Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells!
Fabula diBeaumarchais - December 2003
Anyway, before I jet off on my magnificent magnanimous presents-for-the-poor campaign (I spend a month in the Bahamas looking for poor children to give gifts to) I thought I’d drop you all a little line as to how the Country’s favourite Diva spends her Christmas.
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 Darlings, it’s Christmas! Jingle bells, Jingle Bells! Deck the staff with boughs of ash-trees, fa la la la laaah… Etc. Anyway, before I jet off on my magnificent magnanimous presents-for-the-poor campaign (I spend a month in the Bahamas looking for poor children to give gifts to) I thought I’d drop you all a little line as to how the Country’s favourite Diva spends her Christmas. Except for the fact that Ms. Mansfield is off in The Priory again, my sources inform me, having a large bottle of turps removed from her craw. So instead, you’ll just have to make do with a long and lavish description of how the DiBeaumarchais clan spends the holidays. First, I’ll have Gummy Paisley (still with me after all these months, and so is my silverware, surprisingly…) wash and feed the children. This takes place at 9 a.m., a time when I’m still passed-out, and the children are still heavily sedated and strapped down. I will NOT be woken at 3 a.m. by Santa-Seeking Material Whores, like so many Downtrodden Sallys and their Squawking Farrow, up and down the country like Ethiopians after a food van. No, reader, mine is a calmer Christmas morning. When the children are washed, dressed and have received a shot of adrenaline right to the heart, I have Gummy Paisley’s lovely Romanian wife, Mrs. Hide-The-Skirt, take the children to Church. I am not allowed into Churches any more, after that unfortunate incident in Rome involving the Holy Father and a second Vatican Council. How was I supposed to know it was his special ring? Anyway, with the children thusly employed, I wake (or am woken), dress (or am dressed) and go downstairs (or am airlifted) to the kitchens, where I supervise the preparation of the Christmas repast. (Actually, I’ll more often than not sit in a big chair and scream orders at whatever celebrity TV chef that Vito and Carmine have apprehended for me. One year I burst the eardrum of a Rankin. Wankin’ Rankin. Watch out, Nigella Lawson. This year I could have you running so fast that not even your magnanimous ladypillows will save you…) After meal-supervision and chef-screeching the children are usually home, and then I allow them to open their gifts. One year, I thought I’d really give them something to get excited about, so I had Poonam, Vishnu rest his Soul, don a Santa suit and come down the chimney at the precise moment when I let the children into the lounge. Unfortunately, I forgot to mention this fact to House-Girl, and she lit the fires, and… well… you can imagine. Hindus screamin’ on an open fire… He got over it tolerably well, though. After the Defribulation… Anyway, when they finish the gifts, Mother arrives, at which point I take to my bed, and receive Christmas in the best way I know how. Vaginally. She’ll care for the rug-monkeys for the rest of the afternoon, and I am at my leisure to feel the Christmas Spirit in any position I deem fit. So, with that in mind, all together now, good and loud… Rudolph was hung like a reindeer It nearly came down to his toes And if you ever saw it You’d hate to think of where it goes All of the other Germans’ Eyes used to water in pain They’d never say to Rudolph, ‘Vielen Dank, Ja, Come Again!’ Then one foggy Christmas Eve Fabula came to say, ‘House-Boy with your pants so tight, Won’t you fill my stocking tonight?’ And how Fabula loved him All through that Christmas Day And Rudolph the long-schlonged German Satisfied DiBeaumarchais! Have a sexy Christmas, darlings, and just remember, ‘till we read again… Hoorah! Lovings! F DiB XXXXXXXXX
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