A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE FROM FUGGER

(Pictured: 'Togetherness')

Christmas is all about 'togetherness' but this is a special Christmas message to those of you who will be alone this Christmas. Fugger would like to remind those of you who will be alone this Christmas that you will be alone this Christmas. Alone. All alone. There is no point putting up decorations because no one will see them. You are alone. You are alone because your friends and family are dead or because no one likes you. The only voices you will hear will be the voices on the telly or on the radio or at the other end of a brief/strained telephone conversation. Whatever the case, you will be alone so you should prepare yourself to be alone. Quite alone.

Being alone at Christmas is not easy. There are special dinners in hotels and so on for people who are alone at Christmas but attending these dinners just makes you feel more alone. You see the other people there, in their desperation and unlikeability, and you realise that you are just like them and that is why you are alone. When you are alone it is sometimes best to remain alone. When I die, I want to be alone. I would hate to die in a blazing building or on a crashing plane with other people panicking and carrying on and making the whole thing worse. Going to a Christmas dinner for people who are alone is like dying in a plane crash or a big fire. If you are alone at Christmas it is best to dine alone just as it is best to die alone. It is more dignified. It is more peaceful. It is slightly less horrific.

When you are alone at Christmas you at least have the company of your thoughts. Having said that, you will probably be thinking about how alone you are. You will not even be able to comfort yourself with the thought that other people are thinking about you in your aloneness because they won't be. Even the ones who say they will be won't be because they will be having a good time or involved in a row or something. At least you won't be involved in a row at Christmas when you are alone at Christmas because you will be alone at Christmas. Although, it is probably even better to be involved in a row than it is to be alone. Being alone is one of the worst things of all and being alone at Christmas is actually the very worst thing of all. It is worse than being tortured. You are alone. Alone. Alone with your thoughts about how alone you are. You won't even be able to concentrate on the Christmas episode of Doctor Who properly because all the characters will seem to be saying is the word 'alone' over and over.

Alone.

In my effort to firmly establish the fact that you will be alone at Christmas and how alone you will be at Christmas, I, Fugger, the people's blogger, realise that I have not done enough provide you with some comfort. I will do so now. The comfort is this: I love you. Fugger loves you. I may not even know you but I do love you. I love you 'alone' Christmas bastards and I will be thinking of you. It's true. Really. Even if you don't believe me, just pretend that you do. There's no harm in pretending. Christmas is all just pretend anyway. Everyone pretends at Christmas so just join in. It's Christmas for God's sake. It's just a load of pretend shite with pretend snow and flashing lights that don't even work half the time. Everyone is pretending at Christmas and everyone is alone at Christmas. Everyone. Alone. In fact, everyone is alone all the time.

Everyone is alone.

But at least they have someone to pull a cracker with.

(Oh, and the above applies to your birthday too. Don't forget, you'll be alone then as well.)

SANTA'S SLAY

The sun calls and the grass beckons and the children run into the fields to play as they do and as they must and the children get blown to bits by land mines planted by adults.

And great gifts fall from the sky as if from Santa's sleigh and they whistle as they plummet toward the earth where they kill children as they do and as they must because adults always know what's for the best.

'Thank you Daddy' say the charred remains, the scattered limbs, the ashes and the blood stains. And a monument is built so no one will forget but life goes on and the children ask 'is it Christmas yet?'

The children can't wait to see what they're going to get. A toy gun, a toy tank, a model army jet with which to play at killing as they do and as they must,

just like the adults in whom they place their trust.

GOOD NEWS FOR CHRISTMAS!

 (pictured –  Jesus and Krishna, Marvel Team-Up)

Jesus was born on Christmas day two thousand and thirteen years ago and was murdered thirty three and a bit years later for blaspheming that he was God. He did claim he was God alright but he also said that everyone else was God too. Christians don't talk about it much but that's what he said. I swear, take a look at John 10:34. No one seems all that concerned about it, which I find a bit odd. I mean, you'd think followers of the Good News would pay more attention to the Good News, seeing as it's such good news and all.

Jesus said he was God and we are all God and that's pretty interesting because it means that if we are all God but don't know it then God him/her/itself has forgotten that he/she/it is us too. Are you with me? God forgot God was us so God sent God to remind us that we are God and then we killed God because God was saying God was us and we'd rather not be God because that kind of raises the bar a bit and also democratises the whole set up a bit too much which won't do at all because it suits some of us a lot more to have the rest of us believing that we are less Godly than them. Are you still with me? Are you sure? That was a long old sentence and there was a lot going on in it. It does sum it all up though, the paradoxical nature of the strange game God is playing with himself/herself/itself/ourselves.

