Bah Humbug

by Peter Gifford

Usually, the first indication that another bloody Christmas is about to hit comes when I’m walking around my local shopping centre, happily minding my own business, and I suddenly realise with mounting horror that Christmas Carols are playing over the sound system. And not just any Christmas Carols these days, oh no. The people who make these decisions have decided to blend two of the worst forms of auditory torture known to mankind – a combination which I hereby christen “Carols and Carey”. The songs are the same tired old favourites that get trotted out year after year, but now they are sung by the most atrocious, screeching harridans that the American music industry can produce. This produces the kind of irritating and prolonged cacophony that one might hear should your dear Aunt Agatha, who fancies herself a bit of an Opera buff, accidently stumble backwards into the stove and put her hand on a hot plate with her full weight behind it. A relatively peaceful shopping expedition turns becomes akin to a trip through that special Circle of Hell reserved for people who use leaf blowers on a Sunday morning.

So, Christmas is here again. Of course, the fact is that it is still the 21st of October. Apparently one must begin to plan for Christmas.

I work in a small cubicle in a small office of a major software company, and apart from grappling with problems of a programming nature, I am forced to grapple with that daily torture called ‘Office Politics’. I do so by ignoring the other staff as much as I am able, though some, like Trixie, refuse to be ignored.

“Hello Bradshaw, um, we’re just doing the surprise Christmas Present draw – umm, what you do is you draw a name from the bowl, and then you have to buy that person a present, but the present, um, the present has to be under twenty dollars.” Trixie is an annoying little trollop who works at the front desk of our department and who has appointed herself chief organiser of all social events in our office – none of which I take part in, I might add. She brandishes a clear plastic bowl full of slips of folded paper like a monk asking for alms.

“I believe I told you last year, Trixie, that I have no desire at all to buy anyone a present, or receive one. In other words, count me out. And please don’t disturb me again, I’m working.”

Charming Trixie sticks her tongue out at me and her head vanishes behind the cubicle wall. A bit later I hear someone’s laughter from the other side of the office. To my horror, Trixie’s blond-topped head then pops back over the wall like a jolly gargoyle. “You ARE coming to the office party on Friday night, aren’t you Bradshaw?” she says with a grin on her plump face. “I mean – umm – it wouldn’t be the same without you there.”

I content myself with responding with a withering glance and turn back to my programming. A bit later I hear more laughter.

Why anyone would want to attend one of these office Christmas parties is beyond me. From my experience they always seem to degenerate into a potential sexual misconduct case. Married boss A tries desperately, fueled by copious amount of alcohol, to get into the miniscule skirt of Secretary B. And, what’s more, sometimes succeeds. The toilet cubicles of full of people throwing up their load of party nibbles, something gets seriously damaged, already thin reputations are torn to threads, and everyone wakes up in the morning smelling of cigarette smoke and with the taste of old carpet in their mouth. Not a very attractive way to spend an evening, if you ask me.

So, no doubt pursued by snide titters behind my back, I left the office at 5.10pm and headed home to my flat. I fully intended on this Friday evening of the eighteenth of December to follow my usual routine; pick up takeaway and a bottle from one of the many establishments on the main road, drop by the video store and hire a first release DVD, and go home to my one bedroom flat.

Of course, it was not to be that simple, otherwise my story would come to an end here and you’d all get on with whatever it was you were doing before you began reading it. The credits were just rolling on ‘Batman Begins’, I was lying back contentedly on my battered couch with the remnants of the evening’s Thai takeaway before me, when I heard a loud ‘thump’ from the kitchen. And not a “the kind of noise an old refrigerator makes when it dies” kind of thump either. More like a “person accidently stumbling into something” kind of noise, which let me assure you, when you live alone in a one bedroom flat, is not a noise you welcome hearing at 11.45 at night. I decided that faced with a number of alternatives, my best option was to pretend I hadn’t heard it.

A few moments later there was another thump, quickly followed by a bang, a crash and a persistent scraping sound. I got the hint. Brushing crumbs from my lap I got up and moved as quietly as I could to the kitchen.

I won’t lie and tell you I wasn’t surprised. Searching frantically through my cupboards was a haggard fellow, probably in his sixties or so, encumbered by a long length of heavy chain secured by big rusty padlocks, all somehow wound about his body. No doubt this was the source of the aforementioned bang (and possibly the crash). Despite the fact I’d moved very quietly he immediately turned a dirty, hairy face to me and said “do you have any of those sour cream and chilli chips?”

