Rediscovering Bonfig

An apology (I seem to have been apologising a lot on this blog): I was busy on the early postings (2013, would you believe?) uploading photographs that had mysteriously disappeared (see below). I surprised myself by succeeding. 

On this post, unfortunately, not only did I bring the photo to life once again, but the post itself time-travelled four years into the future and reappeared as today's post.

I hope it hasn't confused too many people.

I also managed, after all these years, to change my Location in the panel on the right from USA to UK. I have not been able to change from Pacific Standard Time to Greenwich Mean Time. Will this mean I'll lose my American readers/viewers/visitors? I hope not; they have boosted my pageview numbers recently to what for me were gigantic proportions. It was not a deliberate ploy to increase readership - honest!

Another thing, while I'm on about numbers. My pageview numbers took a huge drop on Monday 20th of this month (February). After being consistently around the 300 a day mark, they dropped to under 100 but recovered the next day. Was there a Rip van Winkle effect? Did America go to sleep for most of the day? Did Donald Trump's executive order on immigration apply to alien blogs as well?

 

 Anyway, because I haven't yet found a way to beam the post back to where it belongs in the past, I'll leave this time-warped piece of history to keep you occupied till tomorrow, when I'll post an article on tai chi chuan which has been my passion for the last almost thirty years.

Welcome

to my first ever blog - both of you.  Let's hope we have more company soon.

     I shall guess that at least one of you has read and been delighted by the novels of the man of the title, my late friend and former colleague, Kyril Emmanuel Georg Karl Bonfiglioli - novelist, wit and knife-thrower.  The other of you, whether curious or just lost in the labyrinth of the internet, can prepare to be enlightened.   I hope you'll both be amused and entertained.

     Because my memories of Bonfig (for whom the phrase "colourful character" might have been invented) are too worthy of a good telling to be condensed into one post, too rich a banquet to be savoured at a sitting, I shall serve them up as weekly dishes.  Your comments can provide the seasoning of your choice.

     If you've read his books, I dare to hope that you may find a faint echo of his writing style in mine.  There, I've admitted my presumptuous ambition.  I shall now be at the mercy of every Bonfiglioli aficionado, literary troll and online heckler.

     When I first googled his extraordinary name upon a whim and a startled keyboard, I expected to find no more than half a dozen entries, maybe a few Amazon special offers on his novels (he'd written three and most of a fourth) and possibly something about his remarkable knowledge of heraldry.

     I did not expect page after page of biography, bibliography and plauditry that approached cult status, with praise from literary lights and entertainment greats (Stephen Fry, Susan Hill, Craig Brown and Miles Kington, to name those I care to remember).  There were pieces glowing with praise from the New Yorker and the Independent, not to mention the TLS.  The various articles and mini-biographies seemed to cover most of his life till he died in 1985.

     Most but not all.  This personal memoir is written to fill that gap.

     Though his Army service in West Africa was listed, there was no mention of his time as an Education Sergeant at the Gordon Highlanders Depot in Aberdeen.  That is where he and I first met in the summer of '54.

     I had the same three stripes, though I was junior to him in every respect.  He taught me knife-throwing, fencing and how to fry peas in Worcester sauce.  In the few months that I knew him, the man had an influence on me which has lasted to this day - to say nothing of bringing my university career to a full stop before it even began.

     Rediscovering Bonfig after he had died only made me want to know more.  I tracked down his second wife Margaret, author of The Mortdecai ABC, an invaluable and insightful volume of Bonfigliana that takes its name from his supposed alter ego and the anti-hero of his novels, the Hon Charlie Mortdecai.  I was delighted to receive an encouraging reply, urging me to go ahead with this bundle of reminiscences.  Her support has even extended to forgiveness for the parody of her title and the flagrant theft of her format.

    Accordingly I call it

The Bonfiglioli ABC  (to be continued)

Kyril Bonfiglioli, Summer 1954

Sarina was not her name; she used it when she was in a trance or "channelling".


Past Portrait

The portrait she planned was the face of a queen;

the painting emerged as a bearded young man,

someone imagined, whom she’d never seen,            

a face from the past, from a far foreign land.     

Painted in earth colours, russet and gold,

the most striking feature the mound of dark hair,

bushy and full with a queue as of old,

it looked like a head-dress, exotic and rare.

Sarina once told me she painted this picture

almost in trance, as if being led.

Hardly aware of the brush in her hand,

she brought to existence a being long dead.

