I have a couple of Christmas stories that I thought I'd share with you over the next week or so, along with a third, new, one, provided I get it written in time. That's the plan, anyway, so here's the first one: 'Cold, Cold Christmas'. I hope you enjoy it!
Cold, Cold Christmas
Jesus Christ, I fucking hate this time of year. Fake cheer and insincere good wishes, celebrations with people you work with and can just about tolerate provided you’re being paid to be in their company, relatives you see once a year and have to pretend you give a damn about.
It’s all for the children, they say, it’s not the same once they’ve grown up. Or it reminds us of the miracle of the baby Jesus. It’s about family, friends, goodwill to all men, peace, thanksgiving and the poxy Queen’s poncey fucking speech.
It isn’t, though. Do you know what Christmas is all about? Money. That’s all. Money. And God help you if you haven’t got any.
You just need to look at the adverts: big houses, warm and bright, twinkly lights wrapped around huge trees with presents piled high beneath them, well-dressed rosy-cheeked children hardly able to wait until Christmas morning to open them, tables groaning under the weight of the food, granddad napping in the armchair, a full belly making him sleepy, and, glimpsed through the window, snow gently falling to make the day perfect.
Christmas isn’t for the kids. Christmas is for the rich. And I won’t ever be one of those.
It’s all for the children, they say, it’s not the same once they’ve grown up. Or it reminds us of the miracle of the baby Jesus. It’s about family, friends, goodwill to all men, peace, thanksgiving and the poxy Queen’s poncey fucking speech.
It isn’t, though. Do you know what Christmas is all about? Money. That’s all. Money. And God help you if you haven’t got any.
You just need to look at the adverts: big houses, warm and bright, twinkly lights wrapped around huge trees with presents piled high beneath them, well-dressed rosy-cheeked children hardly able to wait until Christmas morning to open them, tables groaning under the weight of the food, granddad napping in the armchair, a full belly making him sleepy, and, glimpsed through the window, snow gently falling to make the day perfect.
Christmas isn’t for the kids. Christmas is for the rich. And I won’t ever be one of those.

Last year I had a wife and a baby son. Mary was the old fashioned type: it was my job to bring home the bacon and hers to cook it. She went part-time when we got married. She packed in work when she had Daniel. We lived in a little house. It might not have been paradise, exactly, but on a good day it could have shared a border with it.
I was cycling to work one morning last June when a fuckwit who was speeding and texting ran me off the road. I was lucky in that my injuries were neither fatal nor even life-threatening, and unlucky in that I didn’t get his car registration and the guy didn’t stop. Probably didn’t even know he’d done it, never tore his eyes away from the screen on his phone. Then my contract came up for renewal and my employer let me go. I couldn’t blame them: who could afford to pay someone not to work in this recession?
In July, I got a dozen horizontal pins put in my right leg. In September, they took them out and replaced them with a couple of vertical ones. Money was tight. Mary did her best, but while she wasn’t what you’d call extravagant, she didn’t really know how to cut back. By the time October came around, she would turn the heating on and I’d follow along behind and turn it off again. She complained she was cold, I told her to put on a jumper. She said the baby needed to be kept warm, I told her to wrap him up. At the end of November she left me for a man called Michael who had his own business and wasn’t afraid of his heating bills. Took the baby. Took the last of the savings. Took my pride, my hope, my future.
Christmas was a bloody miserable affair. I didn’t see a soul.
By February, I was back on my feet and I landed a job at a call centre. God-awful work, but I needed the money. I got the bus there and back and spent most of the day sitting down, and my dodgy leg continued to heal.
I got to see Daniel every other weekend, which wasn’t enough; but I wasn’t in charge when it came to my son, so I had to settle for what I could get.
I picked him up at Michael’s house, mock-Tudor, detached, double garage. I had to admit, Mary looked a million dollars. Designer clothes, regular trips to the gym and the beauty parlour. And the boy had everything he could have asked for. More than I could have given him if I hadn’t had my accident and we’d kept on going as we were. I felt inadequate. I felt relieved. On a bad day, I even felt grateful.
Then one afternoon I was limping back up the road after dropping Daniel off and I saw him, the bastard who’d knocked me off my bike. I watched him drive down the road, speeding and texting, adrenaline coursing through my system as he pulled into the driveway of the house I had just left.
I went back there as fast I could manage and banged on the door. When he answered, phone in hand, red mist distorted my vision.
‘You fucking bastard,’ I yelled. I pointed to my leg. ‘Look what you did to me, you—’
My voice was silenced when he grabbed me by the throat. Apparently Mary wasn’t the only one spending time at the gym.
‘I don’t know who you are, but if you don’t leave right now, I’ll rip your fucking head off,’ he said.
Around the same time, Mary appeared behind him. ‘Let go of him,’ she said to Michael, clutching at his arm. ‘Put him down, that’s Daniel’s dad.’
‘What?’ he said. He looked at her then he looked at me, then he loosened his grip. I sucked in lungfuls of air.
