Thursday, 24 December 2009

A Christmas Fag

A lonely and lean(ish) figure appeared against the snow on Christmas Eve. Her old coat wrapped tightly around her, clutching the last of her Superkings. A poor (and brave) waif in rags begs for a snout and urged her to remember it was the season of Goodwill.
"Bah! Humbug!", Smith growls, kicking him up the arse.

That night in her old delapilated home, she dismisses Husband for the night and sits by a lowley fire, eating thin pot noodles. Smith lights up her snout in the dismal and barely decorated room. Her watery eyes catch the beginnings of a shadow. It seems to come through the wall.
Smith chokes on her cigarette smoke and drops the ashtray.
"Bugger", she manages.

The shadow gets bored of standing there, not being noticed.
"I am your old friend from the seventies. The ghost of your Christmas past."
Smith looks bored and somewhat irritated. She was enjoying that fag.
"But you're not dead. I was round your house the other day. And you owe me a fiver"
But before another word was mentioned, they were swept back in time to 1977.

There stood before them was a cigarette machine.
Smith melts. "I used to get Senior Service out of there."
Finally her eyes lose their coldness
"Yes, " says the ghost, "And then made random nuisance calls in the phone box outside."
"What wonderful innocent days. I was such a different person. Before I went all hard and
that and started smoking Superkings."

Then without any words mentioned at all, they were swept along to the heady days of 1979.
Two young girls walking through the streets of Soho, amongst all the rubbish from the dustmans strike. One of them lights up a Silk Cut.

'Smith breaks down. How naive and pretty she was then. So fresh to the world with that white box and red writing on it. She turns to the ghost:
"Do you remember the wonderful days of those low tar tabs?"

But her words went unanswered and she was back in her dismal room alone.

Thank God for that, Smith thought and lit up one of her few remaining Superkings.

Another shadow emerged - what the frack was it now? It was like Picadilly Circus in here!

A great fat bloke appeared with a beard.
"I am the ghost of Christmas Present!", he boomed.
"Yeah, yeah. Can we get on with this so I can enjoy my fag in peace. "
"I have come to show you..."
"Dying for a piss," Smith said, "Be right back"
"Not going for a bloody fag are you?", the bearded figure accused.
"Well, the bog seems the only place I can get some bloody peace"

Smith stayed in the bog until that old bore left. Smoking the Superkings, she realised the error of her ways and longed for the good old days of Consulate and Rothmans (blue). Tears filled her eyes.

The fat one may have left but another ghost was waiting for her. A hoody type. Smith had seen his sort before.
"Look, I know what you're gonna say," she blurted out, "But I'm changing my ways. Not yet tho'. Wait till Fatso opens. Now sod off."
"Its alright," the sceptre sulked, "I didnt' want a coffee anyway."
"Good. Now frack off!"

That night, Smith tossed and turned, dreaming of a time before she turned to cold and hard (and cheaper) Superkings and before she knew it, the grey morning and the church bells were creeping through the shutters.

Smith slammed them open: there was the same surly youth of the night before:
"Hey,. you there boy! Yes, you! "
She threw the coins out of the window.
"Go and buy me the biggest box of Rothmans you can find! There's 50 p in it for you if you're quick!"
"Make it a quid or I'll tell everyone your old man touched me!"
Bless the boy! So sharp witted!
"Frack off, you little dunt", she thrilled merrily, "Or there's a good kicking in it for you!"

The youth scampered off and soon Smith was clutching the box of fags and was off to see her neglected family.
"Merry Christmas all!", she came through the doors.
"Uncle Smith!", Tiny Tim on his crutches limped towards her.
And how the family laughed when Smith kicked them away from under the thin little boy.
"Gis a fag!", Tiny gasped, crawling on the floor.
"Yes! My boy!" and she lit it up for him.
"Fags for everyone! Just like in the old days when they weren't so dear and that!"
"God bless everyone!", Tiny Tim coughed and they all lit up in Christmas cheer.

8 comments:

Marie and John said...

Brilliant!!!!

Have a wonderful Christmas and I hope Santa is good to you.

Love,

Marie
xxxxxxx

@eloh said...

Best Christmas post!

I was wondering what to get myself for Christmas... box o' fags will really be perfect!

Suburbia said...

Love it Jen

Merry Christmas

(Thought Silk Cut were white and purple? Not that I know anything about fags, that is!)

Argentum Vulgaris said...

A good cackle on Christmas morning. Geez, I remember Rothmans and Pall Mall, I was a B&H man myself, until the price went over $5 a pack, then it was back to rolls.

AV

French Fancy said...

That was fabulous Jen - one of your best posts.

Anyway - have a smoky and silly new year darling. Forget the family, just enjoy yourself

xx

Polly said...

Merry christmas lovely lady. hope it was superb.

Stigmum said...

A literary masterpiece! Silk Cut?! Gave me cheekbones them, but also a sore jaw! I stayed on the Malboro Reds before the baby came along. Now I roll 'em roll 'em roll 'em...!
Hope your Christmas was a good 'un. Repost this at the end of the year! xxx

Cogitator said...

The street urchin is just perfect