She called it “Bartholomew”, felt that the name

was right for the man who appeared on the page. 

Never knew an apostle was called by the same.

Was this a link with that Biblical age?

A dark poem for dark February days:

Lascaux

I sit alone with the dark gods in the dark cave and wait.

My chanting joins with others, the unseen ones.

Flames dance on the flat cave wall.  I need to see

the pictures in my mind before I touch the paint.

Tonight I will paint the great bull, the one who sweeps

the sky with his horns and shakes the earth

with his feet, the one who carries my arrowhead

in the muscle of his hind leg.  I will place

my red-earthed hand over him and tomorrow

his blood will be mine and the clan will feast.

Alone I paint mind-pictures on the wall

but at night all the men will come, every one

who has left his boy years and bears the man-mark,

the hunters and fighters, protectors of the family.

We will sip bitter juice and see the flames dance,

then up and stamp, jump and whirl, chant and

watch my pictures come alive and move, hear

the song of the gods and see tomorrow’s hunt.

We will feel the bull’s great bulk, see his chest heave,

hear his hooves like thunder in the ground.

But tomorrow he will be slowed, his flesh gnawed

by the grinding flint, and we will run him down.

Then we will shout and sing and weep in praise

for this great beast who ran and shook the earth,

who swung his horns and died standing, who now

will feed our children for days and our stories for years. 

In the dark cave with its dark gods and painted wall

the unseen ones will wait for me to come again.

Free-writing exercise

At the Writers Circle last week, after we'd read out our prepared pieces and heard other members' comments, we tried an exercise that frightens many people. Not just people; it frightens writers, though it shouldn't. 

     It starts with a prompt of some kind, something to spark the imagination. It could be just a word, a phrase or a quotation. You might get to choose a picture, or be given a character and a situation.

     It demands that you write quickly because time is limited. 

     It demands that you write freely, uninhibited by thoughts of whether it's good or bad, explains itself perfectly or merely suggests possibilities, is fit for publication or only fit for the rubbish bin. (No, make that the recycle bin, because a writer should never throw anything away.)

     Why does it send shivers through the spines of so many writers? Because in a very real way it takes away their control over their material, allows the subconscious to take over. You see appear on the paper under your pen or the screen in front of your eyes, words and phrases you didn't think about using. You didn't think; that's what's important.

     That's what makes free-writing such a fantastic exercise. Often those phrases and words and sentences are more appropriate than you first thought - or with a little editing can be made so. The point is they don't have to be perfect right there and then; nobody's going to criticise it. It's only an exercise. You're practising. You're flexing your writing muscles in a different way.

I do believe my enthusiasms are showing. I'll roll them up and put them away and show you what I wrote last week.

The prompts I was given were a quotation from Oscar Wilde: "An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all." and the cover of  "Lady Chatterley's Lover" with an illustration showing a phoenix in the flames.

I wrote this:

Like a phoenix aflame, the lust for life

Flares, bares itself, scorns a danger

That dares discovery, flaunting itself,

Living to fullness again.

In the dull mind, dull thoughts drift,

Muddied, sluggish and satisfied.

No danger here, no shiver 

Of sudden fear, only the torpor

Of nothingness, of mind death.

I may make something of it one day.

     

This blog's pageview stats tell me I'm getting a regular readership (or at least a "glancership") because it gets about 300 visits a day. The vast majority of you (6,685 last month) are in the USA.

On the basis that some of you might be looking for a touch of escapism right now, here's a story that has more than a suggestion of escape in it. Enjoy!

The Longest Day

 Jeanne Laporte’s journey had started more than a thousand miles away. Ahead was what could be the most difficult part, when the documents she carried would be subjected to the closest scrutiny. Again she took the little mirror out of her purse  and touched her hair. That gave her the chance to check if anyone was watching her. Even more important ly, she could briefly touch the papers that would be her passport to freedom.

     There had been many moments of doubt. A couple of times she’d nearly panicked. On the station at Schaumburg, just before the train pulled in, when she thought she was being watched by a man in an unfamiliar uniform; in the café at Henrieville when she’d spilled coffee on her ticket, the little piece of card that had cost her so much. She worried that it might be queried by the ticket-collector. With every incident she‘d become more anxious.

     ‘Don’t think about it,’ she said to herself, ‘Just do it. You’ve come this far. You’re almost there.’

     Always there was this feeling of being a stranger in an alien land. She knew the language of course, but the accent was different here. There was no one to turn to. She was on her own now.

