Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  In the valley below me it is winter. Memories of Christmas fade, the solstice recedes further back still, and Meltham rests silently in a December dress of mist and mud, under a blanket of dolphin-grey cloud. On foot I climb ‘The Catch’; upwards past pine and stile to ascend further still into a world of light and colour; a breathless, sun-kissed world of warmth in which, God-like, I stand above cloud, valley, and all of creation. I have experienced nothing like this before in my life, save when, in my own dark days, that same sullen blanket settles itself about my heart to smother what light it finds within; but now, here on this hilltop, I know, all I ever need do is ascend.

  I’m dreaming of a sh**e Christmas, when it pours with rain on Christmas Day. And you’ve cooked the turkey till it’s like beef jerky but you’ve got to eat it anyway.   It drags from afternoon to night, Christmas. Now Grandad’s snoring in his chair and the kids are raving and misbehaving but by then you’re too far gone to care.   Once again, it’s been a sh**e Christmas like almost every one I’ve had but we’ve all got merry on too much sherry and it somehow doesn’t seem so bad   Why must it be so sh**e, Christmas? so sentimental and so trite. As I bid my family goodnight I pray next Christmas won’t be sh**e

The sound of sleigh bells fills the air, Santa's arriving without a care. He certainly seems extremely merry - by the looks of it, he's been hitting the sherry. The reindeers are struggling to keep the sleigh steady. How on earth did the elves get everything ready? They shouldn't have partied, but what a good night, although poor Santa looks quite a sight. Presents perched at a precarious angle. Tinsel and ribbons in such a tangle. "Get a move on," shouts Santa, as he breaks into song. "If we go a bit faster, it shouldn't take long." The presents survive the hazardous trip, but Santa is feeling a little bit sick. Mince pies and chocolates have soaked up the booze, now he wants to go home with no time to lose. Rudolph and friends take a well-earned break, to munch on carrots and Christmas cake. Relieved it's all over until next December, but it's certainly been a night to remember.

The first blue stain of light has not yet spilled itself across the blackness of the night, and I am elsewhere, sailing through the half‑world, drifting on a tide of sleep down rivulets of dreams. Achingly… imperceptibly, the world turns by degrees to face the scant warmth of dawn, lapping still lazily at the shore of the day— the shortest of days— on which the year turns, and all life must die to be reborn. The small and quarrelsome creature that I have become through the dark days of winter stretches back into the shape of lengthening days, brought to life by soft kisses of light, until all darkness is burned away and I am alive again.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, Nothing was stirring not even Santa Claus. He’d drunk all the brandy and eaten the crisps, Then fallen downstairs, entirely pissed. The reindeer were restless as time hurtled by More parcels to carry on their sleigh in the sky. ‘What shall we do?’ said Donner and Blitzen. ‘He’s out for the count,’ replied Dasher and Vixen. 'It’s all down to us, chaps,' said Rudolph the Wise, 'We must not leave children with tears in their eyes.' So they loaded the presents with help from the elves, Mission accomplished: hurray! They were proud of themselves. They flew down the chimneys and circled the earth, Returning to the Pole on the day of His birth. Santa was shamed, the deer gave him hell, He held his sore head and felt rather unwell. Disaster averted, the secret was kept, Children’s presents delivered while they safely slept. But what of the drunkard who’d caused all that shame? He went into rehab but was never the same.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, When all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, Not even a cluck from Chicken, Warming by the hearth, Until wooden, good-luck Rabbit, Stirred on the top shelf of the bookcase And parachuted, by silk-handkerchief, To the ground. ‘Ready,' Rabbit said to Chicken. ‘You bet. Let’s go!’ With that, Chicken was off to the garden, Her chum wheezing heavily to keep up. The other creatures had already gathered. The party was on, sprinkled with freshly falling snow Lit by New Moon, winking between the trees, Fed by Squirrel’s Stores and watered by Stream, (Who was still managing to avoid Ice.) With music provided by the Dove chorus, They danced into Christmas.