Monday, 17 December 2007


It's only 8 days till Christmas ... the Christ Mass ... And throughout the land, the devout, the pious, the desperately fearful and fearfully desperate take to the streets to spread the word of their beloved and loving lord and saviour ... to bring the sweet reason and poetry of the sweetest gospel of them all to the doors of the unbeliever, the skeptic, the pinched of heart, the shabby of mind and the sour of soul.

With fliers and pamphlets and booklets and bibles, nice suits and haircuts and big grinning smiles, sincere and sweetly they offer you things, submission, salvation, the realm of the king ...

When the door’s knocked, when the bell rings, when you’re feeling drab, just hop off that sofa and open your heart, and then you won’t feel ... so bad ...

“Good morning, sir. We’re visiting your neighbourhood today to talk to people about the word of god and of his son, our lord Jesus Christ, and we were wondering if we may take a few moments of your time?”

Well, heavens above, it is Christmas after all ... what’s a few fleeting moments between strangers, especially as these particular strangers seem so inoffensive, so serene and respectful, and so willing to devote so much of their time to what must be such a thankless task at the very best of times.

And so, being not one who has made a habit of rejecting the tender mercies and small kindnesses that have, on occasions past, been visited upon your person, you decide to accommodate the entreaties of these weary pilgrims with a welcoming smile and an inviting wave of the hand, suffused as you are with the spirit of generosity and patience that has come to define this most holy and sacred of seasons ...

“Why, of course you can have a fucking moment of my fucking time, you fucking plug-ugly fucking lumps of fucking maggot shit ... Haul your fucking arses in by all fucking means ... Would you like a fucking glass of fucking water or a fucking cup of fucking tea while you’re fucking here? ... Sit your fucking selves fucking down on the fucking sofa and make yourself fucking home ... Would you like a fucking biscuit? ... Help your fucking self ... Have two fucking biscuits if you fucking like ... Fuck me dead, were you fucking born with that fucking face? You poor fucking cow ... Never fucking mind ... How’s the fucking tea, all fucking right? Would you like some fucking milk or some fucking sugar with your fucking tea? ... Don’t be fucking shy ... feel fucking free to fucking dig in ... I’d introduce you to the fucking wife but she’s not fucking here right at the fucking moment, but if you’re fucking okay with fucking waiting for a fucking bit, I could whip us up some fucking yummy fucking treats to tide us fucking over till she fucking gets back from wherever the fucking fuck she fucking is ... Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking cross, I’ve been so fucking tense all fucking week ... Excuse me a fucking moment while I fucking whip out my fucking willy and fucking masturbate with wild fucking abandon ... Mind your fucking head.”

Happy Christmas.

Smelly Tongues will be in hiatus till mid-January.

From 1987, The Pogues & Kirsty MacColl “Fairytale of New York”

No comments: