Meeting 13th December 2016

The Night After Christmas by Brendan Glacken (Irish Times)

T’was the night after Christmas when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse
Silk stockings were still in their Brown Thomas pack
The wife planned (as usual) to take them right back
And exchange them for strong heavy-denier tights
More sensible choice on these cold winter nights.

Myself I was nestled all snug in the bed
While credit card nightmares revolved in my head
With those seasonal greetings, so tender and sweet
The most touching of all, “Did you keep the receipt”
Then out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

“Relax”, the wife muttered, don’t get so excited
It’s just one more party and you’re not invited
The next thing I heard, was a knock at the door
And when I went down, there were neighbours galore
They explained that their party had run out of beer
Which quite spoiled the look of their seasonal cheer

Their singing and dancing had lost all its rhythm
(And what drink that they had was all on ‘em, not with ‘em).
So they wished me a loud “Happy Christmas to you”
And could I help out with a bottle or two?

Now I’ve found as a fact that wherever I roam
The virtue of charity begins in the home
And I just couldn’t find the heart to refuse
So I brought them all in and broke out the booze

They all cheered and insisted “I wasn’t the worst”
For no fate could be crueller than dying of thirst
Well we partied all night and we drank the house dry
After which we had breakfast, a huge Irish fry

Then they all staggered off and I crawled up to bed
With the vaguest of notions as to where was my head
So I took off my clothes, then only to find
That my legs and pyjamas were all misaligned.

As I foosthered and groped, the wife lifted her head
“You’re up very early this morning” she said
There was nothing to do but to put back on my clothes
And go downstairs again –where my blood duly froze
At the scene in the kitchen, the mess on the floor
Not to mention two Toastmasters asleep by the door

Well, I gathered the bottles and cans in a sack
And put Vincent and Seamus in a skip out the back
Then sneaked back upstairs but was trapped on the landing
For something had clicked in, the wife’s understanding
And she asked me a question that made my heart sink
(Well buoyed up though it was by an ocean of drink)

You haven’t forgotten, my sweet honey-bunch
That my mother and father are coming to lunch
And you promised to cook that nice dish of roast pheasant
From the recipe list you got as my present

I could sense myself right on the edge of a row
The very last thing that I wanted just now
So I just had to do what a man’s gotta do
From the depths of a hangover serve cordon bleu

If you ask me how lunch went, I’d have to say, well sir
I winged it myself with a few Alkaseltzer
But there with the in-laws as I toyed with my plate
The last drops of my energy I felt dissipate

To keep my eyes open I just wasn’t able
And I watched myself slipping right under the table
Yet I managed to croak, as I slid out of sight
Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night

Joe Bishop