Well, not only was a surprised to have a tramp with some kind of bondage fetish suddenly appear in my windowless kitchen asking for gourmet crisps, but I must admit the fact that he was semi-transparent and his clothes and hair seemed to be blowing softly in a non-existent breeze took the wind out of me somewhat. “Huh?” I said. I briefy wondered just what had been in my Thai takeaway.

“You know, the gourmet ones” he said, but then obviously decided to give up. “I guess you’re a plain Smiths crisps kind of guy” he said, closing a cupboard. “Oh well, business before pleasure. My name is Marley, Jacob Marley, and yes I’m a ghost – well, more like a bloody hostage to the Powers That Be, really, a wandering spirit, a tortured soul, an employee with an eternal workplace agreement – you get the drift. I’m here to tell you that you’ll be haunted by two Spirits, and that you have a chance to avoid my fate, blah de blah blah. OK?”

This was a long speech, and I’m sure you can understand that I was still coming to terms with the whole semi-transparent thing, so I had to ask him to repeat it.

“Oh, come ON” he said, clearly annoyed. Picking up a loose length of chain he moved through me – that’s right, through me, not a sensation I enjoyed – and I followed him dumbly into the living room where he fell onto a couch and proceeded to pick through the remains of my Pad Thai. “Something about those seven year wanderings always makes me hungry” he said absentmindedly.

“Ahh,” I said, recovering my wits somewhat, “Two Spirits?”

“Pardon?” he said.

“Two Spirits? Jacob Marley. Bloody Ebenezeer Scrooge and all that. It’s been a while since I read any Dickens, but weren’t there THREE spirits? One each for the Past, Present and Future?”

“Yes, yes, there used to be three Spirits.” I seemed to be succeeding in annoying Marley’s ghost more and more, and I’m pretty sure pissing off a ghost is not a good thing to do. “Cost cutting measures. The Ghost of Christmas Past got retrenched. Literally.” He seemed to find this funny in the manner of someone who finds a very old joke funny, but I must confess I didn’t get it. “You’ll have to make do with two. Happy with that? Any more complaints?” He took my blank stare as a yes. “Fine,” he said, getting up with a clank of heavy chains, “Expect number one tomorrow about midnight or so. He may be late. We’re all on a busy schedule this time of year, as you can imagine.”

And with that, he was gone. Not ‘walk out the door see you later’ kind of gone either, but the ‘there one second not there the next’ kind.

Well, in fact, it was more like four in the morning the next day before the first Spirit showed up, and I was feeling pretty rough, considering I’d stayed up the entire night before in a state of shock and polished off three-quarters of a bottle of middling-quality Scotch. So I was only briefly surprised when I woke and it was still dark and I was on the couch, fully dressed. At first I thought I’d dozed off for a few minutes, but a glance at the DVD clock showed me it was in fact ten forty-five at night and I had slept through the entire day. My head felt like it had ballooned to the size of a disco ball and been filled with tiny men playing rugby with a brick. It wasn’t worth getting up, and besides, it was a Saturday.

The next time I prized my eyes open it was almost four. I groaned and managed to drag myself into a sitting position to cradle my pounding head in my hands. That was one hell of a dream, I thought.

Obviously a mistake. Anyone who thinks ‘that was one hell of a dream’ inevitably receives sudden proof that in fact it was not a dream at all and in actual fact they are trapped in some kind of weird waking nightmare from which there is no escape. This time was no different. There was immediately a strange rush of cool air, a sound like a thousand slugs being poured into a barrel of hot tar, and my apartment suddenly smelt like one of those terrrible shops that sells homemade soaps and incense.

“Bradshaw, Kevin Bradshaw?” said the voice. Oh well, no use putting it off any longer, I thought, and raised my head.

Standing before me was a very normal looking man in his mid-thirties wearing a nice suit. He was smiling from ear to ear.

“Kevin Bradshaw!” he cried in a voice far above my current comfort level, “Come on down! You’re the next contestant for the Ghost of Christmas Present!”

Oh dear Lord, I thought. I was standing in a television studio, complete with cheering and clapping audience, cameras, bright lights and garish sets. The Spirit was holding my elbow in a comforting but decisive sort of way. Toothy, leggy models wearing little Santa outfits were standing around with piles of expensive consumer goods.

