A Boxing Day Disaster

It did not take Ebenezer Scrooge long after waking up on Boxing Day to realise that he had absolutely fucked it at his Christmas party last night.

As he slowly lifted his heavy eyelids, his head still spinning and whoozing as a result of his overindulgence in Miss Wilson from next doors' vodka and gin shots and Tiny Tim's surprising ability to roll a joint, his eyes scanned across the vicinity of his London gaff and he wondered how exactly it had got to this stage. 

The thing is, this time 48 hours ago Ebenezer Scrooge had no intention whatsoever of celebrating Christmas. He fucking detested it. The way people conformed to put on a front and pretend they are jolly, chirpy and not severely depressed for one day of the year was everything Ebenezer despised about the fake and insecure 18th-century population. 

But anyway, his lack of desire to celebrate the 25th of December festivities rapidly changed two nights ago, during a Christmas Eve in which three complete strangers dressed as ghosts broke into his house and threatened that if he didn't celebrate Jesus Christ's birthday then they'd make sure nobody would attend his funeral and all his nephews' pals would gather in a house party to take the absolute piss out of him. A complete invasion of privacy and freedom of thought if you ask me. 

So, as a result of the intense pressure from the three spooky manipulators, in a rather confused state, Ebenezer had a change of heart. He decided to give Christmas a go. He shouted from his high-rise window at a youngster and demanded that he purchased some booze and a big fat turkey. One drink led to another and before you knew it, Ebenezer was Scrooged. 

Well, that was then though. Now, as he looked across at both sides of his king size bed, sandwiched between the sleeping duo of Bob Cratchit wearing nothing but a top hat to cover his groinal area and Mrs Cratchit with a corset wrapped around her face, he realised he would do absolutely anything to go back to living the life he previously had.  He realised a long time ago that he was a recluse, some would perhaps add the word "wanker" to that description – either way, he was happy being not happy.

Dying for a piss, Ebenezer turned to face Mrs Cratchit on the left side of the bed in a bid to get her to move her fat arse so he could travel two doors down the hall to his toilet.

"Mrs Cratchit" he said rather sharply.

She did not answer.

"Mrs Cratchit" he repeated, this time jabbing two fingers into her stomach, which was on its way to becoming the eighth continent in the world as a result of her determination to not diet.

Despite his attempt to wake her up by utilising the art of the prod (or assault, depending on where you're from), she continued to be sound asleep.

"Ughkk" Ebenezer sighed whilst stepping over her body with his trailing foot coming a matter of inches away from booting her square in the jaw. 

If he had "accidentally" given that fat cow a boot in the face, it might not have been such a bad thing he thought to himself as he made his way to the toilet - evading the sleeping bodies of his nephew and Victor Doughman, the local butcher, in the process. 

He pulled open the cold marble handle to his bathroom door and upon its opening realised that a certain Tiny Tim was asleep with his feet latched onto the tank of the toilet and his golf ball shaped skull situated right at the base of the toilet bowl.

I am actually going to let you in on a little secret here. You see, people often mistake Tim's actual age due to the fact he, admittedly, looks not long out the womb. The thing is though, he is not that long off turning 22, however, his battle with alcoholism since being introduced to it at the age of four means he is now painfully underdeveloped. His malnourished schoolboy look has been an absolute nightmare at the weekends when he wants to go out with the lads, but proved to be a real money-saving strategy due to the fact he is still able to purchase a child ticket on public transport.