     Sometimes she had the feeling she was being followed. She resisted the temptation to turn. ‘Feel confident and you’ll look confident,’ had been the advice.

     Now it was time for the last few steps, no more than the length of a football pitch. Just stand up from her table at the pavement café, pay the bill (she hadn’t spilled the coffee here - was that a good sign?), cross the street and enter the imposing building facing her. In less than an hour, once the paperwork was completed, she could be on another train, a train that would take her home.

     Her new home. The word had a different meaning now. No more looking over her shoulder. No panic at the late-night knock on the door . Freedom.

The highway out of town ran alongside the rail tracks. Just before the road swung away northwards, Jeanne saw again the sign she’d seen on the way into town. Now she saw it from the other side. “Al’s Diner and Gas Station. Get filled up before you leave Reno. There’s a whole lotta desert ahead.”

In case you think I’ve invented the town names to suggest this “escape” story is set in Europe , Schaumburg is in Illinois and Henrieville is in Utah.

Safe at Last!

It's well past the middle of January, so it's probably safe for me to go out. The gods of split eyebrows will have forgotten about me by now.

     The problems started on the 30th December 2014. I took Bess, our collie, out for her afternoon walk about 4.30 as usual. It was pretty dark as well as cold; Aberdeen is further north than Moscow and even some parts of Alaska. 

     I didn't realise it was icy underfoot till I was in the middle of a bumpy rough track leading to the woods. I tried to step carefully but my feet slid from under me and I crashed down on my left side. My head cracked on the frozen ground. I felt the shock go right through me. 

     I lay there for a few seconds, feeling sick, still holding Bess's lead and calling for her to come back to me. I watched the blood dripping from my head. I slid rather than crawled onto the grass where I could stand up.

     As usual, I didn't have a mobile phone with me; I hardly ever use it. Holding my eyebrow together with a folded tissue, I staggered back home. Martha cleaned the cut, examined it with a trained nurse's eye and said, 

           'That eyebrow needs stitching - and the other one's twitching. 

           You look like you've been in a fight.

           Blood's still flowing free, so you'll have to agree 

           That's it for the rest of the night.' 

     (She always speaks in verse during the pantomime season.)

     At Aberdeen Royal Infirmary they stitched me together and kept me in overnight in case the pain on my left side was an incipient heart problem. It wasn't; just bruising.

     That was 2014. Fast forward to 30th December 2015: same dog; same day; same time; different walk. Passing the library I saw a football abandoned in the car park, just sitting there waiting to be kicked. I can never resist a football. I took a run and whacked it against the library wall. It bounced off at an angle and I chased after it to try again.

     I didn't see the kerb that marks the parking spaces but I did notice that the ground came up very fast to meet my face. Not again! In seconds the other eyebrow was doing its best to incarnadine the car park - and making a pretty good job of it. 

     This time I was farther away from home so I had to call Martha and she brought the car to pick me up. Though I looked like one of Mike Tyson's sparring partners for a few days, this eyebrow didn't need any embroidery. 

     Needless to say, on 30th December 2016 I trod very carefully whenever I stepped outside the house.

Behind Every Caveman

This is, or might have been, the story of the world's first great inventor.

(22.49 Greenwich Meantime, UK. I've just discovered that this post has been sitting here for about four hours in a solid block of sans serif type, unformatted and all in caps. Goodness knows what happened. I shall now try to fix it. Apologies all round.)

23.15 Failed again. Put it down to Friday the 13th!

14.30, 17th: last try!

Behind every Caveman

When Wyzat the Inquisitive struck the first-ever spark off the first-ever flint, Mrs Wyzat was not impressed.
     'Listen! I work my fingernails off gathering nuts and berries, and what do you do? You sit in here banging stones together and burning the mammoth steaks for dinner. Are you listening to me? Where are you going now?'
     'I won't be long. Must get back to the drawing slate. Just had an idea.'
     'Another idea! Well, don't fill the cave full of smoke with this one. You're worse than that idiot who thinks he's an artist, painting dirty great animals all over people's caves faster than I can rub them off. Think yourself lucky you've got a cave-proud wife, not like that Mrs Ugg Lazybitch in three down. I haven't forgotten that you fixed up a pretty little sling thing to stop her oversize baby-feeders from wobbling about. And - don't think I didn't hear you offer to fit it for her.'
     'That was totally impersonal, my sweet. I'm a thinker, an inventor. I like to make things that other people haven't thought of.'
     'Well, make something useful for a change. The twins are getting too big to carry around. My back feels like I've been building bluestone henges all week. Why don't you make me a something - I don't know - something I can roll them around in?'
     'Roll?' pondered Wyzat, gazing at the full moon, 'Roll?'

