What The Foxtrot is the Collective Christmas Acid Trip About Man?

This afternoon after I left the hospital where my wife is to understate uncomfortable, I walked into a supermarket. There amidst the blade runner advertising screens touting products and the chintzy cheap Christmas decorations there was a “happy” Xmas song track playing on their shit  and tinny sound system.

In these circumstances foxtrot foxtrot sierra is poetically inept and inadequate. A tear perhaps is dramatically enough.

Don’t these foxtrotters see?

Oh, that careless whisper when I was shagging someone else…doh

Boris is on about saving Christmas, saving it from what, the likes of you?

The poignancy of our current life circumstance against the shabby background of tinsel, reindeers and credit cards is not lost on me.

Many moons ago, when I had just renounced a something that I dearly loved, on a Christmas day. I drove across London, probably over the alcohol limit. I am a white middle-aged geezer, so unless. When I got home in the hallway to my flat, I found the guy from upstairs. He was not well. He was older than me then and on heavy medication. I asked him would he like to come in. He smelt really bad. I opened my door sat him down and offered him a can of Stella Artois. He could not open it, so I did it for him.  After half a can or so he calmed down. I offered him a smoke. Which shakingly he took. Some shit had gone on. He was alone and close to suicide.

We sat and talked. We had a few more cans and cigarettes. I played some music. And when I felt that his storm had passed, I took him upstairs to his flat. He could not open the door, so I did it for him. On the wall were the stories of him being headmaster at a school. There were plenty of images of busty black women who perhaps had been his weakness.

I put him down on his bed I went out and thought this.

At least I have had a Christmas in the true sense of the word.

No turkey, Brussel sprouts or crackers required…