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I’m Dreaming of a Shite Chritmas

The Mother must have been about 19 when you had celebrated her what was to be her last at home, Oh but what a memorable Christmas it was. If she could remember rightly she had spent the night before at her local getting hammered. What was it she drank back then, oh yes anything she could get her hands on.


She and her friends had downed a half bottle of Vodka whilst getting ready to go out. Then consumed a bottle of 20/20 on the bus ride to the pub. She racked her brains now trying to remember what flavour it had been, there had been so many to choose from, ah she remembered, it was…blue flavour.

For those too young to know what 20/20 is I will explain. 20/20 or “Mad Dog,” as it was also known was basically fortified wine dyed a bright colour such as red or green. The colour supposedly reflected a flavour. The drink was thick and syrupy, smell like cough medicine but didn’t taste nearly as nice.


Looking back she wasn’t even sure it was effective at getting you drunk. What it did guarantee however a banging hangover. Drinking that and Vodka was probably her first mistake of the night. The second, well that would have been the Diamond White / Special Brew Snakebites. Then of course there her drug of choice in those days speed. What was she taking speed the night before Christmas, when there was a scuzzy dealer in the pub who would have given her a line of coke in exchange for a xxxxxx!


Anyway, that Christmas was was truly unforgettable. She had spent the early hours of Christmas morning doing two things. Number one throwing up into a bucket next to her bed and two, trying to force her eyes lids shut. Her brother, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as lucky! He didn’t quite make it to the bathroom and was sick on himself, the stairs and the wall just outside the bathroom door. The stains never did come out completely.


Christmas morning came and went, with neither her nor her brother surfacing from their beds. Noon came and so did her mother, straight into her room, opened the curtains, pulled off her quilt and told her in no uncertain terms to get her lazy arse out of bed. Well, she knew she couldn’t lie there forever but was hoping to remain under the quilt until at least boxing day.

Ten minutes later she was downstairs at the kitchen table with her entire extended family including both her dads (biological and step). This is going to be interesting though the Mother. She sat down opposite her older brother and locked eyes, like bulls across the kitchen table. One of them at least had to attempt to eat the Christmas dinner their mother has spent the last two and a half hours preparing. But who was it going to be? Her brother seemed unable to even pick up a fork let alone eat anything. Judging by his pupils he was still tripping. He kept looking at the peas as if at any moment they would actually jump up and eat him.

It was going to have to her, but where to start. What food was least likely to make her sick. She looked at the Brussel sprouts, no fucking way. A roast potato? she’d still be on shaky ground. Perhaps some nut roast. No, nuts were a bastard to throw up, always scratched your throat as if they point to prove. In the end, she opted for the humble carrot but It was a pitiful attempt. She sat there slowly chewing it, looking like a geriatric in an old people’s home. Even her mum knew something was wrong.


Come on Miss Knight it’s nice and soft, just chew it, now can you manage another one. It turns out she couldn’t even manage that first, her stomach was just able to cope with weak milky tea at regular intervals. but not food, not yet. Five minutes she was throwing up again. It would have been sooner but she had to first get past her Grandma and Grandad who was on her side of the dinner table, It was a close one.

Now many years later, she found herself thinking about that Christmas, but why? Well because there was going to be rerun on it, not the carrot innocent but rather the whole shite Christmas business. This Christmas, in tier 4 was shaping up to be the worst Christmas she’d ever lived through.

This year she wouldn’t be seeing any of her family nor would she be out celebrating on Christmas with her friends. Every time she turned on the tele there was more bad news A new strain of the virus and a soaring death rate dead rate. lorries back up in Kent, the possibility of schools closing yet again, food shortages, a record number of families depending on food banks, huge rise in domestic violence, lorries back up in Kent. It just went on and on. Of course, they always rounded the news up with the promise of snow this year, but everyone knew that was bollocks.

Still, she had to be grateful, things could be worse, no really they could!). None of her family were ill, Yet! She had a profiterole pyramid in the fridge and so far her heating hadn’t packed up. There was a lot to be thankful for. So, in the vein, she began to write a list of the positive things about this Christmas.

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