A Christmas Drink
December twenty third. Atherton Cemetery blanketed in snow. Me, with my big coat on and a can of Carling, blinking away the falling snowflakes.
Crouching at my mate Ronnie Finkell’s grave.
Staring at the headstone, thinking how weird it was his body was just under my feet. Probably warmer than me.
He once held the Northern Area Flyweight belt. The Hag Fold Hurricane. I remember his first pro fight. Was in his corner carrying the water bottle. First round. He got rattled with a rabbit punch that stung so hard it made me piss blood. Ref separates them and Ronnie comes over. Goes to climb out the ring.
“What you doing?” I said.
“He got me reet in’t piss pump. I’m going home. My name’s Van Gogh and I’m off,” he said.
I gave him an openhanded slap across the kisser. His bottom lip wobbled and he looked at me like I’d pissed on his kitten.
“It’s a kidney, not a piss pump. He caught you because you were prancing about. Tuck your elbows in and get dancing.”
“It hurts, you dickhead.”
“Well hit him and don’t get hit then. You’ve trained for this, now go and show what you can do. Stop crying for God’s sake.”
“Well, you didn’t need to slap me.”
“Just pretend he’s nicked your bong.”
“Right. I’ll pissing have him.”
The tears stopped in their tracks as his jaws ground the gumshield. And that was all it took. Never lost another pro fight.
I stood up and poured the rest of the beer onto the grass.
Some fella shouted, “Oy, you’d best not be having a piss.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sling it, you whopper,” I said.
Looked back at the headstone. “Merry Christmas, mate.”
A Christmas Blessing
Coming up to seven. Snow turning to grey slush as I trudge up Market Street. Flashes of lights shaped like stars the council had put up. Bustle of last-minute shoppers and drinkers smoking outside the pubs. Turned right by the Wheatsheaf and headed to St Richard’s church on Mayfield Street to catch the early evening mass.
I wasn’t sure about God, in fact if He did exist I wouldn’t mind a quiet word with Him to be honest. But there was something about the hymns and the reverence that I couldn’t quite let go of at this time of year.
Hoped Father Langan had mellowed. Long story short, I’d bugged the confession booth and two people subsequently died. Not my finest moment.
Walked in, most of the benches already brimming.
“You. Out,” he shouted. Nope, no mellowing. Everybody turned round.
“Can’t we move on?”
“Out.”
What would Ronnie have said? Something popped in my head. It was his riposte when he was informed he’d been banned from JR’s off license for pinching a penny toffee. It just came out: “A penny toffee? You want grab your piss flaps and get a grip.”
“What? Just get out!”
Can’t reason with some people. Slammed the door behind me as I left.
Muttered, “Nobhead,” and slinked off to my apartment, one of the new ones across from the Punchbowl pub. Got a beer from the fridge and flicked on the tele. Some service, a choir singing.
Drank myself to sleep, passing out on the sofa after watching a Gremlins dvd, trying to remind myself of the Christmas magic from childhood that was melting quicker than the snow.
Stocking Fillers
9am. Christmas Eve. Atherton Town. Rough as a hedgehog’s ballsack.
Woken by the zap of the doorbell.
I click unlock and hear footsteps up the stairs, eye up to the peephole, baseball bat by my side.
A woman, white bob hat with a red bobble, blonde curls framing her face. Open up as far as the chain lets me.
“Are you Mr. Gibfield?”
“You the police?”
“No, why what’ve you done.”
“Nothing, but it’s only them what call me Mr. Gibfield, usually while being arrested.”
“I don’t want to arrest you. I want to hire you.”
“You’re dafter than you look.”
“I was told you were a P.I.”
“Some people would claim those letters stand for pissing idiot.”
She burst out laughing. Just before the tears.
Her Story came flooding out. Boyfriend being a nasty bastard so she dumps him. He’s not happy and now he’s blackmailing her, threatening to release intimate images taken at happier times. Revenge porn.
I use my one and only real skill I’d honed over the years: Listening.
She finishes her tale and wipes her face with a sheet of kitchen roll.
“What does he do?”
“He’s a proctologist.”
“Dr Arsehole, eh?”
That triggers a giggle. She says, “You think you can help me?”
“Can’t promise anything. I’ll see what I can do.”
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a wedge of money.
I wave it away.
“Sort me out later, if my plan works.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The less you know, the better.”
She insists with the cash but I decline. I still had a few grand left over from backing Ronnie to win the belt, otherwise I’d have snatched her hand off, truth be told. Or maybe not. Tis the season for good deeds and all that jazz.
