The Twelve Pains of Christmas

"The elves are dressed in leather and the angels are in chains,
The sugar plums are rancid and the stockings are in flames"
- "Christmas with the Devil", Spinal Tap

1994: On the twelfth day of Christmas, my mother sent to me...another reminder about thank you letters. Sigh. Must I? Memories of the festive season still torturing me through the small hours, I attempted to exorcise my demons (several of whom are regrettably related to me) by recalling the pleasures of the Xmas vacation...

On the first day of Christmas, my family tried to get along in the unfamiliar claustrophobia of the same house for twenty four hours. Having fought off Mum's attempt to get me out of bed with her new electric carving knife, I successfully lay in until midday with a young lady who should have been at the morning church service listening to her husband's sermon. Arising to join my beloved family and responding in like manner to a festive cry of "What time do you call this?!", I tore apart the wrapping on my presents, noting in disappointment that none of them was Cindy Crawford-shaped. This year's model woolly jumper certainly kept me warm, but only until the flames died down; thanks Gran. Dinner consisted of bloody Turkey - literally, because it wasn't cooked properly - eaten in a dangerous silence. The Queen's Speech provoked the usual arguments about her horrible anus, with Dad still insisting that she could afford the best haemorrhoids treatment available. Peace finally returned when rest of my beloved family retired to bed, leaving me to try and find some French arty smut on late night TV.

On the second day of Christmas, we visited the minor league relations we couldn't stomach seeing yesterday. "How about a Xmas kiss for me?" Uh yeah, Auntie Flo, slip me some tongue please. Having disinfected Auntie Flo with the aid of a wire scrubbing brush and some strong bleach, I was able to endure physical contact long enough to push her against the tree lights. The subsequent power surge blew the lightbulbs long enough for me to hide my little cousin Digby in the freezer unnoticed. Sadly, he went unnoticed until his parents ran out of fish fingers the following April.

On the third day of Christmas, it was the first day of the sales. Having impaled one pensioner intent on fighting to the death over the scarves bin and macheted another trying to stuff her terrier down my throat, I was able to ascertain that the big stores had once again done us proud with racks of nylon socks and cheap parkas obtained from police raids on illegal acid raves. Disgusted, I rubbed several pairs of the socks together, creating a static discharge big enough to start a fire which subsequently destroyed BHS.

On the fourth day of Christmas, I circumvented the sales by engaging in a spot of festive ram-raiding. It was as I accelerated away from Dixons that I spotted four members of the carol-singing choir who had bothered our happy household in the middle of a good argument on Xmas Eve. They were standing on the edge of the pavement waiting to cross and you can't miss an opportunity like that, particularly if "Away in a Manger" makes your steel plate throb as much as mine. None of them managed a quick chorus of "God rest ye, merry gentlemen" as they bounced off my bonnet, which just shows how quickly some people forget the true spirit of Xmas.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me five gold rings...linked by several yards of strong chain. I was too tied up for the rest of the day to do anything else.

On the sixth day of Christmas, I snarled "Bah humbug!" at an urchin who nearly ran me down on his new BMX. Regrettably, he failed to see the oncoming gritting lorry into whose path he swerved to avoid my outstretched arm. Being unable to stand cruelty to children, I borrowed the driver's shovel and finished him off. I sent the photos I took of the accident to Quentin Tarantino, as it was a graphic illustration of why you shouldn't rub salt on an open wound.

On the seventh day of Christmas, the neighbours held their traditional New Years Eve party at which I wasn't, being unable to stomach Mrs Bushelqualm's taste in tarty frocks for the menopausal generation, nor her dubious husband's eager hints about a game of Strip Pictionary. Upon emerging after midnight, the revellers proceeded to stagger wildly home. Nevertheless I was still able to pick several of them off with a .22 rifle.

On the eighth day of Christmas, Noel Edmonds narrowly avoided falling scaffolding while presenting his New Year special from Shepherds Bush. I got my money back and a promise that the Solihull and District Morris Dancing Hit Squad ("Professional assassinations with a hey-nonny-no survivors!") would try again next year, using Semtex.

On the ninth day of Christmas, I was told to dismantle the Xmas decorations and did so quickly and effficiently using an aerosol can and a cigarette lighter. They were obviously dangerously flammable; we could all have been killed in the subsequent blaze caused by the sofa catching light. Fortunately, next door's toddler was staying with us while his Mum went shopping and I was able to use him to beat the flames out. She looked a bit suspicious at the scorch marks on his romper suit, but we said he'd fallen on the gas fire.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my Uncle Fred and Auntie Mildred called round. Thankfully we spotted them in time and, while Dad hid under the window, I crawled underneath their Rover and wired an ex-IRA car bomb bought cheap at the Church jumble sale into the ignition. We spent the rest of the day cleaning Uncle Fred and Auntie Mildred off the pebbledash.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, I discovered that the jumbo bottle of Brut 33 given to me by cousin Nancy was not actually her preferred scent for men. However, this may have been caused by getting it in her eyes after I "accidentally" shook the bottle too hard while she tried blackmailing me into wearing it. I poured the remaining contents into the sherry she asked for later. Her response was to fall on the rug and lie very still, which was most vexing. Particularly when she was still doing it several hours later, pointedly ignoring all our hints about leaving soon. In the end, Mum dumped her in the wheelie-bin.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, I spent seven hours preparing thank you letters for bits of my family - bits to be, that is. Wiring the mercury switches into the envelope flaps was the most difficult part, but the thought of Great Aunt Agatha's face lighting up when she opened hers, however briefly, kept me going. Seasons bleedings!

Ade "Gawd bless yer, Mr Scrooge" Rixon and Paul "Bah, humbug!" Coombes