“Now Kevin” said the Spirit, leaning in close, “we’ve heard you haven’t been joining in the Christmas celebrations as you should, and we’re here to give you the chance to win some fantastic prizes and re-discover the Joy of Christmas!”

The audience erupted into applause. The taste of day-old Scotch in my mouth was making me feel a bit sick.

“But first, let’s have a look at what you can win!” The Spirit waved the arm that wasn’t holding onto me in an expansive gesture. Nearby a section of wall slid back to reveal a suburban dining room set. A family was gathered around a table extravagantly set with food, drink and decorations. A large plastic turkey dominated its centre. The whole scene was rendered extremely surreal by the fact that the very young mother and father and their children were laughing and talking without making any noise whatsoever. It was a bizarre pantomime of a Christmas dinner.

“Yes Kevin, merely by changing your attitude just a little you too can enjoy wonderful familial scenes such as these! Look at that wonderful home-cooked food!” he said, pointing out the plastic turkey, “the smiling faces!”, indicating the miming models. The father in the little group was currently involved in pulling a Christmas cracker with the young boy. The cracker broke and he almost fell back on his chair, which of course made the entire group explode into fits of mimed laughter.

“And Kevin, if you agree to join in the festivities, we’ll give you … a new car!” At this the audience went wild, as a sporty little coupe was driven into the studio by one of the models dressed in a Santa Claus outfit. Even through my hangover I couldn’t deny the prospect was beginning to look a little tempting. But then I thought of all the years I would have to attend office Christmas parties, say ‘Happy Christmas’ to shop assistants, buy, fill out and Christmas post cards … and suddenly the car didn’t look quite so attractive.

“Get me out of here, Spirit” I said. He looked very surprised, especially since balloons, streamers and tinsel were already being dumped on the set in anticipation of my positive response.

I woke up on the couch again. I would have been tempted to write off the entire episode as the product of a booze-addled mind if I hadn’t been covered in streamers and tinsel. There was even a balloon in the corner of the room.

“Why me?” I said out loud. Thankfully, the construction site in my head was beginning to reach the end of the working day and the pain was being replaced by a good dose of old fashioned self pity. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” It was then I noticed it was about 3am. Another day had passed. Either I’d been out for a long time, or there was something a little supernatural going on.

No doubt Spirit Number Two would be along any moment to press the point home. I decided that this time I’d be ready for him. First, the kitchen for a Berocca. Then I headed for the bathroom to clean up, praying I wouldn’t be snatched by an otherworldy kidnapper in the middle of my shower. By the time the next Spirit made his unwelcome appearance I’d be sitting on the couch with a coffee and able to face the whole experience with a bit of my old cantankerous aplomb.

It was getting on to dawn when there was a knock at my front door. Actually, this was more frightening than the appearance of a Spirit from beyond the grave, and I jumped a good foot off the couch. Who could it be at this hour? I sidled up to the front door and peered through the spyhole. Spirit Number One stood on the other side of the door, adjusting his tie and smoothing his hair. I was so surprised I opened the door without thinking.

“Hey Kevin!” he said, shoving his way in. “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come!” He was relentlessly cheerful and had a face that just begged to be slapped.

“Hold on a minute.” I closed the door and followed him into the living room, where he was already making himself comfortable. “You’re not the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. You’re the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

The Spirit picked at something on the couch. “Yes, well, I told the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come I’d cover for him tonight. He’s in a meeting and couldn’t make it. But look at it this way Kevin,” he said, brightening, “the GOCYTC is a moribund bastard at the best of times. In fact he makes us all look bad, gliding about in that big black robe of his, scaring the kids. And that damn hood! I mean, you try making friends with a guy who won’t even show you his face. It’s tough even for me, and I get along with everybody.” He gave me a big white toothed grin.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s get this over with then, shall we? I suppose you’re going to show me the terrible, friendless, miserable existence I’m doomer to if I continue on this path towards grumpy old bastard middle- and old- age, culminating in a visit to my own deathbed and grave, where I will lie forgotten forever, my spirit, like Marley’s, doomed to wander the earth for all eternity until I cheer up?”

“Oh, nothing like that Kev.” from somewhere the Spirit produced a laptop, which he set on my coffee table among the remains of the takeaway and turned on. “I just wanted to show you a few financial projections and investment options. Do you know for example, that if you put an extra five percent into your super fund you could retire on an extra twenty-thousand a year?”

