Here is a little story to tide you all over the Yuletide. I can only hope that, unlike Richter, and Twenty-Sixth Of’s dogs, in their different ways, no-one will want to put it down.
Apologies in advance to the poster I promised that I wouldn’t use the term ‘spastic’ anymore. In my defence, I have only used ‘spastic’ here where it is dramatically essential to the narrative.
Your faithful Friend and Servant,
P.Z.
December, 2005.
A CHRISTMAS CAFROL
Stave One
It was Christmas Eve, and the whole world was rejoicing. Well, nearly the whole world. Turkeys weren’t, for obvious reasons. Spastics weren’t: they don’t know what the feck is going on. Nor were old people, whose only concerns were the temperature, the events of World War II, looming oblivion, and how agonisingly painful shitting would be that day. Neither, now I think of it, were Islamic extremists, who think Christ is gay, and only like “fun” in conjunction with “damentalism” …and who are largely already covered by the ‘spastics’ category anyway…as are old people in fact, and turkeys.
And neither was Slabberneezer Scrooge.
Slabberneezer hated Christmas. He hated the songs and the presents, he hated the platitudes and beatitudes and enforced merriment. He hated the gimpy extra smilies that suddenly appeared, showing little snowballs falling and drunks with hats on. Slabberneezer felt that Christmas could feck off, and he told it so, in a thread in the General called “feck Off, Christmas”. Christmas remained indifferent, but Very Ruud posted the snowman smilie 8 times, and Richter laughed, and Van Nistelrater put up a photo of his cock, smeared with brandy butter and set alight for the occasion.
Slabberneezer gagged violently – and he’d only got as far as Richter’s post.
All the good folk of the Caf were out and about, greeting each other and the hallowed day with good cheer and ruddy countenance. Such variety, such a range of good and bad, such sheer unpredictability you never did see in all your days, not even in a packet of Liquorice Allsorts or a performance from Wes Brown. There were wise men and fools here, the old and the young, the blue and the red, the quick and the dead, the knave and the knighted, FC United, realists, romanticists, Walter-Mitty-fantasists, moaners and splitters, gooners and dippers, Mancs and Malaysians, Yanks, Australasians, losers and winners, saints and sinners, simians, simpletons, Singaporeans, Hyperboreans, Extremely Boring ones, even a personal friend of Jamie Carragher, who had never been right about anything in his entire life - not once, ever.
“Merry Christmas, Slabberneezer!” said Stamford Bridge. “Looks like it’s going to be a white one!”
“That’s racist,” replied Slabberneezer, “BNP cnut. feck off…Cockbiscuit.”
“Merry Christmas folks,” drawled Mr Marcello, “Let’s all put our handguns down for a minute, and pray to God, and little baby Jesus, and Carlos Tevez.”
“Loony Godsquad Yank spastic,” was Slabberneezer’s response.
“Happy Christmas everyone!” roared Big Andy. He was in a particularly good mood that day, not just because it was Christmas Eve, but because he’d won a gruelling verbal joust with a rival quantity surveyor the previous evening, in a shed in Warrington…and by way of reward was off to buy a Cristiano Ronaldo wig.
“You’re gay,” said Slabberneezer.
Big Andy just laughed, and went on his way. (Though in his heart of hearts, in the dead of night, Andy had actually been wrestling with this very question, ever since getting a surprise boner while watching William Shatner on the telly).
“Merry Christmas Slabs!” said Amolbhiata, “Glad tidings to you and yours, my good man, and many happy returns of the season.”
“Merry Christmas, mongo,” said Slabberneezer, “I hope you, and everyone from the Indian subcontinent, celebrate by going mute, going mad and dying of AIDS.”
“Hey Slabbs,” inquired French Henry, “Do you fancy spending Christmas with me and Sarah? We’ll be linking up via webcam with some guys from Popbitch, and shoving mistletoe up our arses.”
“Filthy gooner scum,” replied Slabberneezer. “Rapist. Cockbiscuit.”
Being a decent sort, French took it in good spirit, and grinned, and went into a coma for no real reason.
“Happy Holidays!” called out Flashwok, “I know we’ve had our differences, but Happy Chanukah, to a fellow Yid!”
“Nazi Jew," Slabberneezer shot back, "(That’s racist). Yank. Retard.”
Flashwok went mental, and started a thread dissing Turkey (the country, not the aforementioned non-rejoicing, winged spastic).
And so it went on, into the evening and through to the small hours. There was hardly anyone online now, and of those who were, most had already been called spastics by Dubai Devil before Slabberneezer had time to get in there. It was quite tiring, but he persevered. “It’s a hobby,” he told himself. “And besides, anything’s better than going down the pub and listening to Bulk bang on about cycling.”
Around midnight, Slabberneezer noticed some strange and disquieting happenings. First of all, threads kept going bold and coming back up to the top, but when he clicked on them, no-one had added anything new – usually the last post was by him in fact, calling Dubai Devil a spastic. Then a new thread appeared, entitled “FAO Slabberneezer” – but when he clicked on it, a message came up saying “invalid thread”. Something was certainly afoot, for the entire screen emanated a lunar, spectral glow.
Suddenly, from nowhere, a large grey box appeared on his screen. Slabberneezer recoiled. How was such a thing possible? He was a man of reason, he refused to believe it. But there it was, plain as day, superimposed over the forum. With mortal dread, he read its contents:
“You have a Private Message, from redmarlie”
Apologies in advance to the poster I promised that I wouldn’t use the term ‘spastic’ anymore. In my defence, I have only used ‘spastic’ here where it is dramatically essential to the narrative.
