A visit from Saint Boris

A visit from Saint Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore

bastardised by the Shark Fisherman of Wales

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Boris soon would be there;

Wilfred was nestled all snug in his bed;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in his head;

And Carrie Symonds in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With an obese 56 year old driver so slow like a dick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Boz

Slower than beagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Sunak! now Hancock! now Raab and Gove!

On, Patel! on, Sharma! on, Barnard Castle!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and fat Johnson too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Bozo came with a bound.

He was dressed all in semi-sexual fox fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a meddler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, he'd been on the sherry!

His fat saggy mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a crack pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a huge round belly

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; spaffed with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his hose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a Scots' thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

"significant return to normality" by Christmas

I don't think that there will be a significant return to normality by Christmas. You couldn't get a more abnormal time of year. Non Christians running around like headless chickens buying presents to jump start the economy. 

I think Boris Johnson may be gone by Christmas. He has lost whatever appeal and jollity he may have had to the Upper & Brexit Classes. His alleged brush with death has made him a more serious fellow and whereas before, his schoolboy jokes would be greeted by guffaws of laughter from the school benches behind, you can now hear Matron's pin drop as he makes another verbal gaffe. Is his pater Stanley still in Greece or has he returned to the UK like migrant refugees through Bulgaria?

 The UK has not been normal for a very long time. The 1970s were as close to normal as you could get and the abomination of today is an insult to those who left their chopper bikes on the ground and dashed in to the corner shop for a curly-wurly. From Thatcher to Major, from Blair to Brown, from Cameron to Johnson via May, the chopper has rusted and the curly-wurly is stale. 

During pandemic lock down people have had the opportunity to evaluate if there is any point to their pointless existences. Getting the whip out on a population still scared shit less by the great toilet roll stampede of April 2020, maybe isn't such a good idea. Get out there folks and stuff your half price pizza through your 3 ply mask. Get out there and mingle, 2 metres away, 1 metre away or if your football team gets promoted mingle as close to the next person's backside as you possibly can.

Lets's twerk for Britain and let's get this goddam shit show back on the road. Wagon's Roll!!