 Yes, it's come to pass at last. You have reached the final episode of An Alternative Christmas carol, by Robert Cubitt That sound you can hear is Charles Dickens whirling in his grave, so our apologies to him. Now read on. Christmas Night - around 10 p.m. Smooge sat in front of his roaring fire, a fat cigar in one hand and a snifter of brandy in the other. On the chaise longue a naked woman slumbered peacefully. On his return from his nephew’s house he had been delighted to find that his local brothel was not only open for business but also offered a take-out service. He could only dream of the day when Deliveroo arrived so he could order from home The gas lights flickered and dimmed and smoke whirled from the fireplace. Jacob Harley entered the room through the wall, on his arms he had his two demonic companions. Today they were dressed from head to toe in shining leather. In their free hands they carried whips which hissed and crackled and sparks flew when they flicked the tips of them in time to their walk. “Ah, Jacob. So nice of you to pop in. I do wish you would go easier on the special effects, though. All this smoke is ruining my décor.” I had a bet with myself that you would disregard your visitors. You disappoint me. “Why, thank you Ebenezer.” The two women detached themselves and went over to admire the form of the sleeping woman, allowing their whips to gently caress her naked body. “I understand that you heeded the warnings of the ghosts.” “I did indeed, Jacob. And I have to say that I have enjoyed this day immensely.” “I had a bet with myself that you would disregard your visitors. You disappoint me. I thought you were made of sterner stuff.” “I am, Jacob. I am.” “So what changed your mind?” “Several things.” Smooge took a long pull at his cigar and blew a series of smoke rings into the room. “The first is that Elisa deserved a day off from ministering to my baser needs. I have no desire to push her into the arms of some randy haberdasher. Besides, Scratchit would have had no idea how to cook that goose. Secondly, I couldn’t bear the thought of Tiny Tim dying. After all, who else could I exploit when I eventually have to pension Bob Scratchit off? Not that he’s getting a pension, of course. Thirdly, Christmas is only one day. There are three hundred and sixty four other days of the year when I can cheat and rob like any other self-respecting banker. Finally I succeeded in ruining Christmas for my prig of a nephew and that holier-than-thou wife of his, which gave me enormous pleasure. I look forward to doing it again next year.” Jacob threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I knew it. I knew you would never change. Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you down below after all.” “Do I have long before we meet again?” “Only the good die young, Ebenezer, so be assured you have many a year left in you before we meet again.” He turned to his female companions. “Now come along girls, leave the hooker in peace. We’ll get back just in time to find out who won I’m A Celebrity.” The two women cracked their whips over Harley’s head, producing a cloud of sparks as the trio faded from view. In his comfortable padded armchair, Smooge contemplated the start of the next business day. If things went to form he would open his doors to a flood of borrowers, crippled by the debts created by their own over indulgence. He smiled his cruellest smile and took a sip of his brandy. He wished himself the Happy New Year that he knew would be his anyway. In many ways he wished it could be Christmas every day. THE END So that is that. If you are looking for a moral to the story, it is probably that leopards are more likely change their spots than bankers are to become nicer human beings. The only time they have charitable thoughts is when they are tax-deductible. We're taking a break until January, so if you want to be sure not to miss our next blog, sign up for our newsletter so we can remind you when we post it. And if you have enjoyed this little story, why not find out more about Robert Cubitt's books. He usually writes more serious stuff. In fact, why not use some of the those Amazon vouchers you're going to be given for Christmas to to give his books a try? Just click the button to go to the "Books" page of this website to find out more. May we take this opportunity to wish all our readers, both of our blogs and our books, a very merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
