Friday, December 30, 2011

New Year New Danglies


Quite how Father Time got himself involved in an annual ritual alongside a new born baby without being locked up for paedophile crimes against humanity, I have no idea.

All I know is, the old guy with the beard has taken a number of disturbing liberties under cover of the bulldozer moving all the heaps of festive chocolate from one end of my living room to the other and the sighs of relief following the departure of irritating extended family members, most notably killing my laptop and iPod and the turbo switch on the tumble dryer.  Sad but true, it looks like I shall be forced to spend some of my Christmas money on replacement electrical goods rather than the full Lady Gaga transvestite makeover I had planned for the opening weeks of January.*

* As it turns out, I’d have been a few grand short of the Full Gaga even if the Father Time had failed to destroy my stuff, so maybe I was being a little optimistic.  Looks like the bearded one has spared me the toss up between an Andy Murray and three and a half Ken Clarkes.

The more you think about it, the more the whole Father Time / Weird Annus Dribblis Baby arrangement seems a little far-fetched.  I still have trouble with the whole Jesus and Mary thing, not to mention Brian Eno and Brian Ferry.  Call me a dumbo, but I can’t see any mother figure presiding over this annual rebirth.  Maybe she’s elsewhere, dropping sprogs every December 31st only to have them kidnapped and transported to a distant dimension by an old git who, for the past million zillion millennia, hasn’t once got the Philishave he put on any of his Christmas lists.  It must be sad for that mother figure, shambling namelessly in the void between hope and pelvic thrust, especially if she knows about us lot, swanning around at her expense, buoyed by the bonny bounce of a bright new year.

Maybe if we all went for an Andy Murray tranny op, Father Time could be persuaded to stay away for a few years.  That way, the nameless mother figure could get to spend a some time with her kids and experience the joys of a fledgling cosmos bristling with every promise of tomorrow.  As for us, being stuck in limbo for a while might not be very much fun, but assuming the mantle of a grumpy Scottish stubble grower would work wonders for persuading ourselves that it really wasn’t happening to us.

So to hell with it!

The iPod can wait!

Anyone else game for a little sacrifice in order to help a nameless mother figure in another dimension?  If you’re short of shekels, a single Ken Clarke might do the trick...


7 comments:

fairyhedgehog said...

Happy New Year to you too, Whirl!

And I'm sorry about the dead laptop etc.

I shall be going to bed early on New Year's Eve to escape the clutches of the bearded fellow.

Whirlochre said...

Hag Mannay
I might stay up and wriggle with Jools...

stacy said...

I woke up at 12:18 a.m. myself, feeling like I'd just dodged a bullet.

Whirlochre said...

Only just spotted I wrote "Hag Mannay". What a rotten typo...

fairyhedgehog said...

But possibly appropriate...

Whirlochre said...

Hag Supremo
Hag it is, then — with a view to ascending to "bat"...

fairyhedgehog said...

Ooh, ooh, ooh! Bat is good too!