Christmas Past

Ten Memories

Dear Chroniclers,

around two years ago, I wrote a short piece entitled, "Captain Fantastic and the Dirt-Kneed Schoolboy", all about my late father. So with a New Year just begun, I thought it might be an appropriate time to capture some precious memories of childhood. There are ten in all ... count 'em as you go!

1. Diving deep into the bathwater with the Captain as a very young child, then swimming up into a plastic wash-basket floating on the surface of the water.

2. The thick nicotine-stained finger-tips of my father, tobacco-brown and smoke-curled.

3. Running free through a field of sun-baked grass in search of leaping grasshoppers, with the Captain close behind.

4. The rich smell of frying bacon as he cooks family breakfast on a Saturday.

5. Sunday's out, and a metal-tray of pub-drinks we consume in the car en route to a picnic. A pint of best for the Captain, a "Cherry B" for the Black Dowager, shandy for eldest brother, two glasses of warm lemonade, one each for electrofried and baby brother ... and soggy crisps for all, with magic blue-bagged salt!

6. The Captain sitting at our breakfast-room table with richly coloured feathers, a line and hook, delicately tying the fly for fishing the next day.

7. A drive down to Bishop Stortford to see the house we never moved into. He died in a lay-by a few months later.

8. Visiting the Captain's offices at the weekend. Inter-coms and slide-rules, a week of smoke sinking deep into the fabric of the place.

9. Big-band jazz played loud on the radio in the car, whilst a strange coloured speedometer thread moves to red as we speed the length of a motorway.

10. Buying fish and chips for a group of visiting Americans, our food smothered in vinegar and wrapped tight in newspaper.

And here's a photo of the man ...







Hope you have a great New Year!

best regards,

electrofried(mr)

Christmas Unwrapped

Dear Chroniclers,

the wrapping-paper has all but settled on another Christmas Day, and sundry members of the enlarged electrofried clan now occupy strategic stations around the House.

Yours truly is to be found safely ensconced in the Library, a glass of medicinal port to hand and a copy of the "Penguin Guide to Jazz" to help keep me company through the evening. Or more candidly, the next thousand of so evenings. The thing is unthumbed and immense, and I shall much enjoy exploring its more arcane recesses as the New Year unfolds.

Meanwhile, mrs electrofried is just down the corridor in the TV lounge, feet up and picking her way through a freshly-opened tin of her beloved Quality Street, as she awaits with eager anticipation the Omnibus Edition of "Eastenders". She has, undoubtedly, earned a modicum of well-deserved rest following two months of diligent planning for the Big Day.

So just what were the Christmas highlights for 2007?

Back in the Stable

We'll start where we left off in 2006. Regular visitors to "The Chronicles" will be aware of my previous exploits as Santa Claus - but despite last year's unfortunate endeavours, I still received an invitation from Sally the Flash to reprise my starring role at Flatcaps' School Christmas fete.

This time I'm pleased to report I was spared the indignity of a grand entrance mounted atop a wobbling jalopy that bore scant resemblance to a sleigh. However, as we shall discover shortly, the prospect of shame, penury and an appearance before the local judiciary dogged my every move as I set up stall once more in the make-shift reindeer stable opposite the school-gates.

Having exchanged pleasantries with the two small, but highly voluble elves assigned to assist for the evening, I sat down on Santa's throne. As I lowered myself, statesmanlike, into position, I couldn't help but notice the stable seemed somewhat cooler than last year. And this, despite the presence of a gas-powered heater of uncertain vintage, thoughtfully positioned by the organisers of the event immediately adjacent to the straw-bales that made up the backdrop to my humble abode.

There was a certain draughtiness to be felt, and as I looked down, the dreadful truth dawned. Perhaps it was my increasingly portly frame, or just the general wear and tear one might expect of these things, but the vast Father Christmas pantaloons that made up the lower part of my costume were agape at the most embarrassing of junctures. Crude Taiwanese stitching had given up the ghost, and now the wretched garmentry had taken on the character of a seedy Ann Summers back-catalogue item. Welcome then, the split-crotch Santa look.