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Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Christmas Morning, about 10 a.m. Smooge struggled awake, the warm blankets encouraging him to return to slumber, if only for a moment. He shook his head, trying to clear it, wondering if the dreams he had experienced were real or just his imaginings. Perhaps he had suffered from indigestion, and all those ghostly visitors had simply been a manifestation of that ailment. Smooge shivered, wondering where a draft might be coming from. He glanced across at the window and saw it gaping open, a pool of melted snow on the floor beneath it. He knew he had closed that window before retiring the evening before. On the far side of the room something caught his eye. Was that a laurel leaf? Perhaps some part of a ghost’s head dress? And there, on the floor, was that not golden glitter which might have been dislodged from a ghostly girl’s chest? And where was his gold watch and chain? So it had been real, apparently. Smooge climbed from his warm bed and approached the window, meaning to pull it down, but he spied an urchin trudging through the snow below him. “Hey, you there, boy.” The urchin stopped and looked up at him. “Oo’ are you callin’ boy, you old fart?” “Tell me boy. What day is this?” “Well bless me guv’nor. Don’t you know it’s Christmas time at all?” But thanks for the Sovereign.” Christmas. Of Course. That was what his nocturnal visitations had been about. “Wait there boy.” Smooge’s head vanished from view and returned a moment later. Gold sparkled in the air as he threw a coin down to the boy. “Ouch. That hurt. You wanna be careful, old man, or I’ll ‘ave the law on you for that. I’m entitled to compensation.” The boy raised a filthy handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood from the gash on his head. Dropping to his hands and knees he searched the snow for the fallen coin with his free hand. “Now, boy. I want you to hurry to Mr Fortnum and Mr Mason’s most excellent emporium and buy me the biggest goose they have.” “You’re a loony mate.” The boy shouted up, having retrieved the coin. “It’s Christmas Day. The shops are all shut and the first Asian mini-market won’t open for another hundred and twenty years. But thanks for the Sovereign.” He turned and ran away before Smooge could consider coming down the stairs to recover his money. Damn and blast, thought Smooge. Well, he’d remember that boy’s face. Now now, he chastised himself. Peace on Earth and goodwill to all men. Even dirty faced urchins. After closing the window he made his way into the kitchen and opened the door to the cold larder. There on the shelf was the fat goose that he had been planning to cook for himself and Elisa Scratchit. It would have to do. Quickly Smooge dressed and left the house. He made his way through the empty streets to his nephew’s house. His knock was answered by Tamsin, his nephew’s wife. “Well, here’s a sight for sore eyes. And how are you this fine morning Uncle?” “I am well. Now, yesterday, Justin invited me to share your festive lunch.” “He did indeed, in the full expectation that, as usual, you wouldn’t attend.” Her face fell as realisation dawned. “You are attending, aren’t you?” “I am indeed. However, I must first run an errand. I will return forthwith and enjoy the day with you. I’m afraid that I haven’t had time to buy presents for you or children. How are little Agatha and Brian, by the way?” “Priti and Boris. They’re fine. As they weren’t expecting a present from you they won’t be disappointed.” “I shall make restitution some other way, perhaps some small financial contribution may be appreciated. Now, I must go, but I’ll be back shortly.” “Don’t hurry yourself Uncle.” Tamsin responded sourly. “I’ll let my husband know you’re coming. He’ll be so pleased.” The sarcasm was lost on Smooge. If Smooge noticed the aggression with which she slammed the door he chose to ignore it. Instead he strode off through the snow to his next port of call. Under his breath he hummed a familiar carol. His knock was answered by Elisa. “Mr Smooge. Well bless me but we weren’t expecting to see you this morning.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not free till this afternoon, you randy old goat.” She hissed. “Now, now, children. No need to be alarmed.” Smooge beamed at her. “Fear not Madam, I haven’t come for my curtain fitting. I bring you this fine goose so that you may enjoy the festivities.” He held the dead bird up by its neck. Elisa's mouth dropped open with shock, but she recovered her wits quickly. “You’d better come in then.” Elisa stood to one side then ushered Smooge into the tiny, badly lit parlour. “I’ll tell Bob you’re here.” She said as she left the room. Seeing their father’s employer enter the room the children cried out with alarm and backed themselves into the furthest corner. “Now, now, children. No need to be alarmed.” Smooge gave them his warmest grin, which succeeded only in drawing fresh cries of alarm from them. “Now, why don’t you come over here to your Uncle Smooge. You. What’s your name little girl?” He singled out a child dressed from head to toe in shocking pink. “I’m Beyoncé” She stammered in fear. “OK, Beyoncé, why don’t you introduce me to the rest of your brothers and sisters.” Emboldened, the girl moved forward slightly and pointed at each child in turn. “That’s Dappy, he’s the oldest; Jagger, Britney, Elvis, Bono, Amy, Norton is the one with the frilly pink shirt, that’s KD in the boiler suit, Freddie, Ringo and finally Tiny Tim.” “God Bless us everyone.” Piped Tim from the back of the crowd. “Yes, alright Tim. Don’t milk it.” Said the one identified as Elvis. At that moment Bob Scratchit entered the room, brushing snow from his shoulders. “I must get that hole in the privy roof sorted.” He told the world at large. “Well, this is a surprise, Mr Smooge.” His face took on a worried look. “You haven’t come to sack me, have you? You did agree I could have the day off.” “No need to worry, Bob. I’ve just come to give you this fine goose for your lunch and to wish you the season’s greetings.” He handed the bird over to his employee. The children eyed it with open mouthed awe. They’d never seen so much meat in one place before. “Oh, Bless You Sir. Can I get you a drink?” “Why, that would be wonderful Bob.” Scratchit left the room and returned a few minutes later without the goose but with the bottle of beer he had been looking forward to enjoying with his roast rat. He offered it to Smooge, then ushered him across to the seat by the fire. The only seat in the room since the rest of the furniture had been burnt to provide warmth. Fortunately the Scratchit family had been unaffected by the recent rise in gas prices. You had to have gas for that to affect you. They sat in embarrassed silence while Smooge drank the beer. The children whispered together about the mystery of Smooge turning up with food for them. Smooge drained the last drop from the bottle and rose. Scratchit almost fell over with relief as he escorted his employer form the house. “Have the merriest of Christmases, Mr Smooge.” “Thank you Bob, and the same to you and your family. Please tell your lovely wife not to bother with my curtain fitting this evening. We can arrange it for another time, I’m sure.” “Why thank you, Sir. She will be pleased.” I won’t be though, thought Smooge. He wished someone would hurry up and invent the internet so he could download some Christmas porn. Instead he pasted a smile onto his face that succeeded in frightening a passing horse, then made his way back to his nephew’s house. As the door shut Smooge heard Tiny Tim’s voice. “God Bless us every one.” “Oh do shut up.” The other children shouted in chorus. That's the end of Episode 6. The 7th and final episode will be posted next Saturday, 18th December. Can you guess how it will end? If you want to be usre not to miss Episode 7, then why not sign up for our newsletter, so we can send you a reminder. Just click the button below. And if you want to know more about the books written by Robert Cubitt, the author of "An Alternative Christmas Carol, then click the button below to go to the "Books" page of this website.
 Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Yes, it's still Christmas Eve, but now about 3 a.m. After the two spectral visits, Smooge couldn’t bring himself to go to sleep again. Instead he pondered on what he had been shown. The visions were worrying. He wondered if he might be developing a conscience and, if he did, whether it might mean the end of his banking career. After all, who had ever heard of a banker with a conscience? The clock chimed three and Smooge sat up expectantly. Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen as the clock struck the quarter hour. After another five minutes a figure slouched through the wall and into the bedroom. Smooge noticed that this ghost was female. Her long raven black hair was streaked with bright blue. Small white protrusions were emanating from her ears and in her hand she held a rectangular device, with which she was deeply engrossed. The girl’s thumb rubbed over the device in strange, jerky motions. Her mouth moved in a rhythmic chewing motion, reminiscent of cattle at rest. “Wat you lookin’ at, you pervert?” “You’re late.” snapped Smooge. “Whatever.” The girl said without looking up. “Well, don’t you have some sort of message for me?” The girl gave a long, all suffering sigh and reluctantly slipped the small device into the pocket of her baggy cardigan. She fished out a card and read it, her lips moving slowly as she did so. Satisfied that she had memorised the contents of the card, she thrust her hands into her cardigan pocket and spoke somewhat petulantly. “I am the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. I bring you a warning of your fate should you not mend your ways.” The