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)

Fear and Loathing in the House

Dear Chroniclers,

another rainy Saturday passes at the House. The Hounds have been walked, reallyfried has visited and mrs electrofried continues to struggle with the alien life-form that arrived in her Christmas stocking, courtesy of Cook, just a few weeks ago.

The lights of doom

The alien in question, if fading eyesight serves me right, goes by the inexplicably mis-spelled name of "Sonny, the DVD recorder", the words writ large in letters red, black and bold on the carton in which it arrived. And now, unpacked, it sits skulking in the corner of the TV Lounge.

The little green flashing lights that illuminate its fascia refuse stubbornly to co-operate with either the complementary remote-controller we found secreted amongst the wood-shavings at the bottom of the carton, or our own sturdy, valve-operated teak-clad edifice of a TV set. We are, dear Chroniclers, currently at something of an electronic impasse.

A matter of no little import

Having made discrete enquiries of the local Trading Standards Office, we are lead to believe Cook may have acquired the wretched thing via some dubious bartering at a recent Little Wittering car-boot sale. Rumour has it bottles of cheap Turnip Gin may have exchanged hands.

Worse still, we suspect from the "Made in Slovenia" label sellotaped loosely to the bottom of the devilish instrument, that we may be in possession of what might politely be described as a grey import. Certainly, Cook has previous form in the dark world of counterfeit consumer-goodery. Two previous convictions stamped on her "Care in the Community" order bear witness to this - as she took great pride in telling us some little while ago, having just entered indentured service with the House of electrofried.

So it appears likely, despite our careful nurturing of the florid-faced woman, that she has made a return to ways of old. And whilst we're on the subject, Fetlock the Butler was not entirely impressed either with the Louis Vuitton handbag and matching sock-suspenders that were his Christmas Box lot from Cook this year.

Puzzling Instructions

Back to our TV Lounge, and the silvery machine continues to remain a Sphinx-like electronic mystery - not even the hieroglyphics of an accompanying instruction manual can unravel its arcane inner-workings.

If truth be known, the booklet is as impenetrable as "Sonny" itself. It speaks in strange, acronymic tounges of "HDD" and "SLP", it reels off bizarre algaebraic formulae such as "DVD - RW/DVD - R" and "DVD = R DL" and then, to top it all, it contains perplexing entreaties to select a pattern from "A" through "E" according to our input jack.

So far as mrs electrofried and I are concerned, we have no input jack, at least none of which we are aware. And even if we did, we would be loathe to entrust it to the vagaries of a Slovenian grey import of uncertain jurisdiction.

A spring in the air

Had it not been for the interjection of Fetlock's feather duster, then matters may have rested there - a sullen, uncommunicative object glued to the floor of the TV Lounge. Not unlike our own, darling teenygoth, come to think of it. But no, our faithful retainer sprang into action earlier this Saturday morning with unexpected alacrity!

He was stationed at the time by the front door to the House, talking to the spot-encrusted delivery-boy from Mrs Puri's 24/7 Balti'n'Booze Emporium, ("Chicken Vindaloo and super-strength continental lagers our speciality"), the poor lad being the latest victim of his ongoing attempts to master the art of casual English conversation. Hearing mrs electrofried's plaintive cries of despair as she locked swords once more with the combined might of "Sonny the Sphinx" and the unintelligible instruction manual, Fetlock broke off talks to make haste toward the TV Lounge.

His parting words to the frankly bewildered youth were,"Mi lahko daste kak ne prospekte o Bledu in okolici v angle ini?", which roughly translated means, "Could you give me some brochures about Bled and the surrounding region in English?" And with that cryptic observation, he scooped up his trusty feather-duster in one hand and made his way down the Hall.

Fettled and dusted

Fetlock's mastery of the feather-duster is a thing of beauty and a joy to behold. Quite who schooled him in the ancient art of dust-removal, or indeed, why, remains a mystery to us all - but something for which we in the House are eternally grateful. Suffice to say that even the most Herculean of domestic-cleansing chores (to wit, the annual spring-clean of the living quarters allotted to young teenygoth) are no match for the electrofried's Butler extraordinaire once he in full flight.

And in full flight he most definitely was this morning. Fetlock appeared at the door to the TV Lounge, feather-duster clenched tightly between his teeth, and promptly proceeded to leap, ninja-like, the length of the room.

"Do not be fretting, electrofried mrs." he pronounced, duster to the ready.

"Fetlock curing it, he will!"

It was all over in a flash. The duster bobbed and weaved its way across the fascia of "Sonny the Sphinx" until at last it yielded its treasure. A secret compartment slid open to reveal a tray into which DVDs should be placed. To our astonishment, its crude plastic mouldings contained not a silver-circled disc, but rather a badly decomposed turnip.

Fetlock assured us this was quite standard practice in more rural areas of Slovenia, where mass-produced consumer frivolities are often put to good use in storing the winter essentials. The turnip duly removed, he bowed deeply to the lady of the House before making his way back down the Hall.

My biggest mistake

All appeared to be going well at this juncture. "Sonny the Sphinx" was now primed and ready for action, its flashing green lights duly compliant for the first time since its Christmas unveiling.

So why or why, did I elect to carry out the programming?

Cream teas and "Rain"

I might have known it would all back-fire with hideous consequences.

The Very Reverend Giblets, our encumbant at the Church for the Terminally Bewildered Anglican, chose to pay a passing visit to the House this same afternoon. As cruel fate would have it, he was accompanied by several parents of good-standing in the parish, their assorted offspring all regulars at the Youth Group run by mrs electrofried and I.

With teenygoth gagged and secured discretely out of sight behind the aspidistra, Cook was duly despatched to the kitchens to make up some light cream teas. Meanwhile, as mrs electrofried assembled the expectant parents around the TV set, I duly loaded up "Sonny the Sphinx" with an uplifting but thoroughly modern Christian DVD (such things do exist) called "Rain" by the rather splendid Nooma team.

"Let's show you the sort of things your children are watching with us on Sunday evenings."

Having effected the introductions, mrs electrofried, gesticuled in my direction to press the Play button. Little did I realise there were in fact two Play buttons. I hit the one for the hard-drive and made my way back to the sofa as these words from my dearly beloved rang out across an otherwise hushed room:

"Electrofried, what on earth have you done???????"

Mint Hotel madness

I really should know better, but ever since my teenage years I have been a closet affecianado of the works of the sadly deceased Hunter S. Thompson. His classic, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas", has long been a favourite of mine and it would have been churlish not to have recorded the film version when it was aired a few days ago on terrestrial TV.

Those familiar with Thompson's drug-raddled journalistic style will no doubt recollect the infamous scene from the book when Dr. Gonzo checks into the Mint Hotel heavily under the influence of mescaline. Terry Gilliam's faithful interpretation of this vision from Hades saw a group of astonished parents nearly choke on their scones and jam as "Sonny the Sphinx" spluttered into action.

A now silent audience watched in disbelief as a hideous tableaux unfurled on the screen before them - Mint Hotel patrons transformed by the evil drug into rampant, reptilian blood-letting monsters. You could have heard a pin drop ...

Banished to the Tower

The Youth Group seemed strangely quiet this weekend. I hear rumours our tenure as leaders may shortly be coming to an end as once more I've been banished to the Tower...

... and all I have to keep me company are the flashing lights of "Sonny the Sphinx" and three months worth of the omnibus edition of "Eastenders"". I shall keep a stout heart as I complete my penance.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)