Your faithful Friend and Servant,
P.Z.
December, 2005.
A CHRISTMAS CAFROL
Stave One
It was Christmas Eve, and the whole world was rejoicing. Well, nearly the whole world. Turkeys weren’t, for obvious reasons. Spastics weren’t: they don’t know what the feck is going on. Nor were old people, whose only concerns were the temperature, the events of World War II, looming oblivion, and how agonisingly painful shitting would be that day. Neither, now I think of it, were Islamic extremists, who think Christ is gay, and only like “fun” in conjunction with “damentalism” …and who are largely already covered by the ‘spastics’ category anyway…as are old people in fact, and turkeys.
And neither was Slabberneezer Scrooge.
Slabberneezer hated Christmas. He hated the songs and the presents, he hated the platitudes and beatitudes and enforced merriment. He hated the gimpy extra smilies that suddenly appeared, showing little snowballs falling and drunks with hats on. Slabberneezer felt that Christmas could feck off, and he told it so, in a thread in the General called “feck Off, Christmas”. Christmas remained indifferent, but Very Ruud posted the snowman smilie 8 times, and Richter laughed, and Van Nistelrater put up a photo of his cock, smeared with brandy butter and set alight for the occasion.
Slabberneezer gagged violently – and he’d only got as far as Richter’s post.
All the good folk of the Caf were out and about, greeting each other and the hallowed day with good cheer and ruddy countenance. Such variety, such a range of good and bad, such sheer unpredictability you never did see in all your days, not even in a packet of Liquorice Allsorts or a performance from Wes Brown. There were wise men and fools here, the old and the young, the blue and the red, the quick and the dead, the knave and the knighted, FC United, realists, romanticists, Walter-Mitty-fantasists, moaners and splitters, gooners and dippers, Mancs and Malaysians, Yanks, Australasians, losers and winners, saints and sinners, simians, simpletons, Singaporeans, Hyperboreans, Extremely Boring ones, even a personal friend of Jamie Carragher, who had never been right about anything in his entire life - not once, ever.
“Merry Christmas, Slabberneezer!” said Stamford Bridge. “Looks like it’s going to be a white one!”
“That’s racist,” replied Slabberneezer, “BNP cnut. feck off…Cockbiscuit.”
“Merry Christmas folks,” drawled Mr Marcello, “Let’s all put our handguns down for a minute, and pray to God, and little baby Jesus, and Carlos Tevez.”
“Loony Godsquad Yank spastic,” was Slabberneezer’s response.
“Happy Christmas everyone!” roared Big Andy. He was in a particularly good mood that day, not just because it was Christmas Eve, but because he’d won a gruelling verbal joust with a rival quantity surveyor the previous evening, in a shed in Warrington…and by way of reward was off to buy a Cristiano Ronaldo wig.
“You’re gay,” said Slabberneezer.
Big Andy just laughed, and went on his way. (Though in his heart of hearts, in the dead of night, Andy had actually been wrestling with this very question, ever since getting a surprise boner while watching William Shatner on the telly).
“Merry Christmas Slabs!” said Amolbhiata, “Glad tidings to you and yours, my good man, and many happy returns of the season.”
“Merry Christmas, mongo,” said Slabberneezer, “I hope you, and everyone from the Indian subcontinent, celebrate by going mute, going mad and dying of AIDS.”
“Hey Slabbs,” inquired French Henry, “Do you fancy spending Christmas with me and Sarah? We’ll be linking up via webcam with some guys from Popbitch, and shoving mistletoe up our arses.”
“Filthy gooner scum,” replied Slabberneezer. “Rapist. Cockbiscuit.”
Being a decent sort, French took it in good spirit, and grinned, and went into a coma for no real reason.
“Happy Holidays!” called out Flashwok, “I know we’ve had our differences, but Happy Chanukah, to a fellow Yid!”
“Nazi Jew," Slabberneezer shot back, "(That’s racist). Yank. Retard.”
Flashwok went mental, and started a thread dissing Turkey (the country, not the aforementioned non-rejoicing, winged spastic).
And so it went on, into the evening and through to the small hours. There was hardly anyone online now, and of those who were, most had already been called spastics by Dubai Devil before Slabberneezer had time to get in there. It was quite tiring, but he persevered. “It’s a hobby,” he told himself. “And besides, anything’s better than going down the pub and listening to Bulk bang on about cycling.”
Around midnight, Slabberneezer noticed some strange and disquieting happenings. First of all, threads kept going bold and coming back up to the top, but when he clicked on them, no-one had added anything new – usually the last post was by him in fact, calling Dubai Devil a spastic. Then a new thread appeared, entitled “FAO Slabberneezer” – but when he clicked on it, a message came up saying “invalid thread”. Something was certainly afoot, for the entire screen emanated a lunar, spectral glow.
Suddenly, from nowhere, a large grey box appeared on his screen. Slabberneezer recoiled. How was such a thing possible? He was a man of reason, he refused to believe it. But there it was, plain as day, superimposed over the forum. With mortal dread, he read its contents:
“You have a Private Message, from redmarlie”
excellent stuff...I knew there was one brewing, I suspected a Scrooge-alike...but that's fantastic.