She wrote down her name, April, telephone number and address, alongside Dr Arsehole’s location.
“I’ll be in touch.”
She nods and leaves.
Her perfume lingers with her sense of reassurance. Me, taking a deep breath and running through a scenario in my head, hoping I don’t fuck things up. Tried to shower the headache away.
Put my big coat on, rummaged through the kitchen drawer for some plastic bags and headed out. Kicked up grey slush, melting snow mixed with oil from the road.
Walked to Max Spielmann and on the way back nipped into the butcher’s next to the Punchbowl. I told him what I wanted and he gave me a funny look.
He said, “People usually have turkeys or geese.” Grinned.
“Really, I hadn’t noticed.”
“No need to be sarcastic, it’s just unusual.”
“These are strange days,” I said and fixed him with my best stare.
He must have thought I was fucked out of my head on drugs. It sped up the transaction and clipped the banter.
Market street, heavy foot traffic, frying fish and bakeries wafting in the cold air. My mouth was drooling but my stomach wouldn’t process anything substantial so settled for a corned beef and onion roll from Bar Be Chic and went home.
I needed assistance and made a phone call to Ste Hulme, former doorman turned gigolo:
“Hairband, merry Christmas. I need a hand.”
“If you keep calling me hairband you’ll be shit out of luck.”
“You can’t be so sensitive. People go bald.”
“Are you winding me up?”
“Sorry. No, I’m serious.” I told him the tale.
“No bother. What tools do you think I should bring?”
“I’ll leave that up to you. Pick Lieutenant Perry up on your way.”
“Do we really need Pez? You know he causes carnage.”
“You never know when carnage can be useful.”
They arrived in under half an hour.
“Merry Christmas, lads. Check out your Christmas stockings,” I said, pointing to the bags.
Pez seemed to really think I’d got him a present. Opened his bag, recoiled his head back and shouted, “Whoa, what the fuck is this, you dickhead.” Ste peeked a look and laughed.
I explained the plan of action and they nodded along.
Pez said, “Soon as it’s dark. In the meantime I think we should visit Johnny.”
“Fair shout.”
Jumped in Ste’s car and shot off.
The Visit Of The Three Wise Men
DS Johnny Wood had been suspended without pay from the police force after getting coked out of his eyeballs and causing a near riot in The Mill bar with a poem. I wasn’t sure if he still held us responsible for his descent into drugs, although his dabble as a bard was entirely his own doing. He’d been checked into the psychiatric unit.
On the drive to the infirmary I said to Ste, “You’ve lost weight. Everything ok?”
“Gigolo overtime. Raking it in. Plenty of lonely ladies this time of year. Feel like I’ve been milked dry. Got balls like raisins.”
Pez just shook his head.
We buzzed the ward doorbell and the staff let us in. Went to fetch Johnny.
He was at the top of the corridor in a side room. Came out, had a look, recognised us and said, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the three wise men.” He had a blanket over his shoulders and straight away I wondered which one of us would say it. I was very tempted myself.
“Alright, mate,” Pez said, “Just thought we’d see how you were doing, cheer you up, like.”
Ste said, “You could do with a haircut and a shave. Do you want me to get the clippers off the staff?”
Johnny padded down to us with a right look on his face. Said, “How I’m doing? Cheer me up? My career’s in tatters and this prat is banging on about my hair?”
“Just trying to help, mate,” Ste said.
A crowd of staff and patients had gathered.
“It’ll be a cold day in Hell when I need help from a prostitute, an idiot who thinks he’s a P.I. because he’s read the fucking novels– ”
Ste looked around at half the ward who’d burst out laughing and said loudly, “I think you’ll find I’m a gigolo actually, Johnny.”
Pez creased up.
Johnny turned to Pez and said, “I don’t know what you’re laughing at. You’re one loose screw away from going feral up rucks like the British version of Rambo First Blood. The three wise men? More like the three absolute dickheads.” He swished his blanket and added, “Staff, show these people to the door.”
Ste was still embarrassed and I just knew he’d say it. He shouted, “At least try and enjoy your Christmas dinner. If you can’t be bothered with the turkey there’s always pigs in blankets.”
“Staff, get them three out before I go ballistic,” Johnny shouted.
We crossed the car park to Ste’s car and Pez said, “That actually went better than I expected.”
Bearing Gifts or The Northern Shinobi
We still had a bit of time before dark, so went back to mine and played poker swigging cold beers.
“What tools did you pick?” I asked Ste.
