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We all thought the end would come in the form of a nuclear war, or at least a zombie uprising (Christ, I really wanted this), but no.

It came in the form of a sniffle.

Some guy somewhere coughed, and within 15 years we were a race of survivors in a barren landscape. Even Starbucks had shut ffs.

Yet as the creatures of hope we are, Christmas still became the highlight in the years PC (Post Covid).

We all gather around the fireplace, (apart from Nan obviously. She was still tied to the post in the garden after her attempt to gum Auntie Sarah’s neck off) singing songs of past glories. Like when you accidentally got two toys in cereal packets instead of one.

The elders would tell the youngsters the true story of Christmas. The story of farmboy Luke and his seemingly immaculate conception. How he overcame all odds, with the help of a space wizard, to become the deity we all know and love. It’s not Christmas if the little ones don’t hear ‘The Night Before Deathstar’.

Excited, toothless faces opening gifts in the flickering light of burning tyres. Gifts wrapped lovingly in bits of Grandads dead, translucent skin. One year I got an empty lighter, a pre-fucked squirrel corpse, and hepatitis B. Sometimes it’s quality over quantity. Our cousin Phil only got a bag of sand. He did give it himself being fair though as he’s gone doolally.

Sitting down to Christmas Dinner is obviously the pinnacle of the day. Thanking the Lord and Saviour Obi Wan Kenobi for eradicating oppression of any kind. These days it’s fine to be of any sexual orientation, as there’s basically no one left alive to screw anyway. The ones that are, smell like a hobos footprint. Racism is also a thing of the past. The only racial slur the younglings have heard, is when Mom called the fella down the road “Black Steve”. That’s only since he set himself alight though.

He didn’t taste like a Steve

After dinner it’s time for party games. The young ones go mad for it. There’s nothing better than seeing their little faces light up as they play ‘Pin The Rock On The Weakest Family Member’. Last year Uncle Pete proved to be a great sport, and a wonderful Boxing Day meal. This year John from round the corner hasn’t turned up, since he had that tumble while scavenging in the blown up Tesco.

I think we’ll take the kids to visit him later.

Once the kids are asleep the adults can celebrate in peace. Drinking mulled puddle juice and pulling each others hair. Then comes the Great Buggery. The time to create the younglings. Everyone joins in. So I’m kinda glad Nan is tied to that post still. It’s like fucking a baby birds skeleton. Like a bag of twigs, Dad says.

Then, with our bellies full of Christmas rat burgers, cockroach cookies and mutant cross eyed sperm, it’s time to hit the hay, safe in the knowledge that we’ve kept the time old traditions alive. It’s good to be festive.

Happy New Fear one and all…now….

…Run.