Cod Almighty | Diary

Lost Christmas

24 December 2021

It was Christmas Eve, and Scrooge sat in his dimly lit room looking at his funky new plastic season ticket and wondering which century he was in. Suddenly, there was a most unexpected knock on the door, for Scrooge had few visitors. It was his nephew, Harry Happyclappy. "Happy Christmas, Uncle Scrooge!" said the youngster, beaming merrily. "And a promotion-filled New Year for the Mighty Mariners!"

"Humbug!" exclaimed Scrooge emphatically. "What kind of Christmas will this be? All the games are cancelled because of the Omigod variant, and Town are as shit as they have ever been anyway. Shit, shit, shit, same as usual. Shit."

"Don’t be like that, Uncle. We are merely adjusting to a new league and new owners as part of a carefully planned rebuilding process that may take some time to come to fruition. Look, I've brought a lobster and crayfish vol-au-vent that I bought last Saturday. Tuck in!"

"Tuck off more like," said Scrooge, rather unkindly, for his nephew was a good and kind man whose only plan was to bring a hint of light and cheer into his uncle's drear existence. "If you feel that way, I will be away, Uncle," Harry protested. "But I hope to see you in the Ponny, same as usual, come the new year! UTM."

Scrooge threw his season ticket at his nephew who managed to retreat just in time. The ticket fell onto the floor amongst the old receipts, scarves and paper season tickets Scrooge left lying around the place. "Damnable Pollyanna of a nephew!" he shouted, breathing heavily. "Anyway, may as well go to bed," he said to himself "since there seems little worth staying awake for."

But Scrooge's sleep was fitful and did not soothe him. Indeed, he was soon awakened by what sounded like the rattling of chains. These chains were attached to a hideous spectre, who drifted through the door as easily as an opposition forward through the Town defence.

Scrooge, disbelieving and perturbed, yelled at the apparition. "What or who are thee, spirit! Name thyself!"

"I am the ghost of Marley," replied the ghost in a hollow baritone.

"Didn't you used to be on the town board?"

"Shut up!" said the ghost, and left as quickly as it had arrived.

"Well, that was a shit ghost. Bloody useless club can't even do haunting right," mumbled Scrooge. "About time we paid out for some decent ghosts." He turned over in bed and tried to sleep, but the apparition had unsettled him. Before long he felt another presence in the room, and turned in horror to see the rough form of a topless middle-aged man carrying a bucket of iced water.

"Tonight, Scrooge," said the newly-arrived wraith, "we have three ghosts in the building. The plan is to incentivise board members into obligating financial shortfalls which will be unbecoming of our fiduciary offerings vis-a-vis the festive periods in a very real sense. These three ghosts, like ducks, will be appearinating in a row. I am the first. I am the ghost of GTFC Christmas past. The objectification of the apparitionses, and I am including myself in that shortlist, will be with the aim of solid footinging the construction of a new stadium in a horsefield with enabling and disenabling, in a going forward resolution, residential constructification and good cheer."

"That doesn't even make sense!" screamed Scrooge impatiently. "Why are all the ghosts so bloody rubbish! Look, spirit, I have been looking into your accounts..."

Suddenly the figure was gone, leaving no gap in the dark air behind it. A sense of calm and peace began to fill the room like smoke from a scented candle. Surely now Scrooge could sleep well? It was not to be. Within minutes another figure had appeared in the room, this time vague and indistinct.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Scrooge impatiently. "I can see nothing of you!"

"I'm having trouble keeping us shape," said the spectre in a monotone. "I think you need another fireguard over there. You’ve only got two. That's not enough defence. By the way, I am the ghost of Christmas present. I have come to show you what would have been my teamsheet for Boxing Day. There are a few changes."

"Oh, I’m sick to death of this," said Scrooge. "None of these ghosts are teaching me a damn thing. They are just reminding me how bloody hopeless everything is. Begone, foul spirit!"

"It's foolish to sack yet another manager..." the spirit began, but Scrooge waved his arms so passionately at the ghoul that it too faded like a memory, leaving Scrooge alone with his thoughts once more.

"Surely I will not be interrupted again," he thought, and indeed some quiet time ensued and he soon drifted into an uneasy sleep. That is, until he was awoken by a football smacking him square on the nightcap. He lit his bedside candle and peered into the darkness. "Who is it now?" he called out. "Who comes to disturb my sleep yet again!"

"My name is Russell Slade," said an eerie voice from the gloom. This was too much for Scrooge, who immediately leapt out of bed and fled. Within seconds he was knee deep in the snow, desperately trying to reach the house of his nephew, Harry Happyclappy. With God's help he made it before his lower limbs turned blue and he was greeted by his astonished nephew.

"You've come to spend Christmas with us, have you, Uncle Scrooge? How lovely! We have a massive turkey to share, not to mention emmenthal hot dogs in parsley sauce and coriander drizzle! Come in and get warm, Uncle. You have met our other guests, F.N. Crockshit and Tiny Dave Gilbert? How merry shall we be!"

"Whatever," said Scrooge, as agreeably as he could manage. "As long as there are no ghosts around the place, or skeletons in the cupboard. Happy-" At this stage the words seemed to dry in his throat, but he forced himself to carry on. "Happy humb....no, that's not right. Happy Christmas...to all. Gah."