The perfect Christmas present

I hoped she didn’t think it was sarcastic –
My Christmas gift to poor one legged Cilla.
“An artificial leg!” she cried, “Fantastic!”
“Aw shucks,” I said. “It’s just a stocking filler.”

Highly decorated

It has a knighthood strung out large across its branches.
Upon the top, it wears its MBE.
There’s a giant Maltese Cross
Behind the fairy lights because
It’s a highly decorated Christmas tree.

A recessionary Christmas

This Christmas, we’ll save what we’ve got,
Keep on the straight and narrow.
There’ll be no turkey in the pot –
I hope you like roast sparrow.

The North Pole says the elves
Have all been made redundant
And so we’ll make the cards ourselves
And toys won’t be abundant.

Presents, such as they will be,
Will come wrapped in The Sun,
The Great Escape will start at three
And end at three oh one.

The Christmas tree will be replaced
By sprig of pyracantha
And thriftiness will be embraced
By banning talk of Santa.

Impoverished, we’ll proudly stand
With Jesus in the stall,
For its acknowledged cross the land
That we have got shag all.

Getting earlier every year

The smell of burnt fireworks wafts on the breeze,
As autumn’s cold hand starts to tighten.
A few hardy leaf-lets cling tight to the trees,
At five, the street lamps start to brighten.

But what’s this I see? Is the madness complete?
(The answer is surely “Yea, verily.”)
On November 1st in a house ‘cross the street,
A Christmas tree’s lights twinkle merrily.

A Sad Christmas Tale

Christmas has a special glow,
There’s magic everywhere.
Robins warble in the snow
And carols fill the air.
But one young boy was sadder than
A bowl of misery,
The day an irate Dundalk fan
Destroyed his Christmas tree.

A little elf had brought it to
The house in Merrion Square.
It rang the bell and right on cue
Young John was standing there.
Suspicious, aye and wary,
He had thanked the little elf.
Alas! He had no fairy,
So he sat on top himself.

Santa Claus came calling
To Nick Leeson and his band.
John Gill thought it appalling
That he’d favoured Terryland.
The mood had been unseasonal
Above in county Louth,
And words uncouth and treasonal
The Dundalk folk did mouthe.

But far from angry peasants,
John was well in Christmas mode.
He dreamt of lovely presents
And a brand new Lansdowne Road.
But Christmas lights no longer shone
When, on an angry spree,
A Dundalk fan poured petrol on
His lovely Christmas tree.

The wicked act caused John to blanch.
It really spoiled his day.
Somebody called the Special Branch
To haul the chap away.
The tree, undressed, no longer shone
Within those stately walls.
Poor John was left to gaze upon
His petrol-smothered balls.

So spare a thought this Christmastime
For one poor little boy,
The victim of a heinous crime,
A brutal, savage ploy.
He’ll hang his balls where’er he can
But still sobs bitterly,
Because an irate Dundalk fan
Destroyed his Christmas tree.

.

Originally written Dec 13th 2006. "Fun and games in Dublin today, when an irate Dundalk fan burst into the headquarters of John Delaney's FAI in Merrion Square, poured petrol over himself and the Christmas tree and threatened to set himself alight. Although Dundalk won a play-off against Premier Club Waterford, both were overlooked to join the new revamped Premier League in favour of third place Galway United, who somehow got in on their off-the-field activities. The Dundalk fan came quietly and there is a great photo doing the rounds of a policeman carrying the tree down the steps."

A Christmas wish come true

He hung his stocking from the bar,
Despite the ref’s objections.
The shots rained in from near and far,
Pile-drivers and deflections.

But no, he dived to left and right -
Was Fortune ever kinder?
Upon that magic Christmas night,
The keeper played a blinder.

Once he thought he heard some hooves
Land on the goal behind him.
Was Santa searching all the rooves?*
The keeper prayed he’d find him.

And, at the final whistle, he
Searched for his Christmas treat,
And from the stocking, with great glee,
He pulled out a clean sheet.

Another Christmas Tale

(to the tune of “Once in royal David’s city)

.

Roy was worshipped down at City,
All the girls would call him “Stud.”
Strong and brave, he showed no pity,
He was really very good.
Saintly in his will to win,
Anger was his only sin.

His manager was tough as leather,
Lee was decades in the game.
Never shy to shout out whether
Certain people were to blame.
Black and white and old and young,
All would fear Lee’s lethal tongue.

After one quite horrid disaster,
Roy came in for some abuse.
Never were words spat out faster,
Lee’s old face became bright puce.
Roy remained serene and calm,
Then drove to his manager’s farm.

He took a tractor from a stable
And drove to a cattle shed.
First the side wall, then the gable,
Tumbled down around his head.
Fearsome bedlam did abound,
As the shed crashed to the ground.

Well, the press were in the clover,
This was really front page news.
Was Roy’s stay at City over?
Journalists all gave their views.
What will all the upshot be?
Can the club placate mad Lee?

Talks began between the parties,
Snow fell down on many lands.
Rumours scattered round like Smarties
Flung from short bad-tempered hands.
City thought The Stud must leave,
His one sin held no reprieve.

Then as Christmas turkeys roasted,
Came a breakthrough at the death.
Notices were quickly posted,
Phone calls made with panting breath.
“Compromise!” shrieked out the news,
Headline writers sought their muse –

“One-sin Roy’ll stay with City –
Stud’ll owe Lee cattle shed.”