Tis the Season.

Off in our Christmas masks to get the Christmas turkey listening to a Christmas choir on Classic FM in Daisy, everything prefixed with the C word, tree, cake, Christmas TV, Christmas fork, Christmas bloody broken pencil and the Biro that ran out in September that everyone dutifully puts back in the kitchen pot. We sing along to a carol so nondescript any note, any word will do, and test this proposition to within an inch of its life; respectfully though because it’s, er, Christmas. “Don’t let him in!” A little Fiesta is nosing with intent. Mock road rage is one of Mothermouse’s favourite delights. Now Tchaikovsky, which for some reason is always Christmasy even if it is depicting the fall of Stalingrad to the Boshcovites. “He’s going too fast, ahah, twat. This is boring.” She turns to Sheffield FM. A plink plonk band of happy brass; we join in again with mouth noises. Age has brought us this gift of stupidity. It’s the gateway to a glorious intuitive improv, a freeing of one’s spirit from the mundanity of being responsible. “Ha ya bastard” I intone, “Where did that come from?” “Don’t know, I think I was being a pirate.” “Jesus fucking Christ what’s he doing?!” A man has seized the opportunity to exit a side road on our right, cross in front of us and exit stage left down a filter. “Well he was..” “Move up, close the gap, that’ll stop the other buggers.” We cross the lights and continue home discussing how lucky we are.