Fearing the possibility of imminent arrest by the "Boys in Blue", I paused to tug down discretely my matching velour jacket, then sprang forth into action. My two helpers, one boy and one girl, were both duly schooled in the art of present-dispensary, then promptly christened a communal, "Bruce" for the night, in order to avoid any potential confusion on the elf-front. With that, the doors to the stable were flung wide. The first quaking child was ushered, sobbing, into my quarters to receive the mandatory "Ho, ho, ho!" from me, a Christmas sticker from Bruce No. 1 and a tawdry gift-wrapped offering from Bruce No. 2.

And so the hours passed with a succession of bemused little-ones and their accompanying elders until at last all presents had been exhausted and the job was duly done. It had been a close-run thing, but I'd managed to perform my civic functions without either setting fire to the reindeer-stable or inviting the attentions of the local constabulary.

A few days later I popped round to Sally's to return the Santa outfit. She was out, so I left the tattered remnants with her husband.

"Something red and split-crotched ... ",

I announced, as I thrust the carrier bag into his hands. Curiously he seemed less than amused, and I fear we may not feature prominently on their Christmas-card list twelve months hence.

A Feast to be Remembered

The second highlight of the season all but defies description.

I have to say, the portents were ominous. We discovered to our horror, late on Christmas Eve, that the generous supplementary allowance issued by mrs electrofried to purchase our festive fare had been squandered by Cook on two barrels of industrial-strength continental lager and a crate of fortified Buckfast wine. Worse still, if the contents of her garret hideaway were to be believed, she had single-handedly consumed half the contents of the latter during the course of the evening.

Cook is, however, nothing if not resourceful - come the morn she was to be found hard at work by the Aga, skillets a flying and her pastry-coated Chef's hat set to a decidedly jaunty angle. Fetlock was not far behind. Pausing only to run off a phrase from his new English/Slovenian dictionary (a thoughtful Christmas present from darling teenygoth), he too grabbed a random selection of kitchen implements and got down to business.

And for those who may be even vaguely interested,

"Svoj tenek svetleč papir življati been pankrt v destilirati gos svinjska mast to stran od Ljubljana.",

roughly translates as,

"My onions have been basted in the finest goose lard this side of Ljubljana".

At length, the dinner-gong was struck and Fetlock ushered us all out of the Drawing Room and down the corridor for our festive fare. Picture the electrofrieds, if you would, seated around the baronial dining-table, our heads crowned with merry paper hats constructed from the back pages of the Little Wittering Bugle, and our plates as yet empty. Despite the consumption of a schooner or two of pre-prandial cooking sherry nothing could dull the mounting sense of trepidation as Cook's faltering footsteps were to be heard in the corridor outside.

A few mumbled curses later the door burst open and in lurched the florid-faced woman, still looking much the worse for wear and clutching a silvered platter somewhat unsteadily to her not insubstantial bosom. The suspense was almost too much to bear as Cook reached for the handle on top of the platter-lid. With a dramatic flourish, she flung her head back and revealed the contents with a loud, if slightly slurred,

"Tirrah ... !!,

before falling backward into Fetlock's waiting arms.

Teenygoth was first to inspect the damage. Venturing forward, she peered down at the now recumbent Cook, and spied some crudely crafted vegetable matter on the silver tray.

"What the .... ???"

Fetlock intervened at this point.

"Eetsa Chreesmaas delicacy all ze way froom Slovenia - ees toorneep horse doovers, teenygoth meess!"

Our youngest looked perplexed, as ever. Cautiously, mrs electrofried advanced to examine the contents of the tray herself. Picking up one of the smaller chiseled pieces, she raised it to her nose, sniffed then pronounced,

"I think he means turnip hors-d'oeuvres, dear. It should be perfectly safe to eat ... albeit a trifle unappetising."

