Bandwidth

I was having serious trouble this week.  It’s getting near Christmas and I work in a shop – if I have to explain that to you, you have obviously never worked retail.  The constant onslaught of Christmas shoppers depressed me, and I couldn’t write.  I tried sitting at my laptop and drinking a bottle of wine, but I ended up spilling the last glass and having to suck the dregs out of the USB port.  I tried watching Al Pacino’s inspirational speech from Any Given Sunday 14 times in a row, but that didn’t work either.  Desperate, I decided to give Johnny a call.
‘I’m blocked,’ I said.
‘You’re always blocked.’
‘No, not drunk.’
‘What?  Constipated!?’ he asked, alarmed.
‘No.  Writer’s block.  There won’t be an article this week.’
‘Don’t be silly.  We’ve got something special lined up for you this week anyway.’
‘Ah Jesus…what is it?’
‘Fix-A-Grinch.’
‘Did you just say words?’
‘Yes. Fix-A-Grinch.’
‘Yeah I got that – what does it fucking mean?  That doesn’t explain anything.’
‘It’s a company that fixes grinches.  You go to their camp and they turn grumpy people into happy people around Christmas time.’
‘No,’ was all I said.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, and I could hear his smile.  Fuck him, I thought, they can’t make me go.

Around 5am the next morning I was awoken by some broad dressed as an elf.  At first I thought I had gotten drunk in the mall and fallen asleep in Santa’s Grotto again, but then I looked around, saw the two burly guys wearing Santa hats behind her, and realised I was in fact in my own bed.
‘Who the fuck are you?  How did you get into my house?’ I yelled.
‘Don’t make this hard,’ she said with a creepy smile, ’we’re from Fix-A-Grinch.’  I grabbed the half empty (hey, I’m a pessimist) beer bottle beside my bed and chucked it at her, cracking her square in the forehead.  It made a terrific ‘donk’ sound and I started laughing triumphantly.  Then one of the big fellas socked me in the face and I went back to sleep.

I woke up in a big orphanage style dorm room with beds all along both sides.  Every bed was occupied.  The floor was covered with fake snow and there was tinsel and Christmas lights all over the walls.  All of a sudden Cliff Richard’s Mistletoe and Wine started blasting from unseen speakers, rousing the rest of the prisoners.  What the fuck is this? was written on every face.  ‘Activities time!’ yelled the smug faced little bitch who kidnapped me as she bounded into the room.  If there is one thing in this world that I hate, it is activities.

Without further explanation, we were led outside into a kind of fake winter wonderland, complete with knee-deep imitation snow, fake Christmas trees, [Editor’s Note: Fake Plastic Trees?  Nice reference.] [Ian’s Note: What?] [Editor’s Note: Never mind.] plastic snowmen, and the most grotesque nativity scene I have ever laid eyes on.  The whole thing was obviously too much for one man, who made a mad dash for the chain link fence surrounding the compound.  He got halfway up the fence before a sniper brought him down with a well-aimed snowball.  He fell to the ground, billowing fake snow into the air, and I noticed that the fence only went about 1 inch below the snow line.  I made a mental note of this as we marched on towards the activities building.  Inside we were each shown to our work area and informed that the first ‘class’ of the day was how to make homemade chutney, which is apparently a fun, inexpensive and heartfelt gift suitable for anyone.  Anyone who thinks apple and onion and fucking vinegar is a winning combination, that is.  Some people started to vomit uncontrollably and had to be carried off by guards wearing Santa hats.

The second class of the day was the story of Christmas.  We were given booklets and told to pay attention, because the following day we would be putting on a dramatic performance of the birth of Christ.  If there is one thing in this world that I hate more than activities, it is doing drama.  I had to get the hell out of there, and luckily we were given a one hour break, with the recommendation that we spend it either revising the story of Christmas, or looking over the lyrics to some carols, as carolling would be the third class of the day.  I quickly made my way back to the bunkhouse and – when no one was looking – I kicked away some of the fake snow in one corner of the room.  I knew it!  The goddamn shed we were housed in was only sunk a few inches into the snow.  The whole place was as fake as a Roland Emmerich movie.  If only I could dig some of it away without them noticing…  Then I remembered the hole in my pocket I’d been meaning to fix.  I turned the pocket inside out and ripped it open, then I did the same on the other side.  Then I grabbed a candy cane off the Christmas tree and started to dig.  I would walk in and out of the bunkhouse humming Auld Lang Syne, covertly shaking fake snow out of my trouser legs every time I made it outside.  It was slow going, and it became clear I would have to endure carolling.

During the carolling class there was a distinct change in the mood.  The people were starting to look like they were enjoying themselves.  I realise now that the mince pies and mulled wine we were served for lunch must have been laced with something.  I was lucky to have been so busy with my digging because I’ve never been known to turn down an alcoholic beverage, and as is so often the case, it almost certainly would have been my undoing.  The last class of the day was a Christmas movie, and they were nice enough to give us a choice.  I demanded that we watch It’s A Wonderful Life.  ‘No!, screamed some hysterical dame sitting next to me, ’Miracle On 34th Street!’
‘I will fight you,’ I said, glaring at her.  Neither of us got our movie – the goddamn airhead consensus was Jingle All The Way, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.  It was at this point I gave up any intention of taking the bastards with me.

After lights out I slipped out of bed and resumed my tunnelling.  At around 4am I made it under the fence and out of the compound, but the second I stood up out of the snow I was hit by a spotlight and a siren exploded into life.  I saw two of the guards take to a sleigh  to give pursuit, and sprinted off into the woods.  As it happens I had little to worry about – the sleigh was dragged by two miniature Schnauzers wearing little reindeer antlers and it really didn’t move very fast at all.  I didn’t stop running until I reached civilisation and found myself somewhere in Ballymena.  I hid out at the train station until daylight and got a ticket for the first train to Belfast.  As I was boarding I was stopped by the ticket inspector, who eyed my dishevelled clothing suspiciously and asked me where I was going.
‘Ah bay, just headin’ inta the city ta day some Christmas shoppin’, hay,’ I said.  He wished me well and sent me on my way.

Folks, Christmas doesn’t have to be the way it looks on a Marks And Spencer ad.  Me, I’m going to go see Scrooged in QFT (http://www.queensfilmtheatre.com/films/scrooged/).  I’m going to get drunk in some cosy little bar and wait for the Fairytale Of New York sing-a-long.  And yes, I’m going to watch The Great Escape on TV again.  Whatever you do, have a good one, and if anyone gives me homemade chutney as a Christmas present I will fucking kill you.

[Editor’s Note: I know ‘this is not a review’ but… what exactly did you just review?]

[Ian’s Note: Christmas.]

[Editor’s Note: You reviewed Christmas?]

[Ian’s Note: Yes.]

[Editor’s Note: Pretentious bastard.]

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