What's seven inches, stiff and green? Yes, that's right - that record I told you about. You remember, the one I assured you would top the charts this yuletide. Well it won't. It is with great regret - and some relief - that I have to announce that Christmas Number One by the Black Arts is dead. More than dead actually, I'm talking stone cold snuffed it. The great British public have voted with their feet - and walked over us as if we were some piss-soaked amputee tramp demanding a sympathy shag. Hey ho, onward and downward. On the plus side, I have been able to haughtily refuse the Camden New Journal's request for an interview, and have not and will not call back Wolverhampton University Radio. My arrogance knows no bounds.
During this weekend's filial/cupboard-raiding-and-laundry visit, my tactless mother had the nerve to enquire on the single's progress towards the top spot. I stopped her mid-sentence with a "talk to the hand" gesture. "I have no idea how it's doing, I'm not interested, please don't speak of it again." I might have sounded a little petulant I suppose, but how could she torture me like that? If the bloody thing was going anywhere except a public landfill during the first week of January, she'd have known all about it. I'd have been in full high-falutin mode, bursting with self-deprecating pomposity ... you know the sort of thing. "Well it's always a pleasure to be surprised ... I really had no idea it would enrapture an entire nation ... I feel like we've put something back into society etc et bloody cetera ... oh no mum, Ferraris don't have carbon footprints, they run on woodchips ... Cup of tea? No dear I'll make it. OK, you make it ... any cake left?"
From a combination of masochism, and a desire to show her how far society has fallen (she watches BBC4), we witnessed the X Factor final together. Although despising it heartily and wishing the TV remote had a button to make them die, I had a sneaking admiration for the Welsh one. He reminded me of the great Klaus Nomi, and I fantasised that he would sing Total Eclipse of the Sun. However, as with our own noble effort to wipe out our overdrafts, the public voted and the Welshman lost.
As the snivelling Scotsman's CD was flashed across the screen, the words Christmas, Number and One were hurled with such ferocity and repetition that I felt myself being brainwashed and had to pull away. Then, having waited patiently for revenge - as she always does, Mother saw her chance.
"Never mind dear, perhaps people will buy your Christmas Number One by mistake when they try to download the real one."
Christmas is on its merry way, the nation is bankrupt and War is Not Over. To add insult to injury, it's my birthday on the 23rd. I'll be 87.
