’Tis the night before Christmas. I am visited by the Ghost of Christmas
Future. To be fair, I may also have been
visited by the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Christmas Present, but I might have
missed them on account of being busy metabolising the mulled wine.
The Ghost of Christmas Future takes me on a guided tour of
CIPA HQ. Instead of the pipe cleaner
Christmas tree, there is a monstrosity of a fake tree, festooned with garlands
and blingy things, with flashing LED lights at the ends of its branches and an
electronic angel harking the herald from on high. In the kitchen, there are many, many
chocolates, and a fridge full of Red Bull®.
In the library, there is a mini-bar (although actually it is not quite
that mini) containing fifty different varieties of gin and a manglewurzel. On the ceremonial dais, where the ceremonial
sideboard once stood, there is a bank of footlights and a massive inflatable
snow globe.
And I say to the Ghost of Christmas Future: How on earth did
CIPA go downhill so fast? Where is the
dignity? The professional good
standing? The decorum?
And he shakes his head and points to the wall where the
photograph of The Queen used to be. And
I see there is now a large picture of me, standing next to a tractor, in my
best scarecrow clothes, and it is labelled “This Year’s Ruthless
Dictator”. It is framed with tinsel.
How can I prevent these atrocities? I cry. The Ghost of Christmas Future says Don’t
worry; there’s no way on earth Council will let it happen. They have already ordered a new ceremonial
sideboard and they are rewriting the Bye-Laws as we speak to make sure no-one
becomes a ruthless dictator. Especially
not you. Happy Christmas.
No comments:
Post a Comment