Larry and Mick's Christmas Adventure

 

There was a bright light on Christmas morning.

"Alright, I'm awake!" said Mick. "You can turn the torch off now."

"I-i-i-i-i-t's Chri-i-i-i-i-stma-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-s!!" said Larry, as he moved the beam that issued from the superpowerful torch he had bought himself in the pre-Christmas B&Q sale one inch to the left of Mick's eyes.

"But don't you remember?" said Mick, as he raised a hand in a vain attempt to shield himself from what felt like a nuclear blast on his retinas. "Since the government's privatisation of Yuletide and our subsequent non-payment of the Santa Tax, we are legally forbidden from participating in festivities this year."

"Oh," said Larry.

"Oh indeed," said Mick.

"Well I'm not having that," said Larry.

"While I admire your fortitude," said Mick, "I fear that my ability to assist you in attempting to balance this unjust equation may be somewhat impaired by an imminent scorching of my optic nerves."

"Eh?" said Larry.

"Move the flucking torch!" said Mick.

"Oh yes," said Larry - who did as he was bid and also switched it off for good measure.

As Mick was rubbing his eyes, Larry said, "'flucking'?"

"I cannot swear on the Day of Our Lord," explained Mick.

"Fair enough," said Larry.

 ***

Larry and Mick had a Big Think. They had a cup of tea. Then they thunk some more. Realising that a drink's too wet without one (a biscuit, that is), they each had a chocolate Hobnob, then came up with a plan (of sorts).

"We need to storm the White House," said Larry.

"You mean the Houses of Parliament?" said Mick.

"What did I say?" said Larry.

"Never mind," said Mick. "So when you say 'storm'..."

"Go in guns blazing," said Larry.

"'Guns blazing'..." said Mick.

"Not literally," said Larry. "Maybe we could..."

"Write a sternly worded letter?" said Mick.

"Yes!" said Larry. "Or an email."

Larry and Mick dunked a second chocolate Hobnob into a second cup of tea. When they had had their fill of hot beverage and sweet snackage, they cleared the crumbs off the table and got out their Chromebook.

"This book's a bit heavy," said Larry.

"Shall we use the laptop instead?" said Mick.

A tiny fly buzzed past both of their ears.

***

Dear Prime Minister - began their email - We are unhappy with your so-called 'Santa Tax' and feel that there should not be a price on the celebration of the birth of the Messiah. Could you please repeal it immediately and thus ensure that all denizens of our fair land can partake of the domestic distribution of tinsel without fear of retribution (or something)? Many thanks... Larry and Mick.

"That should do it," said Mick.

"More tea?" said Larry.

***

Three days later they got a reply. It was all long-winded and waffley, but the essential message was thus...

Dear Larry and Mick... Tough titties! Please vote for us in the next election... Yours, the Prime Minister.

"Well I'm not having that," said Larry.

"Go in 'guns blazing'?" said Mick.

"Why the heck not?" said Larry.

***

The 'guns' to which they referred were actually lightsabers, or simulucra thereof, which they had bought from the Disney Store on a buy-one-get-one-half-price pre-Christmas offer. As they 'stormed' the Houses of Parliament (which was mostly empty, on account of it being the alleged birth date of the Christ Child, except for a few scattered hungover elves (presumably guards dressed as such, who had drawn the short straws re the Christmas shift)), brandishing their illuminated plastic sticks, Larry said to Mick, "D'you think this'll work?"

"Too late to turn back now," said Mick. "Cha-a-a-a-a-a-arge!!"

The last thing the hungover elves expected was for a couple of going-on-middle-aged men dressed in brown cloaks and sandals to come running into the place waving flashing toy swords above their heads, and thus when they were confronted with such, it was all they could do to not collapse on the spot and wonder what had been added to their pints of Best last night. Being eminent professionals, however, whose job (when they weren't dressing as Santa's little helpers and getting drunk) was, after all, to guard our country's great and noble (*ahem*), said hungover elves did have the presence of mind to raise a hand and say those immortal words, "Halt! Who goes there?"

"Who we are does not concern you," said Larry to the elf/guard who stood before the door to the debating chamber (or whatever it's called), as he lowered his lightsaber and did a little flourish with the hand that was not grasping such.

"We're not really Jedi Knights," whispered Mick out of the corner of his mouth, in the manner of all sidekicks everywhere.

"He doesn't know that," whispered Larry, in a manner which could be heard by everyone within a fifteen foot radius - but thankfully not by the elf/guard who was standing right in front of them, on account of the bits of mince pie that were stuffed fortuitously in his lugholes.

"Oh what do I care? I'm retiring next month," said the elf/guard, who stepped away from the door and did an 'in-ya-go' gesture.

"Thanks," said Larry.

"Much obliged," said Mick.

"Ready?" said Larry.

"As a copper top battery," said Mick.

"Eh?" said Larry.

"Never mind," said Mick. "Cha-a-a-a-a-a-arge!!"

"Merry Christmas," said Larry to the elderly elf/guard (who Larry was beginning to suspect, in the deepest, darkest, smelliest corner of his mind, was actually a real elf) - upon which he took up his mighty blade and reiterated the sentiment of his chum.

***

The Houses of Parliament were not what they expected. That is to say, the main debating chamber (or whatever it's called) was not how it appeared on TV. There were sofas. A pall of smoke of indiscernible aroma. PlayStations, TV screens, dartboards, pool tables, a long bar along one wall. And three politicians in Santa costumes.

"Um," said Larry.

"Ah," said Mick.

The three Santas stopped what they were doing (playing Call of Duty, getting shlozzled and watching something on TV which seemed to involve three ladies, some stollen loaf and not many clothes) and turned to face the interlopers.

"Hi," said Larry.

 "Zzyeeow," said Mick in a bit of a pathetic way with his 'lightsaber.'

"We're here to protest," said Larry.

"Hrmph," said Santa #1, as he put down his DualShock controller in a manner of some annoyance.

"About what?" said Santa #2, as he lifted himself back onto the bar on which he had been propped.

"The Santa Tax!" said Mick, as he raised his flashing stick defiantly above his head - which was now flashing less in an impressive way and more in a dull sporadic way, on account of the batteries being rubbish Poundland ones which were running out.

Santa #3 turned off the TV, tutted, zipped up his trousers and looked at his colleagues. Santas #1 and #2 shrugged in a way which seemed to mean, "Why not?"

Santa #3 turned back to Larry and Mick and said, "Would you like to join us for Christmas?"

Larry looked at Mick, who looked at Larry. They then both shrugged in a way which seemed to mean, "Why (the heck) not?"

"Splendid!" said Santa #3, who was suddenly a lot more Santa-like.

"Please take a pew!" said he, as he patted the sofa beside him.

"Um," said Larry.

"Ah," said Mick.

"What?" said Santa #3.

"Do you mind if we sit on a different sofa?" said Mick.

Santa #3 scowled, as did Santa #1 and Santa #2 in turn. Then Santa #3 winked at Santa #1 and Santa #2... and big cheesy Santa-like grins spread through the three Santas.

"Ho!" said Santa #1.

"Ho!" said Santa #2.

"Ho!" said Santa #3.

And a jolly Yuletide time was had by all.

***

EPILOGUE

"What about the Santa Tax?" said Larry and Mick.

"What Santa Tax?" said the Santas.

And Larry and Mick's faith in the leaders of our fair land was restored (for a bit).

[ fin ]