Channeling Jake

 

Christmas approaches, and with it a tradition of Renegade Writers. Renegades is the writers' group who make my Wednesday evenings frustrating, critical, argumentative and hugely enjoyable. This isn't a place to bring an ego. I know this because I did, and left without it. Well, nearly anyway.

The format for most writers' groups is for someone to read out their latest masterpiece. As they resume their seat, it's the job of the assembly to mutter "That's lovely" and tap their palms soundlessly. Renegades has some similarities in that readings always end with comments, and there's the sound of hands striking flesh. If no one ends up in A&E then it's been a quiet night. Peter, our fearless leader, instigated a rule that new readers have to attend four times before being allowed to expose their cherished work to the laser surgery that will inevitably follow. This gives them a chance to spare themselves the pain and do something less punishing. Like cage fighting.

But that all changes on the last meeting before Christmas. This is Amnesty Night, when everyone writes a brief seasonal piece. Anything's allowed, even the usually proscribed poetry. There's no critique, and we even get all democratic and vote for our favourites. There are actually prizes.

A week or two ago we were chatting about the great Jake Thackray. For those who don't know him, do yourself a huge favour by checking out Sister Josephine, On Again and hundreds of other examples of his genius. Somehow the suggestion came up that I should write and perform the Christmas song that Jake would surely have written had he lived (and remained sober) for long enough.

That's obviously not a problem - we're both writers and we're both guitarists. This is similar to saying that Darcey Bussell and Ann Widdecombe are both dancers.

As it turned out, the ego wasn't completely dead and I ended up penning some lyrics and delivering them in a nasal, Yorkshire voice that, to me, sounded uncannily accurate. To everyone else it almost certainly sounded like Michael Parkinson with adenoids. Accompanied by someone dropping marbles on a guitar.

Fortunately you can't hear the melody or the impression, so you can judge for yourself if the words are worthy of consideration as an homage to a giant of musical comedy.

When Santa goes forth in December
Cross the snow-covered chimneys and rooves
It’s surprisingly few who remember
Why he flies to the clatter of hooves

For his sleigh is attached to eight reindeer
With antlers, red noses and things
But little idea of the rules of the air
And a notable absence of wings.

Now Santa’s a clever old fellow
And a bit of an entrepreneur
So it seems rather odd that the silly old sod
Showers the world down below with manure

At this point I have to mention that he supplements his pension
With a dirty little sweatshop making toys
The conditions are appalling and the products not at all
Satisfactory nor safe for girls and boys

Yes!

Substandard and poor as his wares be
Pointed nails and lead paint stock his shelves
So in view of the price of his shares he
Resorted to employing elves

Now these small sylvan creatures from Lapland
Were somewhat of a final resort
With their substance abuse and addiction to booze
They were nasty and brutish and short.

While Saint Nick was taking stock they’d be clustering round Doc
To get their alcohol and heroin in rows
While Dopey and Sneezy never made his life go easy
Each one snorting all the profits up his nose.

So!

Not one spinning top ever appeared in a shop
Cause the elves dripped the paint and left bits off
Or they’d lie in their bunks getting riotously drunk
While Dopey was tripping his tits off

No more alacritous to deal with the lack of mass appeal
Of shoddy rubbish made by dipsomanic gnomes
He made up his mind one day to give the bloody stuff away
To worthy children tucked up in their snowbound homes

But!

How to transport all his toys and such sort
Proved a problem he mulled back and forth
P&O, British Rail, BEA, Royal Mail
All declined to collect that far north

With no choice but DIY, Santa thus resolved to try
To build a sleigh from Lapland’s huge supply of trees
But though threatened with a bullet, all the elves refused to pull it
And he found horses were perforce inclined to freeze

Now!

Near the north pole there are many reindeer
Though at Christmas their heads aren’t adorned
While antlers abound on the does all year round
Only in spring do the chaps get the horn

So Rudolph and Cupid and Vixen
Had their antlers and carried them proud
While Dancer, Prancer, and Donner and Blitzen
Had nought to stand out from the crowd

So when hitched to the sleigh, the ladies’ display
Made the baldy blokes feel out of luck
While the girls let me say. With no action since May
Would do anything for a fast buck

With the maiden flight half through, these eight randy caribou
Came together in a manner indiscreet
But it proved to be unwise to vent their bestial desires
While cruising at about ten thousand feet

 So!

This story with which I regale yer
Must end quickly just as did that flight
While the enterprise met with such failure
Elfin safety was invented that night

But Santa wouldn’t jack it in, though the prospects looked so thin
And the profit forecasts not to be desired
So the rubicund old bugger took the plan to Alan Sugar
 

Who said, “Santa, with regret, you’re fired.”

Jake, when you've stopped spinning, I hope you'll forgive me and smile.