Christmas Parody Challenge

 

In the spirit of John Clarke (aka Dylan Thompson) whose A Child’s Christmas in Warrnambool continues to delight, we invited writers to send us a parody of a Christmas story, poem, song or tradition.

 

 

 

IT’S FUNNY THE THINGS YOU REMEMBER …
GEOFF GASKILL

Someone told us if we wanted to go, we’d have what they called a cold coming of it. Just the worst time of the year, they said. Given the forecast, it would be a long journey.

Maybe we were too stubborn to take advice. Maybe we saw it as a challenge. Maybe we just wanted a weekend away. Who knows? Despite all the warnings, we went anyway. It didn’t take long for us to realise how stupid we were. We weren’t kids anymore.

They were right. It was a bitch of a journey.

That said, what happened?

Well, there was this kid …

Till that moment none of us realised what we expected to see walking into the place. We bounded in as if we owned it, but we never really got close enough to that kid. Boy? Girl? Who knew?

The whole place looked, and smelled, like a giant farm, complete with mooing, bleating, baahing, clucking animals. The more cynical of us questioned its authenticity.

At first, we thought some local farmer was putting on a show and we were part of some elaborate immersive audience participation thing.

What were we thinking? We brought stuff no kid would ever want or know what to do with, even if it wasn’t a baby and lying in a makeshift and dodgy cot.

That cot was a red flag. The father was supposed to be a carpenter! On the strength of that crib, I wouldn’t want him building any house of mine.

But the parents did look like they could use all the help they can get. Gold’s useful, I admit, but what were we thinking bringing that other stuff?

I’m not a kid person, but from a distance, that little one seemed pretty laid back to me. What I’ve heard mothers call a good baby.

My first thoughts were that the parents had organised an elaborate scam. My suspicions were first aroused by that dodgy star thing. It looked like a dirty snowball someone had tossed in the air and it got stuck.

After following it, it guided us to an inn. There was the stable out the back and those happy-looking new parents all bathed in a rosy glow …

You get the idea.

When I think of it now, I have to laugh. Talk about manipulation and tugging the heart strings.

Anyway, we offloaded the stuff we’d brought and got out. We saw no use in taking it back home. If we were honest, we’d have said we were glad to get rid of it. Much like doggy poo in a bag, it became someone else’s problem.

I’m back home now and I’ve almost wiped that journey with its silly affair from my memory. I reckon the rest will forget about it within a couple of weeks.

It just goes to show, there are somethings that are not worth getting hung up about.

 

 

A CHRISTMAS STORY
GEOFF GASKILL

I’m not a bah-humbug person but …

I blame CASA. It wasn’t as if we weren’t acquainted. I called them regularly at this time each year. And every time, I got nowhere.
At my call this year I first got a recording telling me how important my call was to them before listing options I didn’t want. If I wanted to speak to an operator I needed to hold and a member of staff would be with me as soon as one was available.
After ten minutes, Bob came on the line. ‘Bob Cratchit speaking, how may I help?’

All things considered I thought getting to speak to Bob was easier than in the past.

Till it wasn’t.

After introducing myself, I launched into my annual concern about low-flying aircraft.

Maybe Bob had never heard of me from my previous contacts, or maybe he was thick, but after listening he asked, ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Santa and those reindeer of his, of course.’

I don’t think Bob was impressed. ‘Santa?’

‘Who else? I’ve had a gutful of broken roof tiles, grooves in the Colourbond, broken TV antennae and damaged solar panels on Christmas Eve … The vandalised air conditioning unit was the last straw. There’s no-one in the street who hasn’t got a complaint. Even the local dogs go crazy.’

Bob’s voice oozed calm. He called me sir and told me CASA took public safety very seriously indeed and if I wanted to go to their website …

‘Are you just reading from the CASA handbook? Because I can read to you too. I’ve downloaded the rules from the internet.’

Silence roared down the line.

‘Not even kids around here are allowed to fly drones,’ I added. ‘If everyone else must comply with the regulations,’ I said dropping all pretense at politeness, ‘why can’t the red-suited Yuletide buffoon?’ For emphasis, I added, ‘He drives without lights as well.’

By now Bob had discovered unctuousness. ‘But Mr Scrooge, it’s Christmas.’

‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,’ I snapped.

Did Bob not understand the damage Santa’s annual visit wrought on the houses in the neighbourhood? Or did he just not care? ‘It’s not as if I haven’t done my best to resolve the matter with man himself.’ I pointed out that my roof was not a parking lot. ‘And there are no children at my place.’

Bob tried again. ‘But it’s …’

‘… Christmas, I know,’ I added. ‘Apart from everything else,’ I pressed on, ‘I object to his agistment of his nine wretched, cud-chewing reindeer on my house.’

‘What about the joy and wonder of the Season?’ Bob tried.

‘Bah humbug!’ I snarled. Christmas, it seemed, was destined to be my Sisyphean season. Be tolerant was the message. It’s just one night. For the children. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Before I could ring off, Bob added, ‘Thank you for your feedback, Mr Scrooge. CASA looks forward to hearing from you again. Next year.’

 

 

SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN
CHRIS MILLIKEN

You had … better watch out
You’d better not cry
You’d better hide snacks,
I’m telling you why—
Santa Clause gained forty-two pounds.

Check your grocery list,
The drinks are on ice,
He’s gonna find out what marinades nice—
Santa Clause gained forty-two pounds …

He sees you when your eating,
He loves a pasta bake,
He knows which Christmas wine is good,
to compliment a Chocolate cake.

You had … better watch out
You’d better not cry
You’d better hide snacks,
I’m telling you why—
Santa Clause gained forty-two pounds.