A true story to start 2017.

Readers Stateside need to be aware that I'm talking soccer here, not the American brand of football. And the era will be ancient history to many readers - an era when our boots had hard leather toecaps, the ball never swerved unless there was a high wind, and overlapping full-backs hadn't been invented.

Two and a Half Moments of Glory

I was always a left back at football, even in my schooldays – and I don’t mean the old joke, “left back in the dressing-room”.

     I never scored, of course; full backs then didn’t aspire to scoring goals. We were defenders, pure and simple. Our job was to clatter the opposing winger, over the touch-line if possible. Getting the ball as well was a bonus.

     If we chanced to stray anywhere near the opponents’ territory, our legs started to shake; crossing the halfway line meant a full-on nose-bleed.  

    I said “always a left back”. That was true, until my last year at secondary school, when a newcomer usurped the position I’d held for four years. Four years of faithful service, chasing speedy wingers, tripping up inside-forwards and stopping free kicks with my face – all counted for nothing when that new boy arrived. He was tall and sort of good-looking, I suppose, in a Teutonic kind of way. Certainly the girls from the nearby convent school seemed to think so.

     He was Peter von Manteuffel – a German, for Pete’s sake!

     We’d just spent six years beating the schnitzel out of them all over Europe, and they had the gall to send one of their blond-haired blue-eyed Aryan supermen to steal the affections of the flower of our girlhood and my place in the school team.

     He did that in the usual sneaky German way, by being faster, fitter and great at taking penalties. His name meant “Man-Devil”. What can you expect?

     Later, in the Army, I played for the Intelligence Corps Depot, then for our unit team in Cyprus, on sun-baked pitches that had never seen a blade of grass – murder on your knees if you went to ground – and still never scored a goal.

     Then I came to Aberdeen, 32 years old, married with two sons but still a goal-scoring virgin. I played for YMCA Rovers. One Saturday I turned up at Hazlehead but found we already had a full team. I looked around the other pitches and saw that Castle Rovers were one short.

     ‘Do you need one more, boys?’ I asked.

     ‘Aye, fit’s yer name?’

     ‘Don.’

     ‘OK, Tom,. You’re centre-forward.’

     Centre-forward! Ah, well, a game’s a game. I can go and hide afterwards.

     We got a corner on the left in our first attack. I was as short then as I am now, so I didn’t stay in the middle to try to outjump their six-foot defenders. I ran towards the corner to lure one of them away from the goalmouth. Our corner-taker, instead of lofting the ball towards the goal as I expected, saw me, mistook me for a proper centre-forward and passed it straight to my feet.

     Not me, you idiot! I’m a full-back. What do I do now? The defender was right behind me. I jinked to the left to go infield, then cut back towards the goal-line. Not exactly your Johan Cruyff but it worked - fooled him completely. I still savour that moment.

     I chipped the ball high into the goalmouth; one of our boys rose above the defenders and headed it into the net. One-nil to Castle Rovers; slaps on the back for Tom (aka Don). We didn’t do hugging and I would have been appalled to be underneath a writhing mass of celebrating sweaty bodies.

     Early in the second half it got even better. I cut in from the right with the ball at my feet and banged over a hopeful left foot cross towards the far post. Next thing I knew, my team were celebrating their second goal. The ball had sneaked in at the top corner.

     Our third goal was a carbon copy of the second. I found myself in the same position and thought,’Why not?’ Into the net it went. The crowd of seven men, one mum and a dog went crazy.

     Pinpoint accuracy. As if I’d been working on it for years. David Beckham, eat your heart out! “Bend it like Don (or Tom).”

     But even the short report in the Evening Express got my name wrong: “Castle Rovers beat Northfield 3-0. Scorers were Buchan and Will (2).”

     I wonder if old Rovers players sit around now with their arthritic hips and replacement knees, nursing their pints and telling tales of the legend who was Tom Will, the mystery man who appeared out of nowhere, gave a false name, won the game for them, then disappeared, never to be seen again.

Two contrasting poems to round off the year. The first is based on a Christmas party many years ago, or at least my memory of it. The second will set a few linguistic puzzles for non-Scots speakers. Pageview stats tell me I've got lot of readers, or at least viewers, in the US. Best of luck, guys!