The starters set the culinary bar predictably low for the remainder of the treats to follow, and they didn't fail to disappoint. The imaginatively entitled, "Yuletide Roadkill", was a thing of many splendoured (and in the case of teenygoth's portion, many beaked) beauty. The "Yoghurt Slurp" singularly failed to cleanse the palate, our suspicion being that it had endured a little recycling at some point on its journey from kitchen to dining-room. And frankly no-one had the stomach to attempt, "Cook's Christmas Log".

It was with some relief the meal came to a premature and burped end. Cook had once again excelled herself and now it was time for presents.

We Bear Gifts

Over the years, as our children have begun to achieve an increasing measure of maturity, the pile of presents on the Drawing Room floor has shrunk by equal measure. However, it can be predicted, with a fair degree of certainty, that reallyfried's will contain sundry football shirts and miscellaneous goal-mouth periphery. And so it was this year, too.

Maximouse and His Imperial Hirsutelessness plumped sensibly for the cash option and raised scarce an eyebrow when mrs electrofried tucked into their combined Christmas stocking a complimentary copy of "Mother and Baby". She really could be just a little more subtle about her desire to become grandmother to the next generation of electrofrieds.

Teenygoth, meanwhile, was relieved to discover her father had not put in an order to Master Amazon for, "The Bumper Book of Boys", as originally threatened. Instead, she had to contend with the sharpest wrapped present of the lot, which boasted more layers than the average cooking onion.

After breaking open the paper-seal, unfolding the heavily embossed cardboard box, removing the membranous wrapper, lifting it from the complementary cup and releasing the catch that held it to a circular metallic band ... out popped a "Fatface Watch". I'm told by those who should know, these are highly valued objects of desire in the world of teenydom - though, frankly the rest of the family had quite lost the will to live little more than half-way through the unwrapping process.

Mrs electrofried, however, appeared rather more impressed with the limited edition deep-fat fryer and matching ironing-board set I had thoughtfully purchased for her on-line during a hotly contested E-Bay auction. Indeed, for a short time she was rendered totally speechless. Then the silence was broken ...

"Electrofried ... you SHOULDN'T HAVE!!!"

And that seemed to be something of a threat, rather than an acknowledgement of gratitude. Strange creatures these lady-folk!

So now it was all down to yours truly to commence the unveiling of his present pile. Imagine my surprise when I came to Grandmother's little treat. As was her norm, she had sent some money to my dear wife to purchase a few small tokens of endearment for each member of the family. Regrettably, a last minute trip to Mrs Patel's 24/7 Convenience Store and Haberdashery had found mrs electrofried purse-less, and so my share of the Christmas largesse had been pressed hastily into action.

There can be few men who will have received a gift-wrapped selection of half-price turkey drumsticks, two plastic cartons of semi-skinned milk and the Christmas special of "X-treme Crochet" for their Yuletide box this year, but I was one. Should you be interested in placing a bid, they will shortly be going on-line at E-Bay, doubtless accompanied by a deep-fat fryer and complementary ironing-board combo.

So this brings us to the last, and best Christmas surprise of 2007.

Back in the Stable ... Reloaded

This year my thespian leanings were called upon not once, but twice. The Very Reverend Giblets, Rector to the Church of the Terminally Bewildered Anglican, had approached me a few weeks earlier to enlist my services for the forthcoming annual Crib Service.

"It's the lead role, electrofried - it'll suit you to a 'T'. There's definitely only one man here who could pull this off!",

Well, how could I possibly refuse?

"I see what old Giblets meant, Dad.",

chortled dear teenygoth, a fortnight later, as she lent over my shoulder to read the script I'd just retrieved from the Church pigeon-holes.

"It say's here ... 'ENTER TIRED, GRUMPY INN-KEEPER, STAGE LEFT'!!!"

