I spent the entire day searching for those familiar traditional Christmas delicacies which all kids adore – but could find none anywhere. From shop to shop I went, asking: ‘Do you have any of those large chocolate eggs that children like so much at this time of year? Very often sold in cardboard boxes adorned with pictures of rabbits.’ In every store the answer was ‘No, we don’t have any. We may get them in by March.’ That’s Brexit for you.
Heard a noise on the roof. Looked out and there was a bearded immigrant scrounger in a red coat trying to herd a bunch of animals around our chimney. Put my head out of the window and shouted. ‘Hey! Get lost, loser!’ Guy got the hell out sharpish, with his strange creatures. Don’t know what they were. But they weren’t American.
I am perfectly clear in my policy as regards Christmas. I could not be more clear. I think that if we are going to have Christmas this year – and that is purely a matter for the British people – then it has to be a Christmas for jobs and not a race to the bottom.
Hey – shouting a big happy birthday to my old mucker Jesus. Have a great day mate, go easy on the booze and choccies and see you on the sofa with Susanna early in the new year. If you’ve got five minutes to spare for someone who was a good friend when you were nothing.
O Little Town of Bethlehem how still we see thee lie. Not lying very still at the moment, is it? Not while it’s under the jackboot of fascist Israeli oppression.
This is the time of year when traditionally we gather together in church and sing those famous words: ‘We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land.’ But it seems almost certain to me that after Brexit there will be no ploughmen, no seeds and probably no fields.
People often ask me if I have the kind of Christmas a normal sixteen-year-old girl would enjoy. Well of course I do. For example, I have an advent calendar and behind each of the 25 windows is a picture of myself explaining to a world leader why he is murdering the planet, along with a treat: a herring flavoured Quorn snack.
I received through the mail this morning a quite inspiring missive. It was a piece of card folded in half on the front of which was an agreeable depiction of erithacus rubecula, the robin redbreast, perched jauntily on a sprig of hawthorn and surrounded by snow. Inside the fold was the message: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year love from Bob and Dora. Upon enquiring I have learned that these cards can be readily purchased from newsagents or department stores. I do hope that such a charming innovation might, as they say, catch on.
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