It's like this - imagine if you worshipped yourself but then you forgot you were you but continued to worship yourself, wishing that you were you. That's what seems to have happened here. It's a bit of a tragedy. But the Good News is that you are actually you and that's not all, it gets better, you are not just you but you are also God. Great isn't it? I can't really imagine better news than that. You are God!!! And I am too and so's everyone else. Hindus say that we don't realise we're God because we're trapped behind a thing they call the veil of Maya. I reckon some of us are behind several of Maya's veils. You know the type I mean. Deterministic sorts with ulcers. Absolutists. Boring fuckers who are convinced that they are the opposite. People who think about their cars a lot. Those fuckers are completely Mayaed out of I reckon. But, you know, I try not to judge. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone and all that. So, no matter how much I'd like to, I won't chuck a rock through their windscreens and I'll just hope they find enlightenment when they drive around the next corner. No point being angry with myself after all. Lord forgive me, for I know not what I do - and neither must you because you're me too and both of us are the prick in the car apparently.

It's a bit mad the way the Hindus and Jesus believe the same thing isn't it? I don't suppose they could really have the same message though could they? I mean, Hindus don't even have Christmas. It's only Christians that have Christmas. That's because Christians reckon they are the ones that are favoured by God. I suppose it makes sense that God would favour himself/herself/itself/ourselves. Maybe God favours those examples of himself/herself/itself/ourselves that have forgotten they are him/her/it/us. Maybe God favours the forgetful out of pity. Self-pity. Maybe it's due to self-pity that God (a.k.a. us) sits around on his/her/its/our own birthday stuffing his/her/its/our face with chocolate complaining how shit the telly is, wrapped in layers of Maya he/she/it/we gave him/her/it/us for Christmas. Maybe that's it. Or maybe not. Or maybe both. Or maybe neither. Or maybe all of the above. God knows really, ...even if he/she/it/we isn't/aren't sure himself/herself/itself/ourselves.

Are you still with me after all that?

No, ...thought not.

Happy Christmas anyway.

BEAVERS, BADGERS and RABBITS

The Christmas family reunion and the niece and nephew were being very sullen and uncommunicative. They are at that difficult age. You know the age. Forty somethingish.
Anyway, I was told that if I wanted to get through to them I’d have to do it on their turf.
‘Turf?’ I asked, confused.
‘Yes, the virtual world of the computer game they got for Christmas.’
So, I went to the other room and found the pair of them sat in front of the telly, which was hooked up to some sort of apparatus. They were holding control consoles and moving little animated creatures around the screen.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked them.
‘We’re playing Beaver Bedlam’, one replied.
Their game shared the same name as a short film I had recently enjoyed on Spankwire but I thought better of mentioning the coincidence.
‘Can I join in?’ I asked.
They threw me a console and I sat between them.
There were little beavers swimming around in a river on the screen.
‘What do I do?’
‘Collect the wood.’
‘What wood? Where?’
‘Collect the wood! COLLECT THE WOOD!’
‘I don’t see any wood.’
There was the sound of a squeal and blood filled the screen.
‘Jesus, what was that?’
‘You’re dead. Here, give me the thing.’
The nephew grabbed my console. He sighed and pressed a button or something that brought me back to life. Then he handed me back the controls.
‘OK, where’s the wood?’
‘There! Look! See?’
‘I see it!’
‘Collect the wood! Collect the wood!’
Sweaty and anxious, I managed to collect some wood.
‘Now what?’
‘Build the dam!’
‘A dam? How?’
‘Apply for planning! APPLY FOR PLANNING!’
‘Quit shouting at me.’
‘JESUS! APPLY FOR PLANNING NOW!’
There was the sound of a squeal and blood filled the screen. The niece obliged and brought me back to life this time.