“Went for the nunchucks in the end.”
Pez threw his cards down, stood up and stretched, flicked open the curtain and said, “Right lads, let’s get the party started.”
Drove through town, rehearsing what we were going to do, and parked on the carpark of the Talbot pub on Wigan Road. Dr Arsehole’s place was a house on the new estate. Scoped it out.
Pez said, “Right, you two figure out if you can get in on ground level. I’ll check the skylight on the roof. If you can manage it, I’ll stay up there as lookout.”
I said, “What is it with you, roofs and skylights?”
“Have you been trained in reconnaissance?”
“No.”
“Well shut up then.”
With that, he scaled the roof.
Ste said, “I can see him through the curtains in the living room. He’s on his own.” He crouched down and scuttled under the window ledge to the front door. Put his hand in the letterbox.
“What you doing?” I whispered
“There might be a key on a piece of string.”
“Do people still do that these days?”
“Soon find out. Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“My hand’s stuck.”
“Are you having me on?”
“No, I’m being serious, it’s pissing stuck.”
I just couldn’t believe this. Gripped his arm at the wrist and yanked it back. The letterbox clattered like a starting pistol. I grabbed Ste’s collar and we rolled behind the bushes.
Our revenge porn merchant opened the door, looked both ways and muttered something before slamming it and locking up.
“We could have just tried the handle and walked in. Back door might be open,” Ste said.
It was. I texted Pez: We’re in. Got a thumbs up in return. Slowly depressed the door handle and crept through the kitchen.
“Are you ready,” I said to Ste
“Born ready and bold as brass,” he grinned.
I lead the way. Opened the adjoining door and strolled in. Did a double take.
Our target was sat on the couch. Pez was sat behind him, gripping him in a sleeper hold with a hand over his mouth. He shrugged and said, “Nipped in while you two were fannying about. Was going to come down the chimney seeing as it’s Christmas but it’s a gas fire.” I wasn’t sure if he was joking. “I’ll leave yous to it and get back up on roof as lookout.”
Ste pushed his top lip up exposing his teeth and said in a Bugs Bunny voice, “What’s up, Doc?”
The Doc just sat there, gobsmacked.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Ste said.
Doc found his voice. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Get the fuck out of my property you troglodytes.”
“Is this where I nunchuck him?”
“Nunchuck me? How dare you.” He reached for the phone but I yanked the wire out.
I said, “Tell me about revenge porn, Doctor Arsehole. If we can be reasonable we won’t need nunchucks.”
Blood drained from his face. “None of your fucking business.”
“It is actually. You shan’t fuck with my clients.”
“Clients? Just who do you think you are you fucking scumbags.”
“Ste, I think it’s nunchuck time.”
Out cold.
Pig’s head out of one bag and a polaroid camera out of the other.
Plenty of cheeky snaps.
Wrote on the back of one:
Leave her alone or else.
Two can play at this game.
Merry Christmas Doctor Arsehole.
From Nun Chuck.
Searched and found the digital camera. Bagged it and the laptop just in case.
We were heading for the back door, a job well done, when we heard commotion coming from outside.
Ste chanced a glance through the front window and saw a small crowd had gathered. I went over and heard, “Look, Father Christmas has let himself go. Talk about bad santa,” and a rupture of laughter. Dawned on me that Pez had been spotted on the roof. Odds on someone had phoned the police.
I said to Ste, “I fucking told him about knocking about on roofs.”
“Shit. What are we going to do?”
“Fucked if I know, half the street are out.”
I saw it through the window before I heard it. Some kind of flash grenades were going off and pumping out billows of red smoke. We dashed through the door and out onto the street and pushed through the crowd disoriented by the plumes. Spotted Pez already nearing Ste’s car with his jet-black fleece turned inside out now yellow and we ran after him.
“I worry about you sometimes,” I said to Pez as we climbed in.
He gave me his trademark wild shark’s grin and winked as Ste put his foot down.
Mistletoe and Wine. And A Good Few Pints Of Lager. Plus a violin.
7pm Christmas Eve. Showered, shaved and dressed. Thought I’d make an effort instead of looking like I’d been dragged through a hedge. White oxford shirt underneath a navy suit with a woollen overcoat. Topped off with my black Kangol 507 flat cap.
Light snow falling. Crowds on the streets outside the pubs. Ale and fag smoke. Aftershave and perfume. Raucous laughter and clicking heels.
Pushed pat the crowds to my van on the car park near the sunbed shop whose window emanated blue light.
