How I Lost My Girlfriend on Christmas Day

thethemeis: Christmas

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   It was our first Christmas together, so when I took Jen round to my parents' house I was filled with just as much apprehension as excitement. I knew Jen well enough to know that she wouldn't judge me by my insane relatives, but I had no idea how far they could go before she would be so weirded out that she wouldn't even want to be in the same room as them anymore. But there was only one way to find out, so we set out to do so.

   When we got there, my granddad was standing in the hallway with a hose in his mouth, which led up to the top of the stairs, where my fourteen-year-old cousin (who had stayed the night so that his parents could have their annual Christmas Eve swinging party) was pouring ale into a funnel at the other end. When he finished one can, he'd wait for my granddad to give a thumbs-up before popping open another and starting to pour that down the tube. I didn't stick around to see if he finished the six-pack my cousin had at the top of the stairs, but I've seen the eighty-two-year-old drink a lot more in one go, so I can only assume so. My mother greeted us, and instructed us to shimmy around the old man into the kitchen, where the rest of the family were wetting their throats with gin and Baileys like they'd been three weeks without a drink.

   'Son!' My dad screamed, stumbling toward me in a Christmas cracker hat, arms wide, ready to embrace Jen and me in a big whiskey-stinking hug. 'I haven't seen you two for so long,' he said, playing with Jen's hair with one hand and slapping my face with his other. Oh, and lying, since I'd seen him two days previously. 'My god, she's beautiful. How did you get her, you ugly little bastard?'

   I laughed and went to the fridge to get a couple of drinks. My nan was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space and half-singing, half-mumbling a Christmas carol I hadn't heard before, with lyrics about violent outbursts and shepherds and male strippers. When I asked the room if she was alright, my mother replied, 'She's been like that ever since your brother showed her around upstairs. I think he must have given her a cheeky swig of that absynthe he keeps up there.' When I leaned in to kiss her, my grandmother stank of gin and marajuana.

   My alcoholic uncle and his wife who still thinks it's the seventies arrived shortly after, and my dad and his brother proceeded to swordfight with the carving knives in the centre of the kitchen while their wives laughed and my granddad stumbled back into the room holding onto the walls for support and Jen huddled into my chest, scared that a stray knife might embed itself in her pretty face. I told her this was a yearly tradition that had only claimed one toe in the fifteen years I'd seen it occur, but she was having none of it.

   Dinner passed in similar fashion. My brother and my nan had the munchies, so they had to eat three platefuls each before they were satisfied; my dad and uncle spent the whole dinner arguing over the score of a game of football they had played in their early teens; their wives silently attempted to drink each other under the table, devouring two bottles of wine each before the turkey had even been carved; and my granddad insisted on sitting next to Jen, so that he could share all his terrible jokes with her and flirt in his shameless old man way all through the meal. Bless her sweet heart, she sat there smiling politely the whole time, despite clearly being utterly creeped out.

   After dinner, my nan fell asleep with her head on the dinner table. As she snored loudly, my brother, cousin and granddad decided to play a game of Frisbee in the living room, while the rest of us played cards at the table in the connected dining room. We played Rummy and Chase the Ace with the sounds of 'Fucking yes mate!' and 'Couldn't catch that one, could you, you little shit?' coming from my granddad in the other room. I was even starting to relax, sure that the craziness was almost over, until the window smashed and we all noticed that my granddad was halfway out of it, laughing his drunk head off.

   'Oh, you utter bastard!' My mum screamed, jumping up and helping him out of the hole in the wall.

   'Don't worry love,' my dad replied, downing another glass of whiskey, 'we'll just take it out of Robbie's pocket money.' My brother protested for a while, before storming out of the room. After shuffling the cards, my dad grinned and said, 'Right, who wants to play Ring of Fire?' And that's when we left.

   'I hope you didn't find that too painful,' I said to Jen in the car on the way home.

   'It was fine,' she lied. 

   'I know it wasn't,' I said, 'but in exchange, I promise to do anything for you. Whatever you want, I'll do it.'

   'Okay, you can not moan when my mum serves up a vegan dinner tomorrow, with no alcohol,' she replied, smiling sweetly.

   'What?! You didn't tell me she was a vegan!'

   'She is. That's why I've avoided having you eat at my parents'.'

   'Fuck that, I'm moaning all I want, and we're getting a McDonald's on the way.'

   And that's how I lost my girlfriend on Christmas day.

The Beauregard Wishlist

thethemeis: Material World

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   ‘It says here that the world’s first ninety inch television has just gone on general sale, Geoffrey. Have we ordered one of those yet?’

   Geoffrey sighed inaudibly, twiddling his fingers behind his back as he eyed the bald spot on his employer’s head. In all the years he had been serving Humphrey Beauregard, he had never known his master’s memory to be as bad as it had been since that little dog Scuffer had died following a mouse into the open fire.

   ‘Yes, sir; it was delivered last Tuesday, and now takes pride of place in its box in the Technology Room.’

   ‘Excellent, Geoffrey. Most excellent. Did we pay a good price?’

   Geoffrey juggled the consequences of lying and being honest in his head for a few seconds before realising that whatever he said, he would receive the same response. The old man didn’t care how he obtained any of the things he owned, or how much he paid for them; he just cared that he owned them. Without that, his life was worthless.

   ‘No, sir; we paid much more than we should have, because supply was limited and you wanted to receive it before the royal baby was born. You said you wanted to watch it live, sir,’ the butler replied, honestly.

   ‘Excellent, Geoffrey. Most excellent.’

   The aging billionaire was riffling through a catalogue of shiny new things that any fool with too much money and not enough sense would desire within seconds of seeing; only, it was a mystery to the patient butler how the old man was seeing these things at all – the eye that hadn’t been irreparably damaged in that hunting accident two decades ago was so myopic that it was basically a decorative marble. The butler had to do everything for his master these days, from clipping his curling yellow toenails to changing his outfit every morning and evening. But that was all part of serving the Beauregards.

   ‘Oh, look, Geoffrey! A new Jaguar!’ A chubby, wrinkly finger poked the page of the magazine resting in the old man’s lap, and the butler didn’t even look down before he replied.

   ‘It looks just splendid, sir.’

   ‘I must have it. Do we have space in the garage?’

   ‘We do not, sir. We bought a Fiat 500 in every colour and pattern, because you saw the advert for them on the television and thought that it would be nice if the two of us could drive around with such flair.’

   ‘Have we done so yet, Geoffrey?’

   ‘Not yet, sir.’

   ‘I see. Well, if you could, please arrange for another garage to be built, and order one of these Jags. There’s a good chap.’

   The butler sighed again. He knew that to order the Jaguar and to build the garage would not be in his master’s best interests, but he knew also that it wouldn’t hurt an old man to get exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted it, in the final years of his life. If Humphrey Beauregard had the means and the will to waste money on extravagances time after time, who had the right to deny him that privilege? With that in mind, the butler turned on his heel and made to leave the drawing room and make preparations. As he reached the huge double doors of the room, he was halted by his master’s call.

   ‘Oh, and Geoffrey?’

   ‘Yes, sir?’

   ‘What of love?’

   ‘Love, sir?’

   ‘Yes, love. Can one buy that, yet?’

   ‘No, sir. Not much has changed since we last enquired. Love still cannot be bought.’

   ‘I see,’ replied the old man, his disappointed voice barely audible above the cracking and popping of the fire.

   ‘Would we like to order a prostitute until the situation changes, sir?’ Asked the butler, knowing the answer he would receive, since the two men had had the same conversation every other night since the passing of Mrs Beauregard in the early 80s.

   ‘Excellent idea, Geoffrey. Most excellent.’