‘How could you?’ I asked Mary. ‘How could you?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘That’s the fucker that ran me off the road,’ I told her. I looked at him. ‘I’m telling the police. You’ll go to prison for what you did.’
‘You’re pathetic,’ he said. Inside the house, Daniel started to cry. ‘Go on in, love, see to the boy,’ he said to Mary. ‘There’ll be no more trouble.’ When she’d gone, he pointed to me with his phone. ‘You can prove fuck all,’ he said, ‘so fuck off back to your hovel and leave decent people in peace.’ Then he slammed the door in my face.
And he was right. It was my word against his, I had no proof.
I brooded for weeks, no idea what to do. He’d ruined my life and he was going to get away with it. I had absolutely no comeback. Unless …
I ordered a bike out of a catalogue, paid for it weekly, started cycling again. It was hard at first, getting my strength and stamina back, getting my leg to work like it should, but slowly, little by little, it got easier.
Everywhere I went I watched for him, but didn’t see him.
In the end, he found me. I was cycling home from work and he pulled up alongside me at a traffic light. I looked over in disbelief, but he didn’t look back; he was too busy texting.
Just before the lights changed, I pulled away and turned the handlebars ever so slightly. Sure enough, as soon as they hit green he floored the accelerator and raced forward, one eye still on his phone, and clipped my bike. I flew through the air, terrified, the voice inside my head screaming what the fuck were you thinking?
I was cycling to work one morning last June when a fuckwit who was speeding and texting ran me off the road. I was lucky in that my injuries were neither fatal nor even life-threatening, and unlucky in that I didn’t get his car registration and the guy didn’t stop. Probably didn’t even know he’d done it, never tore his eyes away from the screen on his phone. Then my contract came up for renewal and my employer let me go. I couldn’t blame them: who could afford to pay someone not to work in this recession?
In July, I got a dozen horizontal pins put in my right leg. In September, they took them out and replaced them with a couple of vertical ones. Money was tight. Mary did her best, but while she wasn’t what you’d call extravagant, she didn’t really know how to cut back. By the time October came around, she would turn the heating on and I’d follow along behind and turn it off again. She complained she was cold, I told her to put on a jumper. She said the baby needed to be kept warm, I told her to wrap him up. At the end of November she left me for a man called Michael who had his own business and wasn’t afraid of his heating bills. Took the baby. Took the last of the savings. Took my pride, my hope, my future.
Christmas was a bloody miserable affair. I didn’t see a soul.
By February, I was back on my feet and I landed a job at a call centre. God-awful work, but I needed the money. I got the bus there and back and spent most of the day sitting down, and my dodgy leg continued to heal.
I got to see Daniel every other weekend, which wasn’t enough; but I wasn’t in charge when it came to my son, so I had to settle for what I could get.
I picked him up at Michael’s house, mock-Tudor, detached, double garage. I had to admit, Mary looked a million dollars. Designer clothes, regular trips to the gym and the beauty parlour. And the boy had everything he could have asked for. More than I could have given him if I hadn’t had my accident and we’d kept on going as we were. I felt inadequate. I felt relieved. On a bad day, I even felt grateful.
Then one afternoon I was limping back up the road after dropping Daniel off and I saw him, the bastard who’d knocked me off my bike. I watched him drive down the road, speeding and texting, adrenaline coursing through my system as he pulled into the driveway of the house I had just left.
I went back there as fast I could manage and banged on the door. When he answered, phone in hand, red mist distorted my vision.
‘You fucking bastard,’ I yelled. I pointed to my leg. ‘Look what you did to me, you—’
My voice was silenced when he grabbed me by the throat. Apparently Mary wasn’t the only one spending time at the gym.
‘I don’t know who you are, but if you don’t leave right now, I’ll rip your fucking head off,’ he said.
Around the same time, Mary appeared behind him. ‘Let go of him,’ she said to Michael, clutching at his arm. ‘Put him down, that’s Daniel’s dad.’
‘What?’ he said. He looked at her then he looked at me, then he loosened his grip. I sucked in lungfuls of air.
‘How could you?’ I asked Mary. ‘How could you?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘That’s the fucker that ran me off the road,’ I told her. I looked at him. ‘I’m telling the police. You’ll go to prison for what you did.’
‘You’re pathetic,’ he said. Inside the house, Daniel started to cry. ‘Go on in, love, see to the boy,’ he said to Mary. ‘There’ll be no more trouble.’ When she’d gone, he pointed to me with his phone. ‘You can prove fuck all,’ he said, ‘so fuck off back to your hovel and leave decent people in peace.’ Then he slammed the door in my face.
And he was right. It was my word against his, I had no proof.
I brooded for weeks, no idea what to do. He’d ruined my life and he was going to get away with it. I had absolutely no comeback. Unless …
I ordered a bike out of a catalogue, paid for it weekly, started cycling again. It was hard at first, getting my strength and stamina back, getting my leg to work like it should, but slowly, little by little, it got easier.
Everywhere I went I watched for him, but didn’t see him.