Drove down Leigh Road to Howe Bridge. April’s place. An apartment across from St Michael’s.
She opened the door wearing a little red dress that took the wind out of me. Smiled beneath cobalt eyes.
“You’ve dressed up for me.”
“The outfit’s for going out in, actually, Mr Gibfield.”
“Jacob.”
Stepped back and lead me inside.
Low light. Candles flickered. Eartha Kitt’s Santa Baby from the music player. I had no illusions she was out of my league, we were talking at least four divisions. Spiked any romantic thoughts.
Handed over the bag with the gear. “You can either boot them up, wipe them and send them back with a Dear John letter telling Dr Arsehole to permanently leave you alone. Or you can smash them up with a hammer and lash the remnants up the rucks. Entirely up to you.”
“How sure are you it’s over?” She said.
Flashed her a couple of polaroids. “Pretty sure.”
Laughter.
“How much do I owe you?”
Shook my head. “Consider it a Christmas miracle brought to you by the three wise men of Atherton Town. Have a merry Christmas.”
Turned to go and she put her hand on my arm. “One second,” she said. Came back from the mantlepiece with a piece of mistletoe. Held it above her head.
Hands round her waist. I didn’t need asking twice.
She slid her mouth from mine, whispered into my ear, “I don’t go out for another half an hour.” Pushed my hands down to her arse and hitched up her dress as she licked my neck.
Heavy smell of spirits and wine. Looked over her shoulder, saw nine tenths of a bottle of Merlot empty.
I couldn’t gauge whether the moment was the relief, the drink, the season or whether it was genuine attraction. An element of self loathing ruled out the latter and I didn’t want to feel like I’d taken advantage. So, very reluctantly, I pulled away slowly, smiled, and said the dickhead thing, “It’s not you. Trust me, it’s definitely not you. It’s me.” Like I say, the dickhead thing, but at least it was the truth. Also, the last client I’d gone to bed with wound up dead. Not a fate to tempt.
I could have said, “If you weren’t pissed out of your face it might be different,” but I didn’t fancy a hard slap across the chops.
She took a deep breath and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Let myself out. As I was coming down the stairs, I shouted, “Have a good one.”
“You too, Mr P.I. I agree, it must stand for pissing idiot.”
Indeed. Walked into the cold, unforgiving winter air, thinking at least she knew where I lived if she wanted me sober. Wouldn’t be holding my breath, that’s for sure. I was trying to pinpoint the exact time when life suddenly exploded into complexities as I made my way to meet the lads. Dumped the van, slinked through the drinkers on the street and gave up pondering as I entered The Mill bar.
Lieutenant Perry and Ste were in the corner with pints and shots. Sat down in the chair they’d guarded for me.
Pez said, “You’ve took your time, what’ve you been doing? Is that lipstick on your neck? You’ve not been shagging your clients again have you? Where’s your service ethics?”
“Nowt happened. Never mind that, I need a pint. So does he,” I said, pointing to Ste, “you look dehydrated to fuck.”
“Milked dry, man. Bollocks like bloody raisins.”
It just clicked to me, “Lads, we’ve forgot Liam.”
PC Liam Hunt was another old mate of ours, joined the cops with Johnny. Unlike Johnny he hadn’t been suspended without pay, but he had been told in no uncertain terms to check himself into a drug and alcohol rehab. Whether it was the pressure of the job or the simple fact he just liked cocaine and ale and found them increasingly moreish was debatable and up to the rehab people to help him work out.
Wasn’t allowed visitors because he’d been caught trying to bribe people to bring stuff in for him. So Pez got his phone out and facetimed him.
Liam’s face popped up and filled the screen. He said, “Alright, folks. Where are you? In a pub? I bet you’re in a pub.”
“Drinking responsibly,” Pez said. Ste and I burst out laughing.
“Shut up you dickhead,” Liam said.
Ste got his debit card out and poured some salt from a shaker onto the tabletop. Started chopping it up and separating it into lines. Nudged Pez who swung the camera down to show Liam.
Liam’s beady eyes came right up to the lens and he said, “You rotten bastards. You’re going to have to send me some, I’m crawling up the walls. I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.
Right, what you need to do is get a bottle of aftershave, empty it, wash it out, fill it with whisky. Or, get a tube of pringles, slide half of the crisps out, tape a baggie – just a small eye opener so it doesn’t look suss – onto the back of one of the crisps in the middle and put the rest back on top. Then, you’ve got to glue the foil back down so if the staff test it they can’t tell it’s been tampered with.
