Last Christmas, I Made Me This Jumper

“Fucking Christmas again”
He says again, as he glances up
From the half-empty December calendar.
It's 4pm, the time that when,
Work Friday drinks chink near,
The chimes of import lager, to alleviate his fear.
Fucking Christmas party plans bounce off beige bureau walls,
On the day before, the annual bore
Of the office party scene.
Where the corporates play at love
An’ Guantanamo his dreams.
Where arrogance is currency,
The flock follow their profits,
Force the fun prescriptively,
‘Tween people that he hates.
“Fuck it” he thinks and walks on out,
Vowing to change his ways.

Trouble is see, to anger-up, close-down,
Fall-out with the world,
Is a waste of time and energy
And he doesn’t have much of that.
So with 5 gold pints and a spring in his step,
He walks on, thinks on, sleeps like a cat.

“Why get so annoyed?” - his morning thought
He doesn't have a telly - no ads to be bothered at,
He never trips down Oxford street – like a sheepish retail twat.
He likes Roy Wood, He likes The Slade,
He fucking loves The Pogues
So why take out the anger, on people he barely knows?
“Fuck it” he says (and he says that a lot), the day is fucking here,
Grabs last year’s Christmas jumper, runs out the door.

Skips past the annual pre-party pub he'd always go to,
To get steaming, get late, get to the do,
Succeed in getting punched
Fail to get fired
And regret it all ‘till next year.
He skips all that, smiles at a dog and feels good for a change.

Gets to the do, all decked out, orders a Bells,
Talks to Holly from accounts.
Shakes some hands, pecks some cheeks,
The usual Christmas jumpers are out:
Flashing reindeers, tinsel Jackson Pollocks.
Eschews the gloom, enjoys the room,
The menu boasting scallops.
He grins with his mithering manager,
With the same voice of Jane Horrocks.
Then horror hits! Gut hits the floor,
Forgets what all the joy is for,
His sweaty face, a picture of
One that has been walloped.
In the massive mirror, sees himself
Feels that he will collopse.
He's wearing last year's jumper! (Fuck)
T’ himself, his brain, it rollocks!
No frills, but hand cut, hand stitched letters
White on black
Which loudly spell out
“Bollocks”

cov451 (Mark Coverdale)