Ink-Credible

Octopuses? Octopi?

These creatures surely wonder why

Our single brains stray down such roads

When they’re quite sure they’re octopodes

Heir Heads

With the last of the dishes put away and the Corgis farting up a storm after having polished off the last of the sprouts, everyone gathered in front of the TV for Her Majesty’s Christmas message to the nation. At 95, The Queen appeared staid and resolute, a safe pair of hands to see us through the next 12 months.

She was actually doing just fine; it was the rest of the family who needed sorting out.

Her Madge had described the previous few years as “quite bumpy”, but that was just how Philip drove after he’d had a few. Not only had the Duke of Edinburgh run some poachers off the road that summer, he was proving a ticking time bomb who would say anything to anyone, especially if they were a foreigner. Some found this quite rich, considering his father was Prince Andrew of Greece and Denmark, his mother was Princess Alice of Battenberg, Granny was a Russian and he was born in Greece but educated in France, Germany and England. Between them, they covered more countries than EasyJet.

Earlier in the year, Harry had put the boot into his older brother, the future king, admitting the two hated each other’s guts. Wills then hit back saying he “worried Harry might be bonkers,” which Harry then proved by announcing he planned to make a documentary on mental health with Oprah Winfrey. Then the rumours that Kate and Meghan could no longer reside within the same kingdom became evident when the Sussexes vacated Kensington Palace and fled to the icy Kingdom of Canadia. However, bored after only two days by the solitude and sheer beauty of their surroundings, and running low on Manuka Elbow Moisturiser, the pair then fled to California to… erm… escape the royals (which they’d already done), Britain (which they’d also already done) and the media (whom they’d taken on their honeymoon).

And as for poor Anne – an examination of this royal princess isn’t for the squeamish – while it’s true she is indeed very hard working, the same can be said of fire ants. For her Duke of Edinburgh Award, it’s rumoured a young Anne commissioned a wind-up doll capable of neutralising any lady-in-waiting who approached without curtseying. Sometimes mistaken for an Amish horse hand by members of the Household Cavalry, an awkward Anne had clung to the fact that she remained the only princess in a stable of princes.

That is, until Diana appeared on the scene.

Dispatching her sister-in-law abroad in a stroke of genius, Anne has fixed her sights upon the latest royal interloper: The Princess of Wales. Rumour has it that during her initial stay at Kensington Palace, Anne presented Kate Middleton with a Princess Diana doll sans tête. Examining it thoughtfully, if not warily, the young Kate made a mental note of her nearest exit.

“She was pretty like you,” Princess Anne remarked, “but she’s not pretty now… I’m the pretty princess now.”

“Isn’t she missing something?” Kate asked, pointedly.

“My bad,” Anne smirked, crushing her can of Pilsner and flicking it at her. “There’s the car.”

Kids, eh?

Who’d have ’em?

I Noah Guy…

In the spirit of the season, I drove an elderly neighbour to mass this morning after she knocked on my door claiming to need a lift due to the icy weather. About a mile from where we live, the Church of St Mary Magdalene (didn’t get that memo) is a Catholic landmark conspicuously situated between the Women’s Health Centre and Darth Vaper’s E-Cig Emporium. As we pulled up to the entrance Mrs Malarkey gently enquired, “Are you coming in? You can send a Holy Family calendar home to your mother.”

The old clam had me. At 85 she didn’t miss a trick and knew I hadn’t been to mass since my parents’ last visit.

“Of course,” I stated coolly, looking her straight in the eye. “It’s Christmas, isn’t it? Now, are you going to be alright managing those steps while I park the car?”

“I’ll just wait for you here,” she parried, then thrust, “and it’s not Christmas. It’s only the Fourth Sunday of Advent.”

“I know it’s still Advent. Hey, it looks like they’ve put down some salt,” I pressed on. “Try the steps and see how you go.”

“No, I’ll wait for you, then we can go in together.”

Entering the church brought back a load of memories. I’d been an altar boy right through high school and was much more sanguine about the role the Church might play in later life. Uncompromising and unafraid to challenge the moral turpitude swirling all about me, from an early age I had developed a low tolerance to riff raff. After all, I’d been named after Pope John XXIII and unlike a lot of 12 year olds, had written my own Encyclical:

When you overhear your parents choosing your high school, ask them to aim higher than one simply called St Richard’s or St Agatha’s, guiding them instead towards spiritual heavyweights like Our Lady of the Blessed Annunciation or St Anthony and the Holy Infant. This will disarm any cynics questioning the fact your parents stopped attending mass years ago.
When adults catch the name of your school across your hockey jacket and ask what a Blessed Annunciation is, let out an audible sigh and look upon their children with pity. As you walk away rolling your eyes, ponder the fact that they can read at all.
Wonder why all the nuns at school have names beginning with Mary and ending with a male name, such as Sister Mary Edward. Believe your older sister when she tells you they all used to be men, until God changed them into nuns as punishment for a crime only the Pope knows about.
Think it a shame that priests can only wear black because it shows up dandruff and means they can never shop at The Gap in summer.
When a pretty, young nun starts teaching at your school, tell your mother that if you were older and she lived next door, you’d marry her.
When a cool, young priest starts teaching at your school, agree with your friends that if he grew his hair longer and learned how to play the electric guitar, he’d be the most famous priest ever.
When your father informs you that he saw your parish priest swimming lengths at his health club, ask yourself if priests are permitted such indulgences, then check if his bathing suit was black.
When your teacher warns that thinking impure thoughts during mass will get you an extra year in purgatory, decide it’s worth it.
Ask your RE teacher if Eve really looked like the woman in the Pantene shampoo commercial.
Double-check if Jonah crawled out of the whale’s spout or was just pooped out.
Ask if, after turning water into wine at the wedding in Canaan, Jesus then made chocolate milk for the children.
Ask your parents a million times if you can go to midnight mass this year because you’re now an adult. Reassure them that you no longer believe in Santa, elves and reindeer, explaining that you only wish to fulfill a religious obligation. Don’t tell them your older sister reliably informed you that this is the mass at which God appears.
Tell all your friends you were allowed to go to midnight mass. When you’re sure none of them attended the service, lower your voice and inform them that God appeared. When they inevitably ask you what He looked like, whisper that you’re not allowed to tell.
Turn to your Dad during midnight mass and insist you just heard sleigh bells outside. When he chides you, wonder how he can seriously expect an 8 year old to think about God and not presents on Christmas Eve. Hope that Rudolph drops a big steamy one on his new Ford Bronco.
Point out your neighbours during mass and say out loud, “Hey, Mom… you’re right! The Espositos only DO go to mass at Christmas and Easter!” Then report back each time the whole family sits down when they’re supposed to kneel.

Merry Christmas, sinners and all!

No Room For The Unstable

Turned on the radio to discover the media have named today Panic Saturday. Spotting an opportunity, I asked a friend recently diagnosed with acute anxiety if she would like to accompany me into town in the hope we might qualify for free parking. Thirty minutes later, Cynthia and I were pulling into a disabled parking bay directly opposite The Booze Bucket, her Prozac prescription clearly displayed on the dashboard next to a large crucifix. Experiencing the same rush as when I find any amount of money, I smirked across at my twitchy accomplice while ratcheting up the handbrake, confident our plan would work. So, you can imagine our surprise when, upon our return a mere nine hours later, we found a £70 ticket with a brusque rebuttal: Acute Anxiety? You’ll have to do better than THAT! issued by an equally dissociative traffic warden.

Now Cynthia can’t watch Top Gear and refuses to leave the house without her Dusty Springfield wig, so it’s no surprise some folk dread this time of year.