I hope this letter finds you well and COVID-free. I’ll be straight-up here, Santa, because if you’re running any bit of a temperature or blowing and wheezing like a bullock with worms, you’d be better stay away. I’ll leave a bottle of Gorilla hand steriliser on the chimney, which is 80% alcohol, so for Jaysus sake, don’t drink it or you’ll fall off the shaggin’ roof. And, last year, you broke a clatter of slates and the rain came pouring in, so go handy. It cost me a heap of money to fix the roof after you. Though maybe it wasn’t all your fault…
One other housekeeping thing which I need to mention. Last year, my two Jack Russells were only pups, but this year they’re fully trained security officers. Whatever you do, don’t annoy them in the kitchen. Billy (the black and white one) is a Dub from the South Circular Road and you’ll knock a bit of craic out of him.
But Pippa is a wee bitch from the wilds of Tullywhisker and she’s deadly. Anyhow, don’t go near the kitchen and I’ll leave a few cans of Brú Tutti Frutti in the sitting room.
As I’ve already alluded to, Santa, it’s been a quare auld year. The pubs and hotels have had a terrible time and folk have been driven to drinking at home. Though Guinness out of a can is not the same and a few cute hoors opened shebeens in slatted sheds, which made cleaning up much easier. In fact, some of the publicans intend putting slatted floors into their pubs because they’ve worked so well.
Though they’ll need to be careful. I heard of a young one who caught her killer heels in a slat and is suing FBD. The farmer was covered for slat breakage but not that.
Last year, you broke a clatter of slates and the rain came pouring in, so go handy. It cost me a heap of money to fix the roof after you
As a farmer, the lockdowns didn’t make much difference as Mrs P told me 30 years ago that I was socially distant. But the new regulations were felt at the mart where typically buyers throw a friendly arm around their neighbour ringside. So the livestock sales rings were out of bounds for most of the year and bidding was on an app – soon you’ll need an app to go to the loo.
The app is grand but the broadband is sh*te. And farmers need the craic at the mart and an online sale will never replace this. But, Santa, you better believe it, the apps are a Godsend in lockdown.
Now, I better give you a bit of a list, Santa. I’m in a spot of bother with Mrs P. I asked her what she would like for Christmas. She said: “I hope it’s better than my birthday present.” I asked her to remind me what gift I had thoughtfully and lovingly chosen.
As a farmer, the lockdowns didn’t make much difference as Mrs P told me 30 years ago that I was socially distant
“Nothing,” she quipped, “nothing from you.” Oh dear, it seems flowers don’t count. I’d told her before it was silly to have a birthday at harvest time. You’ll have to help me Santa to make amends now.
Then there is Celli and Eileen, who wonderfully look after my dear and very frail mother, who’ll be 90 on Christmas day. Celli, whose from The Phillipines, would like anything that’s not made in East Asia, which will make it very difficult, nigh impossible. Nike trainers? Nope. Christmas jumper? Nope. Clock radio? Nope. Over to you, Santa.
That leaves our three daughters and Max. If we could have the two London ladies home and back COVID-free then you’ll have done enough, Santa. Max? B&B – beer and books. Finally me. A few slabs of Coca-Colas minis will hit the spot – it’s taken three cans to write this.
Happy Christmas to you, Gerald.