A Bartlett’s Christmas

or
“Is this chap of yours returning?” queried a rather peeved Coney Island (person not place).
He was extremely conscious that he had left his trusty manservant Chingada strapped to his new
patented combined tooth remover and revolver rack.

This was the first time Bertie had been selected for the important role of ‘Gifticular
Distributographer’ (a term coined by fat fuck Nathanial Popper - a jovial enough chap if truth be told,
but totally illiterate, a terrible role model and ghastly to look at) partly by chance, but mainly because
he never put his name in. For the last six years it had been Coney Island (person not place) who had
been chosen, also down to the fact that Bertie always put extra Coney’s in.

The mood darkened as the two factions grew impatient.

“I know,” chirped up local know-it all and regular bore Charles Dickens, “I could read you an
extract from my new book.”

“New book?” accused Charles Gnarles. “That would suggest you’ve got an old book. You
haven’t got a book, we’d have heard about it.”

“I have so got loads of books,” stated a rather put-out Dickens.

“Bollocks! Name one!”

“Okay, ‘David Copperfield.’”

“Never heard of it. Name another.”

“’Oliver Twist.’”

“Pah, anyone could have written that.”

“Well I wrote it,” answered a by-now very dejected Charles Dickens.

“Bet it’s shit.”

“You’d know if you read it. In fact you might like them all.”

“No, no, not that one,” interrupted Sir Reginald Clithero-Shaffer-Montague-Pear, “this one,
er, ‘Great Expectations’ should burn a bit longer.” Shrewton gladly threw another piece of literature
on the fire.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” asserted Gregory Pontius Tigerfeet, discoverer of the chemical element
Tigeronium (in case you haven’t read the previous book, and if not, why not?), “it’ll be all depressing
and stuff.”

“Now, now,” interrupted legend of Bartlett’s, ‘The’ Colonel Tibbs, “Dickend is a guest here
and whilst in these hallowed halls, the least we can do is lend an ear to the gobshite’s incessant
ramblings.”

“Oh man!”
 “Now, now Charles, I said we are going to humour the bugger and that is final. If you
continue with your insolent behaviour I shall make you add another layer of clothes to your already
ludicrous outfit.” Charles Gnarles stuck out his bottom lip and moved away from the fire. He
couldn’t risk being forced to put on his final three garments, he’d had to be winched up to the sash
window as it was. At least his wardrobe was tidy.

“So then Dickens, why don’t you tell us about your new book.” As soon as the full stop had
been intonated the Colonel fell asleep – or died, but either way he was in a better place.

“Well,” began Dickens as the rest of the room rolled their eyes, “it’s called ‘A Christmas
Carol.’”

“Is it about Carol?” queried Shrewton.

“Er, no.”

“When’s it set?” asked Pernickety Jones (although in a much more yellow-faced manner than
is appropriate here).

“Is it the same ‘A’ from the beginning of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’”

“Narwhal,” contributed Lord Goomber.

“What? No, it’s about an old miser who has lost his human spirit and is visited by ghosts who
show him the error of his ways. It’s about family and friendship at the most important time of the
year.” The room looked blank. “Christmas!”

“Oh right, is it a horror story then? I don’t like horror stories, they make me piss myself.” To
be honest Nathanial Popper was actually incontinent as he has lost his bladder during a particularly
heavy game of ‘Monkey Can, Monkey Can’t, Monkey Won’t Tell.’ I mean what the fuck is a
Barbary Ape going to do with two bladders?

“No it’s about the human condition, how love can touch the stoniest of hearts, how we should
hold dear those we value and not put our faith in ill-gotten gains such as the evil of money. For
kindness is…”

Charles Dickens dropped to the floor, seven blow darts lodged in his frontal lobe.

“Greetings gentlemen and hideous lady-face. I have arrived, and just in the nick of time by
the looks of things. I fear you nearly succumbed to the evil of literature, but do not fear, pansy-pants,
for Bertie Wanger is your saviour!”

“Good heavens Wanger, where the jolly hell have you been? I’d thought us Bertramonians
(needs a bit of work!) had been forgotten.”

“That is simply not the case, Coney Island, person not place, it’s just that the authors really
don’t like writing for you. They feel you’re a useless distraction cooked up for a few cheap willy
gags in a previous chapter. In fact you and your hyphenated science-cult’s very presence here is
going to cause a very serious continuity issue that I will no doubt have to solve by the end of the
chapter.”

“Grrrrr,” said Shrewton out-loud, “I hate fucking continuity! Why do you smell of petrol?”
 “Anyway,” continued Bertie, “this was only meant to be a picture book, so let’s get on with it
you ‘tards! Colonel, ring the Armadillo gong, Christmas has arrived.” The Colonel startled from his
Dickens-induced sleep promptly farted, thus signally the start of the age-old ceremony.

The room were poised as Bertie Wanger (Esq.) reached into his bulging sack (you’ve got to
let us have that one!) and began the distribution of his gifticulars, thus. . .