31 December 2005

And a Happy New Year to you too, Harry!

Harry has been feeling a little out of sorts. It appears that the time of year, as well as the thankless job of teaching ESL (English as a Second Language) to the suspicious and barbaric natives of Somerset, has taken the inevitable toll on his usual sunny disposition.

I fear he’s getting all suicidal; he’s even gone so far as to travel with the peasants on the National Express (for the nearest Yankee equivalent, think of a combination Greyhound bus / methadone clinic in Appalachia, but lacking all the charm).

“Bonhomie my ballocks.” He writes: “It’s a stinking world. Christmas is the time for bonhomie. New Year is a time to reflect how dismally mean and stupid one’s fellow countrymen are. I was on the National Express yesterday. You would not believe how ugly everyone was. So don't talk to me about bonhomie.”

Nonsense, my son! Don’t make me go all Dickensian upon your pasty English arse and send over the ghosts of New Year’s Eve Past, Present and Future!

New Year’s Eve is the time for stealing the wallets of perfect strangers, for drinking off other’s bar tabs, for puking into the open sun roof of parked luxury motors, for starting fights between yobs wearing differing footie club shirts.

Lacking bonhomie? Ballocks! Verily, New Year’s Eve is packed solid with bonhomie as the bowels of a nonagenarian on a cheese-only diet.

So be good sports and pop round his place to lift his spirits. He keeps the good stuff in the mahogany sideboard in his dining room, under the black velvet black light painting of the supple Germaine Greer.

UPDATE! When I said "lift his spirits", I meant "pinch his booze". He's obviously not using it to its proper effect.

And that's the way I likes it.