Brussels instigate thunderous movements.

Now the tension is gone I can start to enjoy life again. I can start playing another song other than Car Crash over and over again. Or at least I think I can. I hope that I have not driven all the other songs out of my head. That would be typical.

So here’s to enjoying life again. We went out to the pub last night to say happy birthday, Crappy Shitmas and happy New Year to Ollie and Jo. It’s Ollie’s birthday today and apparently he is having cake for breakfast. Well Ollie, I have been eating cake all bloody morning as well and I can confidently say that I feel pretty rotten now. There has been no respite in this office for the past month or so; everyday brings more chocolates and biscuits and mince pies and cakes. The women cluck and purr and say they mustn’t but they’re the only bloody ones who bring this stuff in! There are only so many chocolates that I can eat before I need some booze to wash away the awful cloying gloop of it. Gah and bwah.

The Frictionless Man is off to Denmark for Christmas in three days time. We have train tickets leaving from just down the road which should take us, via a couple of changes, straight to the plane. And then Danish Dad and Sister will be at the airport. Luxury. Then we have a week of blissful festivity.

It does mean that this blog may stand fallow for a while, unless I find my way to a Tinterwebbed PC at some stage. But why would you be reading this thing anyway? Unless you’ve just had a blazing row with your nearest and dearest because you’ve stuffed yourself with meat and booze and your twisted innards have wound you into an irrational rage at your cousin who you are sure is planning to steal your wife who has just come back from a mysterious business trip with your uncle, who developed a bad back and won’t be able to make it this year, so your wife kindly offers to take some presents to him.

She does not return for 4 hours and you are suspicious and enraged and violent. You decide that there is no reason that you should not be able to challenge your older sister for family supremacy and end up braining her with the cordless hair straighteners you bought her but which she is planning to take back to the shop after Christmas because she already has some, despite asking you to get them for her.

Someone calls the Police, you feel the noose around your neck and you make a bid for freedom. You grab a bottle of spiced rum and half the roast and smash your way through the French windows with the dessert trolley. Vaulting next door’s fence you race for the common down the road, and see a child riding its new bicycle in steady circles in the twilight.

Neatly removing him from the saddle after shoving a turkey leg into the spokes you ride off, smearing bird meat across your face and into your hair by way of a disguise. You know that the filth can only be a few minutes away and you must hide if you can. They’ll shoot you at Christmas, especially at Christmas. You pray to a God you scorn that you don’t look like a Brazilian electrician.

Out of no where a squad car roars and as you swerve to avoid it’s bonnet you are reminded of BMX Bandits and ponder why you watched it so many times on those Summer afternoon when you could have been making tender advances to the freckly girl from two doors down. The bike skids, you fall and roll, crawling behind a privet hedge and hastily organising a rude Molotov cocktail out of the spiced rum.

“Fuck you copper!” You scream as you ignite the fuse, fashioned from you torn pocket lining.

“Christ Hot Damn in a Prada Bag” screams the PC as he climbs from the car.

“KILL HIM! EMASCULATION BURNING AND TORTURE FOLLOWED BY A PAINFUL AND POINTLESS DEATH IS TOO GOOD FOR HIM” screams the fascist old lady and her extended family that lean from the mock Tudor house that owns the privet hedge you are positioned behind.

“Request backup urgently, chicken faced man probably terror mongering Latino skilled manual worker alert” the Policeman fires into his radio.

“Give me crack and anal sex” comes the squawked response.

Soaring in on wings made from the skin of a dozen dead virgins comes Cliff Richard eager for yuletide bloodletting. He fells you from behind with the severed and embalmed head of Sue Barker.

As the darkness clears you can feel Richard’s hot moist blood and excrement infused breath on your face.

“Hank is hungry, Hank is so very hungry.”

The last thing you see is the glint of thick spectacles as a grinning form bursts from amongst the Shadows.

Bum tish.