’, she muttered under her breath. ‘Now people don’t even want them for Christmas. Disgusting!’
She was distracted from her lament by a hungry husband asking whether they were having turkey for dinner.
‘Sorry, love. I got a text from Ocado half an hour before the delivery came, saying they’d sold out.’
‘Great,’ Bob said sarcastically. ‘Geese eggs for dinner again then.’
‘Oi, watch your mouth! It’s not my fault that turkey is the only meat anyone eats these days. I told you we should go vegan.’
‘Over my dead body,’ Bob replied, ‘which you’d only be able to eat with my consent.’
So everyone tucked into a hearty geese egg roast, featuring the feathered beast in pride of place on the dining table, plump in all its tenderness and flavour, eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, and sage and onion to the eyebrows! And towards the end of the meal, the background ambience provided by the always-on television gave way to the important-sounding tones of the prime minister’s broadcast.
And as the dear leader stood at the Downing Street dispatch box, announcing the need to go ‘further and faster’ delivering ‘change for Britain’, which meant imposing a marginal tax rate of 20% for every additional square foot of space containing ‘live possessions that require sustenance’ beyond 40sqft, Bob Cratchit’s mind began racing with ways to halt the rapidly declining value of his stock.
‘It’s okay,’ he told himself, ‘the value of pigeons is still good, so I’ll keep them and sell off the other gifts, reinvest the proceeds from those sales in more pigeons, buy a farm, build an aviary space to breed the most pigeons in the country, and then, when all other birds inevitably become endangered, everyone will be so desperate that they’ll have no choice but to deal with me in the supply of substitute birds, and I’ll be quids in! You can’t deny the Great Pigeon Replacement.’
Except, the first phase of Bob’s plan to become Britain’s first pigeon magnate was ruined by the prime minister’s next words: ‘I am not one to abandon my fellow man or woman to the same fate as the common bird. Let me be clear: all humans employed are workers, and therefore cannot be bought and sold the same way as what we call “livestock”: that is, animals purchased as assets. This means that maids, ladies, lords, pipers, and drummers, are agents who can only enter contract in agreement and are therefore free to dispute the terms of their employment if they so wish. This is my Workers’ Guarantee: If you can spell your name, then you are not game.’
Bob felt his heart pound his chest. Or was that commotion coming from outside? Lil Tim, who had rushed to the window, began to shriek. ‘Look! Look at all these people heading this way! Are they for us?’
The rest of the family followed him to behold the sight of countless drummers drumming, loads of pipers piping, very many lords leaping, almost as many ladies dancing, and quite a few maids, none of whom were milking, but were doing other things — like holding the heads of swans just slain so that their necks dripped with blood, and the bowels of geese a-honking and calling birds a-squawking, and swinging scores of dead French hens and turtle doves above their heads as they hollered, wearing crowns of pear tree branches with a partridge preserved in aspic sat atop — looking vengefully serious whilst doing so, all marching towards the Cratchits’ abode.
And somehow amidst all of it, Bob could make out Harry grinning in the mid-distance, saying ‘see you in court, yer cheap git!’
Bob looked on, exasperated. ‘God, I miss Easter,’ he said.