Christmas Party Afterglow

The beach at Aberdeen begins to wake

as morning-after leaves the night-before.

We race the sea through moon-edged shadows, jump

the ripples in sea-wee’d shoes and wonder why

our drunken laughter slips on wetted sand

and why the world looks better upside-down.

We left the party draped about the room,

all snoring in a non-existent chord.

But Robbie and I still buzzed with energy.

We could not let this party drift and sink.

And so we sang a farewell to the night,

then raced the waking day along the beach.

Hogmanay Blues

                  

First-fittin’ aul’ freen’s at the turn o’ the year

Brings mony a lach an aft a wee tear.

A’ nicht we stagger fae stairheid tae hoose,

Swappin’ banter wi’ strangers an’ quines on the loose.

Ower tae Torry tae see Auntie Nell.

Then, quick, on the bus! Get awa’ fae the smell.

Up tae the West End far Jeremy bides;

He wis Jezza in Northfield, oor Meggie confides.

Noo wir bottles o’ fusky are teem’t oot, ma son

An’ we rummle wir pooches fer crumbs o’ black bun,

We’re totally founert an’ ma stummick’s gey queer,

Bit we’ll dae it a’ ower again the next year.

Growing the Page

Something (or rather, a lot of someones) is lifting this blog into a range of viewing figures I have not seen before. I can't pretend it's breaking any records in the blogging world, having read about some blogs with pageview figures in the millions range, but it is on the up. It may not yet be in the fast lane, but it's edging nearer the slip road onto the motorway.

     Whoever you are, thank you for reading, or at least glancing at, what I have to offer. If you'd like to offer a comment as well, complimentary or carping, dogmatic or derisory, I'd be delighted. 

     I was going to wait till New Year before posting anew, but received wisdom says one needs to post regularly, at least once a week, to keep and grow readership.

     So here's a little piece of whimsy to launch this blog into 2017.

McGill's Last Laugh

'Leave it, Vince! You ain't gunna look at every bloody postcard, are yer?' 

     'Nah, just these. I'll meet you at the chip shop. Nothin's startin' before two o'clock. I'll be there on the beach, to give the Mods a good kicking.' 

     Just the usual seaside postcards - fat old ladies, skinny blokes and cheeky kids – except one was different. There was this bloke done up like a pirate and a snooty old woman looking shocked. I forget the joke; what made me look again was that the pirate was advertising “Treasure Trips Round the Bay”. 

     Every other card in the rack card said clearly “Pleasure Trips”; I checked 'em. Only one said “Treasure”. Under that were two squiggly lines like tiny writing. I bought that card and a magnifying glass.  

     I sat on the bench outside and peered at the lines. They said: “I n the bay that's owned by no living man, on an island that rowers will understand.” On the back of the card was printed “Blackstone 14YN22NE.X,” like a catalogue number or something. No other card had that.

     What was all that about? I remembered reading Treasure Island when I was a kid. I tried to tell myself to be sensible. Nobody finds treasure maps, these days. Or do they?  

     I forgot all about meeting up with the gang, forgot about the Mods and their dopey anoraks and their putt-putt lawnmower Lambrettas. I kicked the Matchless into a roar and headed back to the Smoke, breaking the speed limit most of the way. 

     I hardly slept that night. In the library Monday morning, I chased up the librarian for atlases and lists of places – gazetteers, she called them. Didn't stop for a coffee, had nothing to eat. It was well after three before I got lucky. 

     I'd been looking for the name of an island that might have something to do with rowing - Oar Island, Crew, Stroke, Bow, even Oxford or Cambridge Island. That librarian was giving me the old "You again?" treatment when I kept asking for more maps. Then one name jumped out of the page: Skull Island, same sound as scull in rowing. It was in the Caribbean, a little dot south of Puerto Rico, so small there were no maps of it.  

# 

I had to sell the bike to pay for the trip. A one way ticket. I finally got to a place from where I could see this Skull island. The locals told me nobody lived on it but there was a place called Dead Man's Bay.  

     I'd found it! My treasure.  

     Old Diego took me across in his little boat. I left him on the beach gutting a fish he'd caught. I headed inland and started to search. I'd worked out the code long ago. It didn't take long to find a black rock in a clearing. From there I paced out 14 yards north and 22 northeast and started to dig. I heard Diego shouting, 'Da fish, she cooked, man!' just as my spade struck something hard. I cleared the earth away and dragged out a wooden box. The hinges were almost rusted away and I broke them easily. 