Or you could buy a drone and fly it to my bedroom window with a magnet stuck to the bottom. Put a piece of lead in the bag of coke so it sticks to the drone and nobody will see it because it’s on the underside.
Or you could send me a box of washing powder and put some of the good stuff in. You’d have to mark the crystals with permanent marker so I could differentiate which powder was which. Painstaking, I agree, but undetectable to the untrained eye. Essentially fool proof.
What do you reckon?”
Pez said, “I reckon you need to get a fucking grip and accept the help you’re being offered.”
“So you’re not going to send me anything?”
“Yes, we’re sending you thoughts and prayers on your journey to recovery. We’re rooting for you.”
Liam just shook his head and started ranting and raving so Pez ended the call.
Pubcrawl. Wheatsheaf, Jolly Nailor, Pendle Witch, Red Lion, Weaver’s Rest till closing. Traditional British boozers. Can’t beat them.
One place left open. Mountain Dew.
“Dew till two?”
“What do you think?”
We walked in. Four deep rammed at the bar. Raucous. Everyone dolled up and a jovial atmosphere. Speakers blaring.
Some geezer I’d known for decades comes over and I recognise him immediately but for the life of me can’t place his name.
He says, “I’m up next. Singing Gangster’s Parasite. Coolio.” Points at the karaoke.
“Paradise.”
“It is innit. Nowhere else in the world like the Dew on Christmas eve.”
I suspected he was right, for all sorts of reasons. “I meant the title.”
“What’s vital?”
“Nevermind. Have a good one.”
“You too.”
He gets up on the stage and serenades the place.
I’m dragged through the bar by my wrist. April. She takes me into a cubicle and gives me a blowjob. Romance alive and well. I’m more pissed than she is at this point. I finish. She looks up and says, “Merry Christmas. Call me.”
I try and say, “I will do,” but I can’t get my words out proper, slurring.
Last orders bell rings and not long after we all pile out onto Market Street. I look for her but she’s nowhere to be seen. Ste and Pez pop their heads out of the kebab shop doorway. “Where’ve you been?”
I try and tap my nose but I keep missing.
“Fucking lightweight,” Ste laughs.
Hanging about for food, the cold night air sobering me up. Light snow falling. They come out with three big pizza boxes and Pez says, “Follow me.”
Leads us round the back of St John the Baptists Church, where the old market used to bustle.
Gone now. Like the job centre.
Scaffolding. Leads the way. Ste looks at me as if to say, “Where’s he going?” I shake my head and we start climbing, following his lead.
We end up on top of the church. “Just what is it with you and roofs?” I say to Pez, who doesn’t respond. Instead he leans over and pulls across a black box. Out comes his violin. Ste shakes his head. Says, “Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”
“I really, really worry about him sometimes.”
Pez ignores us and tucks the violin under his chin. Gets straight into it. I think he’s going for The Pogues: Fairytale of New York.
A fair crowd down around the Obelisk get it and start singing along, looking around for the source of the music but can’t see us.
Our fiddler switches gears and fires into the hymn Jerusalem. Find myself singing along the Blake’s words.
Bangs puncture the night. Mostly fireworks, probably one dodgy Ford Escort backfiring and maybe even the odd gunshot as the town sees in Christmas Day.
I saw the rows of red brick terraces, the fields, and in the distance Winter Hill at Rivington Pike.
It might not be the best place in the world. But all through Christmas the locals clothed the homeless and made sure the less fortunate got a Christmas box. A fifteen-foot tree glowing with lights shone up at us. Glasses smashing, folks scrapping. I thought I could make out a couple shagging down the side of Weaver’s Rest.
It was our hometown whether we liked it or not.
I didn’t buy the deterministic idea that the future was mapped out for you. It was necessary to reach out and make of it what you could.
I said to Ste, “Can’t wait to see the back of two thousand and nineteen.”
He said, “Twenty twenty will be our year. Things can’t get any worse can they?”
I said, “You honestly reckon Two thousand and twenty will be a good year or are you just saying it to make me feel better?”
He said, “I’m a very deep thinker. I’m telling you, twenty twenty is going to be good. Definitely.”
“Categorically,” said the Lieutenant.
They seemed sure so I went with them, nodding along, letting them convince me and convincing myself. “I agree. A hundred percent.”
How wrong can you get? The three wise men of Atherton, eh? Johnny was right all along. The three absolute dickheads, more like.
The End
by 
L A Sykes
Latest posts by L A Sykes (see all)
- Nunchucks and Mistletoe - December 24, 2020
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