Oh, I love Christmas w'at with all the queer lights an' the festerin' cheer an' the cherry randy an' w'at not. An' I always like t' do my bit. Every Christmas Eve I phone those nice women up down at the Samaritans. Fancy 'avin' t' work on Christmas Eve an' miss Wallace an' Gromit? Me givin' 'em a call stops 'em gettin' lonely an' disentangled even if they don't appreciate it none an' keep tellin' me to 'ang up 'cos there are potential kamikaze victims tryin' t' get through.

Course, Christmas isn't f'r everyone. Not all of us are imbibed with 'oly spirit. Look at that darkie down at the 'ealth centre. I doubt 'ee even knows 'oo the baby Jesus is let alone ever bought any of 'is artefacts from the Catholic shop. I tried to explain to 'im about 'ow the baby Jesus slithers down the chimney with 'is sack o' perfume an' a bag full o' loofahs, but 'ee just laughed at me with 'is big white teeth an' said something in Wog w'at I couldn't quite grasp. Where 'ee comes from they spend all Christmas dancin' round a big black pot in leopard skin groin cloths, boilin' missionaries an' stickin' wax eulogies with pins an' chantin' sushi spells. Ignorant nig nogs. Still, you've got t' laugh at 'em, an' at least there's always somewhere open on Christmas Day to 'ave me bunions scraped.

It's gettin' difficult these days, o' course, t' make it t' midnight communication. Time was when My 'Enry (God rest his nose) used t' take me down there on the back of 'is big, fat Bourneville. Don't know about the roar of Moses' triumph bein' 'eard all round the desert. Y' could 'ear My 'Enry's all the way to Cumbria on a clear night. It was 'ard riding side-saddle an' all that mind, especially wi' me feet in one o' those great big slipper things where both of 'em fit into the same 'ole...oh, aren't they funny them...w'at will they think of next, eh? I remember one year our Brian bought me one o' those influxable 'emmorhoid rings. It was no bloody use ('scuse my Pig Ignorance). The 'ole was too big an' it kept slidin' off. These days I use it t' stand the teapot on when the vicar calls. I 'ope 'ee calls this year. I ain't got no-one left outside those miserable buggers ('scuse my Bolshevik) w'at call 'emselves my family now. Oh yeah...sure...they'll be round at five o'clock as instructed on Christmas mornin', fussing about an' tryin' t' make me comfortable. But they're only after me in'eritance, the theivin', ungrateful bastards! They can't fool me! I'm an 'undred and twelvety-nine, y' know, an' I ain't lost me baubles yet!