     There was no treasure.  

     There was only a giant postcard, sealed in wax paper, showing that same leering pirate and the snooty woman, and he's saying, 'Oi never said “treasure”, lady. Oi said Oi'm after me pleasure!' 

#

     I never did go home. 'Course I was disappointed at first, but, you know what, these people took me in as if I was one of their own.  

     I can sit on the beach now with my Josefina. I love to smell the perfume in her hair while she tells me how it'll be when we get married. I helped to build the church, you know. We're going to live in the house that the villagers are getting ready for us. 

     You know what I'm doing to earn some dosh? Don't laugh. I'm teaching English. Me, from South London! The kids'll all grow up speaking like Bob Hoskins. 'Oskins, more like. 

     The Mods can rule over all the beaches in England if they want, and you know what, I don't give a hairy parka. 

     I've found the only treasure I need. 

Donald McGill was a cartoonist whose saucy seaside postcards have become collectable.

The Mods (Moderns) wore anoraks (or parkas) and rode mopeds or scooters; the Rockers were black-leather bikers who despised the Mods. In English seaside resorts during the summer of 1964 there were pitched battles between the gangs.

Last offering of the year. See you, whoever you may be, in 2017.

First Christmas

I didn’t expect this. I don’t suppose anyone does. But there’s a difference with me: Somehow I know what's happening. Others in this situation aren’t even  aware of it, except in the most basic way.

     Well, I can’t do anything about it now – just got to accept it. I’ll play along just now, pretend I’m like all the others doing the same thing tonight. You’d think Dad would have warned me, given me some hint what was in store.

     The smell, for instance. I’m not sure I can stop myself throwing up. What kind of place is this? It stinks. To be honest – and forgive me if I’m causing offence – but it smells of shit. It’s not people-shit, I know that much.

     And the noise! Whatever these creatures are, they are not being quiet about it. There’s a great hairy thing with a huge head making such a racket right beside my ear. Braying. Yes, that’s the only word for it. And an even bigger, stupid-looking thing with horns, breathing all over me and trying to lick me with a huge floppy tongue.

     Who are all these people coming in now, gawping at me? They smell too, probably been out in the fields all night. Did they run all the way here just to see me? Am I worth all this fuss? 
     I certainly don't need all this gold and incense that the latest visitors have brought.

     I mean, there I was, warm and snug as you like, floating around,not even needing to breathe, a soft rhythmic beat to soothe me, all the nourishment I needed, not a care in the world.  Then without warning, I found myself pushed out into a world of noise and stench and pain.

     I felt some pain, yes, but nothing like hers. Poor girl, she was howling with it, right up till the moment I popped out and took over. Well, she’s only young. Perhaps she’s never felt pain like that before. I don’t know her yet but I know she belongs to me and I belong to her.

     I haven’t opened my eyes properly but I know she’s looking down at me. She’s so tired. Her hair is plastered to her brow, soaked in sweat. Then she reaches out her arms, takes me and holds me close. I can feel the warmth and the softness. I turn my face towards her softness and smell the warm milk that will nourish me and bring me closer to her.

     There is a love in her face that I never knew existed.  All the people of the world must have known a love like this. If that is so, why am I needed here?

To all those overwhelmed by the glut of goodwill and the cascade of Christmas cards, not to mention the frantic aura of festivity, I offer this possibility of a calm and stress-free Yuletide:

Whereas the holder of this Certificate

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

has demonstrated over many years her/his disillusionment with the end of year activity known as “Merry Christmas”, he/she is granted this

Certificate of Exemption

from all pseudo-festivity, induced jollity and contrived bonhomie,

also from all card sending and receiving,

gift giving, gift guilt and gift recycling

and from any pretence at religious or spiritual affiliation

provided that

she/he shall maintain a cheerful disposition, a tolerant attitude and

a generous nature throughout the year

notwithstanding

occasional bouts of gloom, girning or grumpiness

not amounting to more than 7.2 hours (1%) in any calendar month

(in December this dispensation may be doubled).

However,

none of the above exemptions shall apply when

in the company of or within the hearing of any child  

who is still at the “wonderment” stage of life.

Given under our Hand,

Don Wells (aka B.A.Humbugg)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Hon Secretary

The Noel Abatement Society

The certificate has been found to be at its most effective when prominently displayed in your entrance hall, well above toddler height but in full view of early-doors

carol-singers, persistent good-cheer merchants and once-a-year drunks.