'The best Christmas I ever had was in Morocco'

CHRISTMAS come and gone, eh? Let’s associate for the moment a few banalities and bores associated with the season.

Easily first is the person, usually a woman, who says: “Christmas? Do you know, I wish it was over.”

Next possibly is the person who says:

“Christmas? Do you know, I do always think it is a sad time.”

Next:

“Well well. Another Christmas! The way time flies is somethin’ shockin’.”

And next?

“Do you know, the best Christmas I ever had was in Morocco. There was a crowd of us on the boat – I hadn’t been married more than a week at the time – and we dropped anchor at Algiers. The first thing we see is . . . . .”

Then there is the gambit:

“Do you know the hardest day in the year to get through?”

“I don’t. What?”

“Christmas Day.”

Then there are the alternative commentaries, each proffered with the utmost earnestness:

“Do you know what it is, I never seen a quieter Christmas.”

“Ill tell you wan thing about this Christmas. It was the fiercest Christmas I ever seen.”

Then there is this terrible thing:

“Do you know what I do of a Christmas Day?” (Looks of interest.)

“NO. What?”

“Bed.”

“Bed?” (Looks of incredulity, stepped up to please the moron.)

“Off up to bed after dinner. Never put a leg out of the bed until 4 o’clock Stephens’s Day. Fair enough if there’s a game of cards fixed up after that. But get me up before four? (Fearful faces are made.) No –––––– fear.”

Finally, this portrait of undead human decomposition, not peculiar to Christmas but most frequently encountered about that time.

(Enters public house on St Stephen’s Day, obviously shattered with alcohol. Lowers self into seat with great care, grips table to arrest devastating shake in hands. Calls for glass of malt. Spills water all over table. Swallows drink with great clatter of teeth against glass. Shakily lights cigarette. Exhales. Begins to look around. Fixes on adjacent acquaintance. Begins peroration.)

“Bedam but do you know, people talk a lot about drink, whiskey and all the rest of it. There’s always a story, the whiskey was bad, the stomach was out of order and so on. Do you know what I’m going to tell you . . . .?”

(Pauses impressively. The eye-pupils, almost dissolved in their watery lake, rove about with sickly inquiry. Accepts silence as evidence of intense interest.)

“Do you know what it is?”

(Changes cigarette from normal inter-digital position, holds it aloft vertical; taps it solemnly with index finger of free hand.)

“Do you see that? That thing there? Cigarettes. Them lads. Do you know what I’m going to tell you . . .?”

(Is suddenly overcome by paroxysm of coughing; roots beknightedly for handkerchief as tears of pure alcohol course down the ruby cheeks. Recovers.)

“Them fellas there. Them fellas has me destroyed . . .”

(Collapses into fresh paroxysm. Emerges again):

“I wouldn’t mind that at all (indicates glass). I know what I have there. There’s eatin’ an’ drinkin’ in that. Damn the harm that done annywan, bar been taken to excess. But this. . . . .”

(Again points to cigarette, looks of sorrow and horror mingling on ‘face’.)

“Them lads has me desthroyed.”

From December 27th, 1944