"Just ignore her, darling,"

interjected the ever-helpful mrs electrofried,

"all you need do is snore a lot and act miserable. It should come quite naturally,"

And so it came to pass. Eschewing the traditional dressing-gown and tea-towel ensemble, I took to the stage in my black Amish field-jacket and matching hat, the closest I could get to the Fagin look I was after. My carefully practiced Gielgudian roar achieved maximum impact - though not quite as I had expected. Half the cast of little ones were reduced to tears, the other half to guffaws of untimely laughter. Perhaps the worst moment of all came when young Joseph did a "runner" down the side aisle of the Church, his hysterical mother in hot pursuit.

But what really made this event so special? My instructions for the end of the nativity play were to kneel before the crib in adoration whilst two praise-songs were played and the collection taken. Half way through the second, one of the youngest members of the cast, a little boy dressed as a shepherd, stood up. He walked over to where I was kneeling and stood by me, his bright young eyes shining in wonder as he surveyed the scene before him.

One day, pray God, I may enter His Kingdom with that very same look of innocence, wonder and awe. And with that, may I wish you all a very happy 2008!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

Winter Wonderland

Dear Chroniclers,

should you ever be invited by an attractive blonde neighbour to partake in dressing-up games, have no truck with it. It will be the very undoing of you, as I discovered to my cost this weekend just gone.

Teenygoth refuses to speak and, even now, mrs electrofried giggles manically every time she deigns to glance in my general direction. Oh, and we're still picking red fluff from our bedroom carpet.

A favour called

Sally the Flash lives just down the road from the electrofried estate. A professional photographer of no mean repute, she has on occasion helped yours truly extend his somewhat basic knowledge of the old Box Brownie and emulsioned glassy plates - for which I am deeply indebted.

Last Thursday night Fetlock opened the door to the Baronial Hall and in she marched clutching a designer-label carrier bag. The favour was about to be called. I should have spotted the danger-signs as soon as I saw the fur-trimmed sleeve dangling from the top, but no, I fell for it hook, line and sinker.

"Fancy dressing-up?"

How could I possibly resist?

The sordid truth

It didn't take long to regret my hasty decision.

I could sense the temperature drop several degrees in the TV Room as I broke the news of my imminent starring role in the Annual Christmas Fete at "Flatcaps", the local academic institutionary of choice to the well-heeled of Little Wittering.

Mrs electrofried appeared somewhat bemused,

"Santa, you're playing ... Santa?"

As for teenygoth she was, as might be expected, brutally dismissive,

"Well, at least you've got the figure for it, Dad!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "

Suitably discouraged, I made off toward my study as the horrible reality of the situation dawned.

The well-dressed man

Just one day later I was to be found up in the Master Bedroom getting ready for my star appearance.

It must be obvious to costume-designers the world over that Santas come in all different shapes and sizes. And the one who had occupied the Santa suit immediately before I, was clearly very different.

Tugging on the loose fitting velour trousers I soon established the waist was approximately twice the length of the trouser-leg. I tried to picture the previous encumbant in situ and alarming images of a strange jabba-like creature came all too readily to mind. Undeterred, for the electrofrieds are nothing if not resourceful, I reached for a pair of blackened Army boots that had last seen service in the relief of Mafeking, desperately hoping they would go some way toward bridging the substantial gap betwixt sock top and trouser-leg bottom.

Worse was to come. Closer inspection revealed the drawstring at the top of the trousers had perished, leaving no visible means of support. The only solution was to tuck the surplus material into the waistband of my empire-line pants and hope for the best.

Fortunately the Santa jacket proved more accomodating and was soon fastened firmly in place with a piece of loose webbing purloined from Cook's extensive collection of XXXL sized corsetry. The beard duly donned and a Santa hat perched jauntily on my head I made my way down the front steps of the House to where my carriage awaited.

Park and Ride

Sally the Flash, fearing justifiably that I might flee the country, had stationed her husband by the gates. There was to be no escape. He ushered me into his charabanc and off we sped toward "Flatcaps".