In the end, he found me. I was cycling home from work and he pulled up alongside me at a traffic light. I looked over in disbelief, but he didn’t look back; he was too busy texting.
Just before the lights changed, I pulled away and turned the handlebars ever so slightly. Sure enough, as soon as they hit green he floored the accelerator and raced forward, one eye still on his phone, and clipped my bike. I flew through the air, terrified, the voice inside my head screaming what the fuck were you thinking?
***
Six weeks later I got out of hospital and went home. It was getting chilly, but I could afford to put the heating on. I got back to work, travelling on the bus, another bike ruined. Then it was Christmas.
Home alone on Christmas Eve, I was disturbed by a knock at the door. I opened it to see Mary, clutching Daniel. ‘Can we come in?’ she asked. I nodded and stood back, gave her room. As I shut the door I noticed a neat little hatchback parked at the kerb.
‘What’s up?’ I asked her, as she perched on the edge of the settee. She put Daniel down and he toddled over to me and held his arms out. I picked him up and hugged him, turned away from Mary so she couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.
‘It’s Michael,’ she said.
‘What about him?’ I asked, lifting Daniel high above me while he showered me in chuckles and smiles.
‘He’s still locked up.’
I nodded. I knew. I’d been in court when he got done for dangerous driving, had given evidence against him. He had a long time to go yet before he made any decisions as a free man.
I flew Daniel through the air like a plane while he waggled his arms and giggled.
‘And his business has gone bust. The recession—’
‘What do you want from me, Mary?’
‘I’ve no money. Can I … can we come back?’
‘Is your stuff in the car?’
She nodded. ‘Some of it.’
Ten minutes later, it was all in the hall and she was starting to look pleased with herself. ‘You can pick your things up when you drop the rest of Daniel’s off,’ I told her, and the smile slid off her face.
‘What?’
I repeated myself.
‘But I thought …? It’s Christmas, you can’t send us back to that cold house.’
‘There’s no room at the inn,’ I told her. ‘Not for you.’
‘But Daniel—’
‘Stays here with me. If your house is that cold, he’s not safe there.’ I opened the door, nodded to her to get out. Still looking like she didn’t believe me, she stepped outside. I think she thought I was just trying to teach her a lesson, right up until the door slammed in her face and the hall light was turned off. I heard her wailing on for a while, but eventually the car pulled away. I hoped she made the most of it: when my claim against her boyfriend got through the courts, she’d have to sell it and the house to pay me.
A little later I was sipping whisky and watching TV, the sound down low as Daniel was asleep on the settee. I looked at him and whispered, ‘Welcome home, son.’ Then I raised my glass in a toast to the world at large: ‘Merry Christmas,’ I said. ‘God bless us, every fucking one.’
Thanks to Steven Miscandlon for the image. Much appreciated!
Home alone on Christmas Eve, I was disturbed by a knock at the door. I opened it to see Mary, clutching Daniel. ‘Can we come in?’ she asked. I nodded and stood back, gave her room. As I shut the door I noticed a neat little hatchback parked at the kerb.
‘What’s up?’ I asked her, as she perched on the edge of the settee. She put Daniel down and he toddled over to me and held his arms out. I picked him up and hugged him, turned away from Mary so she couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.
‘It’s Michael,’ she said.
‘What about him?’ I asked, lifting Daniel high above me while he showered me in chuckles and smiles.
‘He’s still locked up.’
I nodded. I knew. I’d been in court when he got done for dangerous driving, had given evidence against him. He had a long time to go yet before he made any decisions as a free man.
I flew Daniel through the air like a plane while he waggled his arms and giggled.
‘And his business has gone bust. The recession—’
‘What do you want from me, Mary?’
‘I’ve no money. Can I … can we come back?’
‘Is your stuff in the car?’
She nodded. ‘Some of it.’
Ten minutes later, it was all in the hall and she was starting to look pleased with herself. ‘You can pick your things up when you drop the rest of Daniel’s off,’ I told her, and the smile slid off her face.
‘What?’
I repeated myself.
‘But I thought …? It’s Christmas, you can’t send us back to that cold house.’
‘There’s no room at the inn,’ I told her. ‘Not for you.’
‘But Daniel—’
‘Stays here with me. If your house is that cold, he’s not safe there.’ I opened the door, nodded to her to get out. Still looking like she didn’t believe me, she stepped outside. I think she thought I was just trying to teach her a lesson, right up until the door slammed in her face and the hall light was turned off. I heard her wailing on for a while, but eventually the car pulled away. I hoped she made the most of it: when my claim against her boyfriend got through the courts, she’d have to sell it and the house to pay me.
A little later I was sipping whisky and watching TV, the sound down low as Daniel was asleep on the settee. I looked at him and whispered, ‘Welcome home, son.’ Then I raised my glass in a toast to the world at large: ‘Merry Christmas,’ I said. ‘God bless us, every fucking one.’
Thanks to Steven Miscandlon for the image. Much appreciated!