Drunken Christmas Story Part III
You are on a train from the middle of England destined for North Wales. For Holyhead and the ferry home.
The train arrives on time. You do not. Because you have been drinking more than the train has.
Actually you do arrive on time, but in a different location. You have left the train for Holyhead and boarded another train.
In an English city not part of your Christmas plans you still have no money, no wallet, and a large gap in your memory that just won’t refill. But you have friends. And the night before Christmas Eve they are going out. On the town.
Not yet sober you think maybe several more pints will help your memory. Strangely it doesn’t.
You are in the company of two beautiful women. They are both licking their index fingers and rubbing you on your forehead, as if rubbing you out. You wonder if two women rubbing your forehead at the same time are erasing more of your memory, but you are not going to tell them to stop. Ever.
-What are you doing?
-Nothing, they say together, still rubbing. Stay still.
With your pockets now magically full of money, you finally say goodbye to the girls and their fingers. Because you have a ferry to catch. Still. Two train journeys later you are on the ferry. It is Christmas Eve. You will make it home for Christmas.
Dehydrated you buy milk from the cafeteria. You cradle the cartons like a baby. All twelve of them. To retrieve your money you put the baby down on the cash register.
-Sterling or Irish? asks the woman.
Taking this as a question of nationality, you stand abruptly to attention, snapping your heels and answer ‘Irish’ as you hold out a handful of sterling, the only currency you have.
In the quiet room you look for the large missing part of your memory. You don’t find it. You get thirsty. Sterling or Irish? Six more cartons.
The last thing you remember is the Christmas dinner. Unlike your memory, your thirst won’t go away. ‘Irish’. Four cartons takes the last of your sterling.
Brussels sprouts. You think you had too many sprouts. You walk out on deck to look at Howth in the morning sun. And the Wicklow mountains. You are almost home.
You walk in the door of your childhood home. The phone rings. It is from England. It is the voice of a work colleague:
-And now a word from your sponsor
You then hear in unison the voices of all those who loaded your plate with sprouts and wrote on your forehead, as they shout:
-HAPPY CHRISTMAS!
Tea is in the pot. You are home.
See also:
• Drunken Christmas Story Part I
• Drunken Christmas Story Part II
• Happy Christmas
Eolaí gan Fhéile:
dRinkT agin. I ham!
(Ok. Not really. Just trying to get into the spurit [sic.] of things).
For fucksake. Is this why Santa died on the cross?
I have had a christmas like that before I ended up in Kansas City which seemed like hell from some where else I was and I dont know where the some where else was. I decided to stay I am married now and have a wonderful wife and a wonderful life too..
Wonderful. I’ve had binges, but never ones that lasted that long. I applaud you, sir.
That is one of the most beautiful stories ever written.