This Story Contains Adult Humour

I’ve been practicing all week: pen and paper, sitting at the little desk in the back room with a window out onto the garden and the bins. I sat listening to the rain on the glass. I’d been watching some of those YouTube videos with comedians doing their hour. I’m trying to do five or ten minutes and not make an arse of myself. I don’t fancy my chances, but I’m tired of sitting about here watching my belly expand. The missus says, “Why don’t you take up the bowls or hill walking or get a cocaine habit? That’ll give you something to think about.” I considered combining all three.

I’m on a mission.

I get down there early for the Tuesday night open mic at Eddie’s. He’s gone all out on the decorations and has got one miniature tree on the bar. Gus is behind the bar and he gets me a beer. He’s in good form and has got some Christmas songs on. He’s wearing an elf hat and one of those bright green jumpers that has “Kiss My Baubles” in lights across the front.

“Eddie says we can’t decorate, so I thought I’d bring some cheer myself,” he laughs.

I take a seat at the bar as a crowd starts drifting in. I sip a bottle of beer to settle the nerves. Laura walks in and looks surprised to see me. “Wow, Ally, it’s good to see you. What are you doing here? You’re not going up, are you?”

“Aye… maybe,” I say, trying to bluff out some confidence.

She chuckles and smiles. “You’re full of surprises.”

Ian comes in through a cloud of strawberry vape like a force of nature: all energy and movement. He loves the strawberry vape. “Sorry I’m late, guys!” He’s on the little stage getting the mic and a stool set up, and then he’s around the room in a blur, meeting and greeting people like old friends.

He stops by. “Ally, I’m glad you fucking came, mate. Great to see you. Listen, if you want to go up, just give me a shout.”

He steps up and kicks things off. A couple of young guys go up after him and absolutely fucking kill it. I’m laughing so hard I nearly forget my mission. Somewhere along the way, a guy comes stumbling in wearing a full Santa suit.

The woman on the stage mutters, “Oh, that’s my date arrived. You got something in your sack for me, Santa?”

“Aye, arsenic,” he mutters. He takes a seat at the back of the bar and shouts, “Is this a bar or a fucking slaughterhouse? Whisky please, Gus. Make it a double!”

Ian looks over and makes a writing sign over a piece of paper as he mouths, “You want to do it?” Assuming he is talking about the stand-up and not something else, I nod. Fuck it, let’s do it.

He introduces me and we are off. I look out at the little crowd and, to be honest, I can’t remember a fucking thing I prepared. There’s a moment’s pause. I need to say something; I need to say something.

“Erm… it’s not easy being single in your 40s. You meet some… interesting people. This woman I used to go out with, she was a bit much. All ropes, knives, and candle wax. She said she was patriotic. Fuck it, never date a girl who owns her own St. Andrew’s cross. Or actually, maybe only date a girl with a St. Andrew’s cross.”

Santa is shouting, “Come on, get Kevin Connolly or Billy Bridges out here!” People are looking around at him, telling him to keep the noise down. He’s telling them to fuck off. I look at him and he looks right at me.

“This fucking Santa has just arrived here from another dimension. What’s up? Can’t get it up for Mrs. Claus anymore? She banging two elves at a time?”

Suddenly the big red wido is in charge of the smoke machine and I look like I’m in a 1980s pop video. I can still hear him shouting manically, “More smoke! More smoke!” Fucking hell. I can barely see the crowd now. Gus is behind the bar arguing with him. I can hear raised voices. Someone shouts, “Get that fucker out of here!”

Ian shouts, “Everyone out please, until we get this smoke clear!”

I step off the stage and I’m feeling my way through the room when, from the smoke, I’m aware of movement to my left. Then there he is: my nemesis. Santa throws a right that catches my chin and I stumble back. My head feels like a smashed pint glass. What the fuck? He’s still moving, so I step quickly to the left and he tumbles past me. I hear a crash, but I keep moving.

I get outside and Ian is shaking. “Sorry about that, pal. That guy is fucking mental. Still, at least you get a story out of your first stand-up.”

Suddenly, there is a commotion at the front door. We turn around. Santa is standing there, leaning with one hand on the door frame. His beard is at a jaunty angle, his hat is halfway off his head, and there is a tear in his suit.

“Christmas is over for you, you cunt,” he snarls.

“Oh, fuck off.”

This story is available as part of “Getaway Claus and other Stories” by Paul Andrew Sneddon on Kindle.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon