The Ghost of Christmas Pissed

By AM Wednesday, December 22, 2010

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Today The Pensive Quill carries a short story by guest writer Thomas "Dixie" Elliott

It was Christmas Eve morning, about quarter to one or thereabouts, when Jamesy made his usual journey back to his flat. I can’t say that the snow was deep and crisp and even because it was actually raining and all sensible carol singers were tucked up in bed, leaving only the strains of drunken revellers to fill the air with song as they roamed the streets in search of taxis.

Jamesy was one of those drunken revellers only he happened to be in a state of drunken revelry all year round. He had staggered out the door of the bar, where he held the proud title of regular, just a few minutes before and hadn’t far to go because he lived only a few streets away. His coat collar was turned up to keep out the chilling rain and he grasped the lapels tightly to his neck because the top buttons were missing. He clutched the blue bag he carried just as tightly, perhaps for fear of being mugged for a few measly cans of stout or perhaps for fear of dropping them on the ground, because in his drunken state it might be dangerous even bending over to lift them up again.

He eventually got to his front door and fumbled with the key for a minute or two before pushing the door open with his shoulder. Managing to keep upright he staggered inside and shut it behind him with a clatter of canned stout. He found the light switch and lit up what passed for a living room. A sofa that would have graced any skip took up most of the room, a few tatty blankets lay across it, for this was also Jamesy‘s bed. A battered old armchair was close to a fireplace where a fire rarely burned. The other side of the fireplace was taken up by a TV which hadn’t been viewed since it broke down during the summer. Jamesy watched all his favourite programmes like racing in the pub anyway. The rest of the room consisted of rubbish and a coating of dust. Jeeze, I’ll have to clean this place up a bit one of these days, thought Jamesy as he placed his precious bag of stout by the armchair. But right now I need a pee.

And off he staggered to the toilet, to pee away the last few pints of the night, hanging his damp coat on a hook behind the hall door as he went.

As he stood swaying over the toilet he took a quick look at himself in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. He was in his mid-fifties but the face of a much older man looked back at him. An unshaven wrinkled face with sunken cheekbones and red-rimmed eyes belied the fact that Jamesy was once a good looking young man.

“Ah would you look at the state of you standing there peeing more over the floor than in the toilet bowl,” stated his reflection in the mirror, much to Jamesy’s horror because he hadn’t opened his mouth to say a word. Or at least he thought he hadn’t; maybe it was the drink talking he decided. Pulling his zip up he hurried back into the living room but as he entered the light went out leaving him standing in darkness. Cursing the lack of replacement light bulbs he noticed that the temperature had dropped alarmingly and he began to shiver uncontrollably. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark much to his horror he noticed that someone was sitting in his armchair. He heard a sound like a beer can being opened and a voice he thought he recognised said, “Sit down and have a can of stout with me.”

“Who in hell are you?” demanded Jamesy. “And how did you get in here anyway?”

“Ach sure, Jamesy, you know me better than you know yourself,” said Whoever It Was.

“I know that voice from somewhere!” said Jamesy. “Damned if I do!”

Just then the light went back on and Jamesy’s legs nearly went from under him. For seated in his armchair was he himself looking back at himself. And if that wasn’t bad enough he was drinking one of his own cans of stout.

“Naw!” uttered Jamesy. “It can’t be me, you must be some twin brother my Ma had adopted years ago and didn’t tell me about.”

“Not a bit of it, my Ma had the eight of us and two died young, the ole drink, if you remember?” said Whoever It Was. “And not one of us was put up for adoption.”

“Sure grab one of those stout and sit yourself down so we can talk about the old times,” he continued, before adding rather cruelly, “Jeeze, Jamesy, you haven’t gone and peed yourself, have you?”

Jamesy looked down at the stain on his trousers, the outcome of a hurried exit from the toilet and visibly reddened.

“Don’t worry about it,” chuckled Whoever It Was, “Sure it happens to the best of us.”

Jamesy slumped down on the sofa and pulled the nearest blanket over him. It was still freezing cold in the room, so much so he could see his breath every time he exhaled. Whoever It Was reached down to the blue bag, took out a can of stout and flung it to Jamesy. It landed on his lap and he managed to catch it before it rolled off onto the floor. He took one long look at the person in the armchair. He had indeed every feature on his own face even the small scar above his right eye. Jamesy without thinking touched his scar and Whoever It Was said, “Aye I got that fighting after school one day. Do you remember?”

“Big Micky, he was a year or two older than me, a right bully,” replied Jamesy.

“The very boy!” Interrupted Whoever It Was.

“Ah no you can’t be me!" uttered Jamesy. “Can you?”

Whoever It Was nodded knowingly and took another drink from his can.

Without taking his eyes from himself across the room Jamesy opened his can and took a long slug of stout.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to myself,” he muttered. “It has to be the bloody drink.” He took another mouthful of stout as if that would help answer his question.

“As the boyo said to Georgie Best, where did it all go wrong?” said Whoever It Was. “I was a great joiner in me day and everyone was looking for me to do jobs.”

Jamesy seemed to be lost in thoughts of times long gone as he replied. “Aye, I started out working with me Da on the building sites, he got me an apprenticeship after I left school.”

