Written 29 November 2018
David St. Swift hated Christmas.
He despised it. Even when he was an insufferable little kid he refused to partake in the festivities, mocking his Santa hatted classmates and ruining nativity scenes with graffitied nobs.
He hated the food. Turkey was dry, tasteless, disgusting meat that took up most of the oven. Cranberry sauce was, just, wrong, and sprouts tasted like farts in vegetable form.
He hated giving presents. When you're a kid, you can't afford dick, and when you're an adult, you don't like anyone enough to part with your hard earned cash to buy them something they’d inevitably shove in the back of their closet.
He hated that it gave everyone an excuse to act like a twat. “why not, it's Christmas!” smash cut to four hours later when the bantering little shite is cracking on to the bosses wife and pissing himself.
Most of all, he hated how long it was. As soon as Halloween was done it begins. Never-ending fairy lights and mulled wine and happiness. How tedious Christmas was, how long, how expensive.
So when he was visited by the ghost of his dead business partner, who told David He would be visited by three other ghosts who would help him discover the spirit of Christmas, he told the cunt to do one. He never really liked him anyway, and why should he take advice from someone who died of a heart attack after doing too much coke?
The first ghost was a little creepy child ghost. It showed him loads of different memories David had of Christmas. The time he got so drunk he told his step dad to suck his dick. The time he set fire to the doll baby Jesus during a nativity, the time he bought his younger sister a tarantula. David loved seeing all these memories again.
The second ghost, a fat fuck who kept infuriatingly forgetting things, showed him his present. His sister calling him a ‘jumped up tosser.’ his step dad calling him ‘a waste of a good kidney.’ (David had refused to give his Mum a kidney, resulting in her death) The baby Jesus doll, melted and hideous, refusing to decompose in a landfill. David was indifferent to the whole spectacle.
The final ghost, a tall bloke in a cloak with a scythe, showed him his future. David's death. And no one gave a shit. They were happy, even. It was pretty soon, as well, within the next 2 years. David shrugged.
“We've all got to go sometime.” He said to the cloaked chap. He stayed silent and kept pointing at a gravestone with David's name on it. David took no notice.
“Can I go home now?” David said, exasperated. The ghost shook his massive hooded head, and next thing he knew David was back in his bedroom.
He had learnt absolutely nothing, and went on hating Christmas until he was hit by a bus two years later and died. No one attended his funeral.