Disappointingly, there was no welcoming party to greet us. Indeed, so popular is the event in Little Wittering we had to park up some little distance from the school entrance and walk the remainder of the way. The one plus was that this gave me ample opportunity to practice my hearty Santa laugh on bemused members of the public we encountered during the last leg of our journey to the school.

Suitably disguised, I was even able to greet a member of teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft-drinks Youth Group with a cheery "Ho, ho, ho!" without being recognised. Under questioning later that weekend he did confess to mrs electrofried he had chanced upon a drunken lout dressed as Santa, but had wisely declined to pay him any attention.

Sleigh Bells ringing

If the Santa suit had been challenging, his sleigh defied description. It was there awaiting my arrival, a loosely constructed jalopy of a thing fashioned on the framework of a trailer that had clearly failed all MOT tests south of Lapland.

Santa's four elves were of equally unpromising material. Chosen at short notice by Sally the Flash, largely on the basis of availability rather than suitability, they were positioned at each corner of the trailer ready to take the strain when Santa should choose to mount the perilous steps to his parcel-decorated station. The back-axle pairing were of particular note.

Offside elf was a giant of a man, his diminutive counterpart on the driver's side being an elf of considerably lesser stature. I suspected strongly this was not to be a "magic-carpet" ride to Santa's grotto and this did indeed prove to be the case. One carelessly manouvered corner on the way in almost saw Santa catapaulted into the waiting crowd of expectant children like some bizarre red-tinted human cannon-ball. The potential kiddy carnage did not bear thinking about.

Santa's Arrival

Despite inital concerns. we arrived at length to the cheery cries of young children, accompanied by Santa's muffled entreaties to the now infamous back-axled elves not to lose their footing in the rain-sodden artificial snow. The sleigh duly ground to a halt, the safety of Santa's Grotto just a tempting few yards away. But first came the dismount.

Several of the more enthusiastic youngsters surrounded the sleigh as I began a backward descent, my Mafeking Army boots desperately seeking a grip in the footholds cut into the side. So keen were my audience to meet the star of the show they began tugging on my loosely fastened velour trousers. Suddenly my life flashed before me as I pictured said garment breaking free from the restraining grip of my pants to reveal Santa in all his glory. The front pages of the Little Wittering Post would be full of it come the morn.

Fortunately I managed to make a safe, if unsteady, exit from the sleigh to be ushered into the Grotto by Santa's two little helpers and a Bouncer carefully selected from the serried ranks of motherhood to guard the entrance from non-paying interlopers.

The dispensing of presents

I have to say it, but the next two hours passed relatively smoothly. A steady stream of small children were lead in at regular intervals, the little helpers practiced their "Ho, ho, ho's" and dispensed token presents with remarkable efficiency and the occasional blushing mother declined Santa's kind offer to sit on his knee.

All in all a good time was had by everyone concerned. The sole note of concern was the consumption of copious quantities of loose bri-nylon from a false beard that had evidently decided to commence its annual Spring moult under the heat of an adjacent gas-fire. Should I contract the Santa equivalent of asbestosis I shall call this web-page in evidence.

A Christmas surprise!

Had matters ended there, then the evening would have been pronounced a resounding success. But no, the allure of the spotlight had me in its grip and Sally's husband was called on to make one last journey.

He duly delivered Santa to the entrance of St Simeon's Church Centre wherein teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft-drinks Youth Group were gathered for Friday night chilling. What a fatal mistake to leap through the doors with a loud "Ho,ho, ho" having failed to check the fastening of the velour trousers.

There was no stopping either my momentum down the Church Centre stairs, nor the the escape of the velour from my empire-line pants. I arrived at the bottom with trousers round my ankles and a neat pair of Christmas-tree printed boxers on display.

"Oh Dad ... how could you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The screams of teenygoth still ring loud in my ears as I do penance in the Tower, wrapping the last of the Yuletide goodies. Pray for my forgiveness as I wish you all a very happy and a very velour-free Christmas.

best regards

electrofried (mr)