I was in the panicked process of applying for planning when everything started flashing and this demented electronic melody filled the room. Then a badger appeared in the corner of the screen and it started dancing. Then the niece got up and started copying the badger’s every move.
‘What’s going on now?’
‘BOOGIE BADGER! BOOGIE BADGER!’
‘What badger? Badger what?’
‘COLLECT THE WOOD! COLLECT THE WOOD!’
‘What about the badger?’
‘COLLECT THE WOOD! BOOGIE BADGER!’
‘Just calm down a sec and let me know what’s going on?’
My heart almost stopped at the dreaded sound of that familiar squeal. Blood filled the screen.
‘YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD!’
‘Right. OK. Relax. Bring me back!’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ve used up your lives.’
‘Well, can you give me a new life?’
‘Don’t be stupid. That would be unrealistic.’
‘. . .oh, right.’
I got up and was leaving the room when the niece called me back.
‘You owe us a tenner each,’ she said.
‘Me? How come?’
They both made the spaz face (the one where you tuck your tongue under your bottom lip) and waved their arms about going ‘nuuuhhhh’.
This did little to illuminate me. Finally the nephew spoke up.
‘You built the dam without planning. You were fined. Weren’t you paying attention?’
I shrugged and paid up. I left the room. My heart was a little heavy at the thought of the distance that had grown between us. Back in my day you’d be happy with a Boba Fett figurine and a can of Lilt. These days you are lost in a bewildering virtual universe with bizarre rules and requirements. These days you are a panic stricken God, looking through a window into another world, urgently trying to alter the fate of dam building beavers and dancing badgers.
‘It’s no wonder they keep failing the Junior Cert’, I said to myself as I sloped off to my quarters to enjoy the other Beaver Bedlam that’s more to my liking. I couldn’t get into it though. Just as Daphne Delights was hitting her stride, I heard the little shits in the other room:
‘BOOGIE BADGER! BOOGIE BADGER!’
I found myself panicking and pressing any key in sight in a futile attempt to get Daphne to put down her rabbit and collect some wood. She didn’t of course. She was preoccupied. Lost in her own little world.

THE FUCKIN CRIMBO

Are you looking forward to the fuckin Crimbo yourself? I bet you are. You look the sort. Family reunion this year is it? Are you going to eat up your pudding with a little spoon and pat your little belly? Are you going to pat your little belly and wander around the sitting room with a hot toddy in your hand talking about the year you’ve had? I bet you are. I can hear you now:
‘Oh, 2011 was rough on the office stationary supply game but we knuckled down and things will pick up again next year please God.’
You’ll be going on like that to your siblings but they won’t be listening. They’ll be thinking about something else. Your mother will be smiling at you though. She’ll be smiling and nodding encouragingly but make no mistake, she’ll be silently wishing you were struck with a sudden case of lockjaw and forced to shut your yap. You’ll eventually notice that you’re not appreciated of course. After about eight hot toddies you’ll notice and you’ll emit some cutting remark about your sister’s choice of career. It’ll all kick off then. Oh, there’ll be shouting alright. It’ll be like the final scene in a Mike Leigh film. Everyone’s kids will get upset because the grown-ups are fighting and your mother will sigh and go to bed early.

It’s going to be a disaster. Mark my words. You, in your little party hat, trying not to look at your Uncle Gerry as he sits there next to you adjusting his newly fitted colostomy bag for comfort. That won’t stop you stuffing your fat face though. It’s the same every year: your lips smeared in chocolate while homeless people are turfed back out onto the road, freezing to death after being served a paltry plate of mechanically separated meat product by the Knights of Columbanus. Jesus wept. Enjoy your fuckin Crimbo! . . .sucker.

Family Christmas

Before you scroll down and open your half-arsed Crap Man card, I thought you might like to see the home video I made of my family visit last Christmas:

As you can see, we had the usual traditional celebration although I’ll be putting less acid into the eggnog this year. LOL!
Anyway, here’s YOUR CRAP MAN CHRISMASSED CARD!

JOHN IS ALONE THIS CHRISTMAS

This Christmas, as you enjoy the cheer and revelry to be found amongst family and friends, please spare a thought for John.

John can usually be found trampling about the coast of south county Dublin in his familiar long black coat. Sometimes he'll stop and chat with other local characters like Eoghan. You might have seen them, lost in discussion in the People's Park. Happily reminiscing over the good governance and moral authority of days gone by. Later in a given afternoon, you might see John in the window of the local Kylemore Cafe, scribbling his thoughts in a notebook whilst enjoying a slice of cake and a pot of tea. Tea for one.

But, what of Christmas day? On Christmas day the Kylemore will be closed and John will have nowhere to go. Eoghan will be ensconced at home with his new bird and the park gates will be chained shut. What will John do then?

Well, John will awake. He will arise. He will wash and he will attend mass, as will many of us. However, instead of spending the rest of the day in the company of loved ones, John will instead pass his time glaring at the few baubles he pinned above the mantle in a desperate nod to the season. No one told him it would be like this. This wasn't the Christmas McQuaid's Ireland envisioned for a man such as he. John will begin to feel a bit cheated. His mood will grow sour and soon he will be in high dudgeon, tapping wildly into the laptop ( ...as I am now ironically) on subjects ranging from the denigration of Dev to the ascendancy of bloody women.

So please spare a thought for John this Christmas as you settle back with family members to play boardgames, watch Doctor Who or enjoy whatever DVD RTE have rented for the evening. Please, spare a thought for John because . . .John is alone this Christmas.