Last night I was visited by "The Ghost of Boxing Day, 10am - 4pm". I am not so daft that I can't recognise my own brother, let alone his ghastly aroma (capable of igniting a match at twenty paces). I shall knot the bugger's antennae into a monkey's fist if he insults my intelligence like that again.
Anyway, the cheeky swine, draped in a potato sack and issuing an eerie green light (I wondered where me Boy Scout signalling torch had gone) instructed me to atone for all past sins. This was to take the form of donating a haunch of venison, a brace of heron, at least one gannet and half a swan to create a "four beast roast" for the needy of the parish.
What loopy twaddle. Firstly, we already have several items of roadkill in the freezer at Empress Pamela's Chinese Chippie, plus the remains of that thing with two heads that crashed last summer and is preserved in a barrel of Vick behind the Krazy Kernow Tearooms.
So, we are hardly deficient in exotic provender. If the insolent guttersnipe wants anything else, he can sing for it. Except his voice is about as melodious as a cast iron mangle hurtling down a lift shaft and if he breaks into song I shall swat him with a very large tin of blackberry pie filling.
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