We don’t all get what we want for Christmas, but some people ought to get what they deserve, says George Osgerby
A partridge in a pear tree? They might have a certain novelty value on the first day of Christmas, but if your true love delivered such fruit and fowl on the next 11 consecutive days, you might start to think his or her ardour had crossed the line into obsession and a boiled bunny might be on the list of future offerings.
In any event, there is a recession on. Admittedly, we are fortunate in this country, since the days of boom and bust have been ended forever and we are particularly well placed to reverse the downturn thanks to the brilliance and foresight of our rulers. Nevertheless, these are difficult times and worse ones are just around the corner. Therefore, something practical for the fundamentals of everyday living ought to be the perceptive purchase this Yuletide – if you can afford to buy anything. What about some moat-cleaning equipment? Moats don’t clean themselves, but since most taxpayers do not have a drawbridge, they are unlikely to be sympathetic if they are sent a bill for the upkeep of someone else’s palatial residence.
Those who favour a gift in a lighter vein should consider something to add to the gaiety of the whole nation: a duck in a floating duck house, perhaps. Be sure to read the instructions or it could torpedo someone’s career.
Some eminent people have been kind enough to hint at what they would appreciate. The royal family has asked for privacy – even for those of its members who are so minor they aren’t even household names in the royal household. Abdication is not a helpful suggestion even though the solution is obvious. Her Majesty and her brood would be delighted to receive masks of Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg and his entire frontbench team – with the exception of Vince Cable. Anonymity might not be entirely assured, but the next best thing would follow: widespread indifference.
Others are similarly easy to cater for. Tony Blair would benefit from a dictionary so he can look up the difference between “pious” and “sanctimonious”. And the former Prime Minister may need a new Bible. A refresher course on injunctions to do with turning the other cheek and loving thy neighbour could do no harm – unlike him. And, if someone wanted to give him a camel and a needle, he could see just how far he could force the former through the eye of the latter. At least, he is unlikely to need the number of a good lawyer.
Sadly, moral compasses have been mislaid among present as well as past members of the not so great and good. Some replacements may be welcome. However, some minor magnetic adjustments – “sexing up”– may be necessary to create a “new” moral compass. This device points in whichever direction you are heading in, so wherever you end up must be the right place.
To go with this: a telescope. Look through one end and economic growth rates seem enormous and any green shoots of recovery will resemble the New Forest; peer through the other and monetary travails are tiny to the point of manageable.
Any would-be statesman or woman should be glad to receive a portfolio of publicity photos. These could be taken in a cemetery, so long as no association is made with the demise of ambition. There should be no blubbing, with the emphasis on square-jawed gravitas.
Elocution lessons for some aspirant actors on the world stage would enable them to connect with ordinary people. Or perhaps there are teach-yourself manuals for those who want to immerse themselves in the subtle nuances of Geordie, Cockney or Yorkshire. It may have to be explained to the exceedingly posh precisely why they need to go the top of their stairs when they think they employ servants for such menial activity.
Films have become staples of festive fun and fortunately two major motion pictures have recently been released on DVD. These are I’m Not Feeling Myself Tonight and Secrets Of A Door To Door Salesman – the second also serving to encourage initiative and enterprise. Now there need be no more going cap in hand to taxpayers for your adult entertainment. And this helps to support the domestic film industry – it’s British porn for British workers.
Where, precisely, these celluloid delights should be enjoyed could be problematic if you are not sure where you live. Some parliamentarians would benefit from owning a map of their constituency. Meanwhile, the paperback of Location Location Location: The Complete Guide to Buying and Selling your Home is available from online retailer Amazon for as little as £0.01. Surely it’s not worth claiming on that? Anyone who thinks it is should get a sheaf of expenses claim forms and a guide to how capital gains tax works.
How else can people be kept amused during the interminable holiday period – mindful of the fact that some have a much longer vacation than others? Perhaps the popular Christmas song can furnish some ideas. While there are more than a dozen days to get through, since things kick off in August, the official day two prescribes two turtle doves. This is not helpful. Peace is hardly in vogue, although they could be sent to Barack Obama to complement his bauble from the Nobel Prize Committee.
The third day is set aside for three French hens, but it shouldn’t be. They are probably bound by some sort of European laying time directive, when an old-fashioned British chicken can simply be locked in a shed and given an egg production target to be met on pain of death – soon to be visited on them anyway.
Day four is earmarked for four calling birds. Unless you are planning to establish an aviary, you will probably be starting to get annoyed at this point. What explains this fascination with our feathered friends – especially ones that won’t shut up?
At least the fifth day means five golden rings. That’s more like it – so long they aren’t confiscated and given to bankers who have lost their own rings in a stupid bet.
Next: six geese a-laying. More bloody birds. Perhaps they can lay golden eggs – a role Lord Ashcroft already fulfils for the Conservative Party. The geese can fraternise with seven swans a-swimming. Swans don’t do an awful lot else, although swimming provides a counterpoint to hopes a-sinking.
Eight maids a-milking are to be congratulated on the success of their small business. It’s a shame more thought has not been given to who might deliver it. Some sort of subsidy to stockpile it may be called for.
Somewhere big enough to have a moat – the sort of property of which the public is jealous – must be requisitioned to billet nine ladies dancing. What have they got to be so happy about? Perhaps, in common with 10 leaping lords, they are celebrating the return of the largesse they forked out to acquire their titles, since that was not totally above board. This merriment has a musical accompaniment: 11 pipers and 12 drummers, who are, in a not entirely surprising development, piping and drumming respectively. It might be more appropriate to engage a dozen bell-ringers, if a bell-tower can be made ready for them, as we would not need to ask for whom they were tolling.
So, I make that 12 expenses claim forms, 11 constituency maps, 10 moral compasses, nine flipping homes, eight instances of dry rot, seven cleaning services, six chocolate biscuits, five light bulbs (How many MPs does it take to change a light bulb? None. You claim for someone else to change it), four trouser presses, three interior designers, two porno DVDs and a duck in a duck house.
God bless us, everyone.
Thanks to Steve Uwins for his help with this article