message delivered, the girl drew out the small device and recommenced her fiddling with it. She giggled at something and then started moving her thumb more rapidly. Smooge examined the girl more closely. Apart from the baggy cardigan she wore some sort of tight shirt, above which an expanse of chest sparkled with gold glitter and below which her belly button was exposed, showing a gold ring pierced through it. Her skirt was a strip of denim that stopped in a ragged fringe well above her knees. Her legs were encased in thick pink and green striped nylon stockings that had holes torn in them in a number of places. She wore shoes that went to a point at the toes but also had a heel that was at least six inches high. Were she solid Smooge guessed that the heels would make small holes in his hard wood floors. Smooge’s bunions started to throb in sympathy. “Wat you lookin’ at, you pervert?” The girl realised she was being examined. “Your clothing. I have never seen such strange garments on a female.” “I don’t follow no fashions. No one tells me how to dress.” The girl stated angrily. “I’m an individual. So are all my friends. We all dress like this because we're all individuals. Wat are you, my Mum or somefing?” Smooge wisely decided not to pursue the matter. “I suppose you have somewhere to take me?” “I do, but you’ll have to make your own way. My Dad will have to give me a lift 'cos I ain't got my licence yet and if he sees you with me he’ll think you’re some sort of paedo out to groom me.” The girl waved her hand and Smooge found himself flying over the town once more. He had to admit it was a very convenient way to travel and far less polluting than a horse drawn carriage. After a while he started to descend and was deposited in a field. There was nothing in sight in any direction. The girl appeared beside him. “Sorry ‘bout this. We’ve got a bit of a walk from here. They used Brianair for this trip so we couldn’t get no closer. I hope you only had hand luggage otherwise you’ll get a bill for the excess.” Smooge looked down at his empty hands, wondering what the girl was talking about. She turned and floated across the field leaving Smooge to struggle through the snow behind her. For some reason he was feeling the bitter cold this time. He wished he had dressed for the weather as his silk pyjamas and slippers weren’t up to the job. At last they arrived once more at Bob Scratchit’s house. Smooge counted the children and only managed to get as far as eleven. The house was dark and Smooge noticed a black wreath hanging on the door. “Who is this for?” He asked, already knowing in his heart. The girl didn’t answer, but waved her hand and the door swung open. In the tiny parlour the family were gathered. Bob Scratchit sobbed quietly and the children whispered together, casting occasional glances at their father. Smooge counted the children and only managed to get as far as eleven. He searched the faces to identify the missing child. “Tiny Tim.” He exclaimed. “Where is Tiny Tim?” “He is the one the wreath is for.” The ghost explained. “And Elisa?” “Oh Elisa.” Scratchit wailed. “Elisa why have you abandoned me?” “Run off with the man who provided her with curtain material.” Explained the ghost. “Before or after Tiny Tim’s death?” “About five minutes ago.” The scene faded and Smooge found himself in a windblown graveyard. Beside an open grave stood the solitary figure of a clergyman holding an open prayer book. As he muttered prayers he took occasional glances towards the gate of the graveyard, hoping that someone would come to mourn the grave’s occupant. “Whose grave is this?” Smooge asked the ghost. “Yours.” “Will no one come to mourn my passing?” “Wait.” The ghostly girl commanded. Smooge heard a murmur and turned his own head towards the gate. There he saw a sight that filled his heart with joy. “People are coming to pay their respects.” He said as he watched the growing crowd. So many people. It looked as though the whole town had turned out for him. “As if.” was all the ghost said, apparently reading his mind. The crowd gathered round the open grave. Smooge saw Bob Scratchit step forward to speak to the Vicar. “You better get the grave filled in, Vicar.” He said. “Why, my son. What is the need for haste?” The Vicar replied. “Well, we can’t start dancing on it until it’s been filled in, can we?” For Smooge the world went black. End of Episode 5. Episode 6 will be posted on Saturday 11th December. Click the button to sign up for our newsletter and we'll be happy to send you a reminder. And if you'd like to find out more about the books by the author of "An Alternative Christmas Carol", Robert Cubitt. Just click the button below to be taken to the "Books" page of this website.
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