I let out a heavy sigh and sat next to him on the couch. There was a movie playing on the computer. I’m a programmer, so I noted he was using QuickTime. In the movie, I could see myself, in my late forties, sitting in the backyard of a huge mansion that stretched down to a lake. A beautiful yacht was moored at a jetty.

“So, here we are in about twenty years Kevin” said the Spirit enthusiastically. “As you can see, in about five years you invent a new compression algorithm, patent it and become fabulously wealthy. Unfortunately, however, being rich makes you even more of a grumpy bastard than you were before, and people resent you and talk about you behind your back.”

As he spoke, a tall, willowy brunette in a black bikini walked into the frame and passed me a drink. She settled herself on a lounge chair by the pool – did I forget to mention there was a pool – and closed her eyes.

“Who’s that?” I asked the Spirit, pointing out the brunette.

“Oh her – oh, she’s your wife. But you often have differences of opinion.” He hastily pressed a button and the view changed. “Whereas here’s another Kevin in twenty years. In this timeline you attended the office Christmas party, got pissed and had a good time. Of course you didn’t invent that algorithm, but this was the start of a longish happy life, in which you made wise investments, cultivated friendships, attended family dinners and, most of important of all, wished people Merry Christmas!”

“What do you mean, ‘longish’?” I asked. All trace of my hangover was now gone.

“Huh?” said the Ghost of Christmas Present/Yet to Come.

“You said ‘longish’. How long, exactly?”

“See, you keep a weather eye on your investments and super, and retire at 65 with a comfortable income that allows you to take one overseas trip a year!”

“I won’t ask you again.”

The Spirit looked at me sidelong and slowly closed the lid of the laptop. “Well, you do get run over by a lorry at the age of 67, but you leave a comfortable little sum to your kids.”

“Right, that’s it. Out. I’ve had it with you non-corporeal bunch and your comings and goings. All I wanted was a quiet night in with a DVD and some takeaway and instead I get supernatural salespeople. Out! And leave by the door.”

The laptop was tucked away somewhere and the Spirit stood. “Well, if that’s how you feel Kev, I’ll be on my way. I’ve got a 4.30, anyway.” He strode from the living room with me following. And went straight through the front door.

I slept pretty well that night, and on Monday morning was back at work. I was feeling pretty enthusiastic about some old ideas I’d had for a compression algorithm, and used as much time as possible to work on my own project. Trixie tried to get me to contribute to the office presents whip round again but I told her to fuck off. I went to the shopping centre at lunchtime and the carols were as intrusive and unpleasant as ever. I didn’t wish anybody Merry Christmas.

That night, seated in front of the television with my plastic bag of takeaway and a fresh bottle of scotch, I was somewhat put out when I heard a bang from the kitchen. I knew that bang. Marley.

“What the hell are you doing back here?”

Jacob Marley was looking quite different from the last time I’d seen him. The chains were gone, he’d shaved, and he was wearing a lovely Armani suit. He stood in the kitchen eating from a packet of chips.

“Bradshaw, my friend, how are you! Brought my own this time,” he said, brandishing the packet, “Chip?” I declined. “Listen mate, I don’t have long, just came back to thank you for what you’ve done.”

“Done? What have I done? All I did was to put up with a lot of annoying ghosts all evening.”

“Well, you’d be surprised to learn that you are in fact the first person in one hundred and thirty-eight years to NOT change their attitude of Christmas humbuggery after a series of visits from the Spirits. And as a result of this complete and utter failure, I’ve been released from my eternal slavery and allowed to pass on to the next Plane of Existence. You see, Bradshaw, everyone really hates Christmas, especially on the Other Side. Even the Big Guy. We all hate the bloody last minute present buying, the boring carols and Santa Claus. And if you think organising Christmas dinner for your living relatives is a pain in the arse, just try it when you have to organise Christmas dinner for every one of your relatives who ever died. It really is true Bradshaw, Hell IS other people. So ever since we saw such a likely prospect in Scrooge we’ve been trying to get the mortal world to renounce the damn holiday. You’re the first one! I tell you, the light’s shining down on you now boyo. I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up rich and famous by the time you’re joining us.”

So, everything worked out rather well in the end. I might not be the easiest guy in the world to get along with, but I formed a little club called the Bah Humbug Club (the BHC for short) and every year all our yachts meet at some nice little European port, our chefs cook up a storm and we get pissed and drink a lot of toasts to Marley. No trees, turkeys, presents, carols or “Merry Christmases” allowed.