“And I met Maggie at the disco that night in 75, a right looker she was too!” added Whoever It Was.

“I had plenty of money in me pockets in those days, working all hours,” continued Jamesy.

“And we got married and had five wains.” Whoever It Was wiped a tear from his eye as he said it.

Jamesy took another drink of stout, draining the can which he flung into the fireplace. “Give us another one of those cans.” His eyes were filling up as he said it.

Whoever It Was tossed him a can and took another one himself. The two ring pulls hissed as one.

“I started calling into the bar for a few pints after work,” Jamesy said. He sat his can down, got up and staggered over to the door to where his coat was hanging.

“And before I knew it I never left the place, except to sleep,” Added Whoever It Was.

“Have you a fag on you?”

“Roll-ups?” asked Jamesy, retrieving the tobacco pouch and plastic lighter from his coat pocket.

“Aye, the under the counter stuff, it would blow the head of a cabbage, but so what, it’s cheap, isn‘t it?” said Whoever It Was.

Jamesy returned to the sofa and rolled two pencil thin cigarettes. “I must be going fecking mad,” he said as he lit the roll-up belonging to Whoever It Was.

“Well if you are, you won‘t mind if I tag along?”

Jamesy took a drag from his own roll-up. “Now what in hell were we talking about?”

“I started going to the bar more often than I was going home,” said Whoever It Was.

“That’s right, and I eventually left work to take up drinking full time,” added Jamesy.

Whoever It Was coughed and spluttered after a drag of his roll-up and added, “Then Maggie kicked me out.”

Jamesy dragged on his roll-up until it burnt his fingers then tossed it into the fireplace. “Now only our Johnny wants to know me; if it wasn’t for him and his good wife, I’d not be having a Christmas dinner at all this year.”

They both looked at each other through tear-filled eyes, then took a another good drink.

“Mores the pity that I’ll not be here to enjoy the Christmas dinner,” Added Whoever It Was.

Jamesy looked worried. “And why would that be if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A massive heart attack will take me this very night,” said Whoever It Was. “And by the time Christmas morning comes I’ll be dead a full day.”

Jamesy put the can to his mouth and emptied it in one go. “You’re pulling my leg... Aren’t you?” He asked.

“Now why would I be joking over a matter like that, you silly ole eejit?”

The drink must’ve gotten the better of Jamesy because the next thing he knew he was wakened by the sound of someone battering his front door. It was still freezing cold in the living room, Whoever It Was lay slumped in the armchair and he didn’t look at all well. In fact, thought Jamesy, he had the look of death about him.

“Break the door in!”

Hearing this brought Jamesy to his senses and he called out, “Hold on a minute and I’ll open it!”

But it was too late. His front door burst open with a crash and in they came almost tripping over each other. His son Johnny led the way followed closely by Jim the bar manager and the rest of his regulars. Jamesy went to meet them with a curse on his lips.

“Have yous no patience at all? Sure I was on my way out to let yous in.”

It was as if he wasn’t there. They all headed in the direction of Whoever It Was in the armchair.

“I think he’s dead,” uttered Jamesy, but they paid not a blind bit of heed to him as they bent over the body searching for signs of life.

“Ah I’m sorry, Johnny,” said Jim. “He’s dead.”

“Sure isn’t that what I just told yous?” Jamesy couldn’t believe that they were totally ignoring him.

“I think he’s been dead a fair while, Johnny, by the looks of him.” This was Big Dan, a regular from the bar speaking. “He hasn’t been in all day yesterday and that’s not like Jamesy, so he must’ve kicked the bucket on Christmas Eve sometime.”

“Passed away, not kicked the bucket,” said Jim the Manager sternly. “Have a bit of respect.”

Jamesy heard his name and kicked the bucket all in one sentence and it finally dawned on him that it was himself who was dead in the armchair.

The realisation that he was a ghost looking at himself dead suddenly took hold of Jamesy and he slumped back on the sofa horrified and dismayed that his departure from this life was with empty cans laying about him.

He was even more annoyed at what Johnny, his son said next.

“The selfish old git, imagine dying on Christmas morning, sure he could have waited until after the New Year at least.”

He heard them making arrangements to call the undertaker and a sense of guilt swept over him because he had ruined his family’s Christmas by dying.

He saw the light coming towards him and felt peaceful. Then the light went out.

Jamesy woke with a start he was in total darkness.

“I’ve gone to hell on Christmas Day!” he shouted.

Then he realised that he hadn’t gone to hell, he was still in his living room on the sofa and the light had blown. He got up and pulled the curtains, daylight streamed in. No one was laying dead on the armchair and Jamesy was glad to be alive.

He staggered out to the bathroom and threw water over his face to bring himself round.

“That was one hell of a weird nightmare. I could murder a pint,” he said as he dried himself with a grubby towel.

“Have you not learned your lesson,you eejit? The drink will be the death of you!”

Whoever It Was peeing in the toilet gave an exasperated shake of his head as he said it.

No one believed Jamesy when he turned up for his Christmas dinner at Johnny’s house and told them he was off the drink for good. And sure enough he never touched a drop again.



Any resemblance to actual persons living and dead drunk is purely coincidental.