Twelve Days of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
... A partridge in a pear tree...
Why? What sodding use is that? I mean other than plucking the bird, roasting it and eating it, then having a pear for afterwards, it's not much use is it? And lets be honest, if you are having partridge for Christmas dinner, then pear to follow, it's hardly traditional is it?
On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
... Two turtle doves...and a partridge in a pear tree.
Well, since the turtle dove is now close to extinction, probably not the best choice of present. Bill Oddie will probably throw a wobbly and lets be honest, if one Partridge in a pear tree was overkill, sending them another is just plain silly isn't it?
On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
... Three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
I mean why? Why do they have to be French? Are they somehow better at producing eggs? Do they wear beret's and smoke a cigarette doing impressions of Edith Piaf? What am I supposed to do with four turtle doves, three partridges and pear trees? Start an orchard or an aviary?
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
... Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Do you get the impression that my true love is pretty limited when it comes to ideas for presents? Either that or he works in an overstocked aviary and is doing his best to relieve the incumbent population by passing off startled feather critters to, supposedly, his true love. I've got so many birds in my house now I feel like George Best. Use your imagination for Christ's sake...
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
... Five....Gold...Rings!, four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree..."
Well... thank feck for that. One for each finger, I mean one would have done, but at least I can eBay the others.
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
six geese-a-laying, Five...Gold...Rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle dobes and a partridge in a pear tree.
Ah, well that didn't last, we're back onto our feathered friends once again. Geese this time. Could you have selected an any less friendly bird? I've rather have Rod Hull and fecking Emu sat at my Christmas table than these squawky, ill-tempered gits. Still, at least they are better eating than the bloody calling birds. I've passed them on to Heston Blumenthal to see what he can come up with.
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
seven swans a swimming, six geese-a-laying, five...Gold...Rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
What a surprise, more fupping birds. The queens not going to be too happy as I believe these things are her property. Did you know swans can break a human arm? With any luck, my true love, they'll have done yours already as it will save me a job. The house is filled with bird cack, I've got feathers in my underpants, The fridge is filled with goose eggs, I've now got my own pear orchard where the kids playhouse used to be and there's Cash for Gold on the phone offering me 50p for £500 worth of gold.
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
Eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, Five...gold...rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Ok, I didn't expect that. Still, a few more mouths to feed is good. We can divvy up the milk between us (God knows what the feck I am supposed to do with eight cows though, there's no room in the garden with all the fupping pear trees). I reckon if we start working our way through all the birds we'll have scoffed them all by Easter.
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
Nine Ladies Dancing, Eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, Five...Gold...Rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Well congratulations, I never thought I'd feel sorry for the UPS man, but you managed it. His vans filthy and when he opened up the back today, the neighbours watched in amazement as eight women climbed out and proceeded to do their best impersonations of MC Hammer down the middle of the street. Had a visit from the police asking me why I was keeping 22 women and a menagerie of animals in my home. They think I am a seasonal Josef Fritzl. The swans and geese are at each others throats, the maids are no longer milking as the cows have gone mad and the calling birds are seeking legal advice over the Talking Birds game stating that they have a case for copyright infringement. Some sodding Christmas this is.
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
Ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, five...gold...rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Oh this just gets better, now I have to deal with ten pissed up members of the artistocracy who believe that celebrating Christmas involves drinking vast quantities of wine and jumping gaily into the air. I can only assume they've been stuck with the fupping birds too long and believe they can fly. The poor ladies dancing and maids a milking have locked themselves into their room as the lecherous lords want to 'leap' onto them. I asked them if they wanted a few pears to enjoy and they giggled and said "Not alf!". Lecherous old gits.
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
Eleven pipers piping, ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, five...gold...rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Oh cheers, the neighbours are already moaning about the birds crapping on their washing, the cows eating their grass and the lords nicking their sherry and damaging the ceiling and now this? Do you know what it is like having the Bagpipe section from Mull of Kintyre rattling around the close at 3 in the morning? The wailing is making the geese confused and they don't know whether to attack the pipers or try and mate with them. Next year, I'm booking myself a week in Florida. Alone.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, Five...Gold...Rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a fupping partridge in another fecking pear tree.
Well, thanks for that. I've had the noise abatement society on the phone and neighbourhood watch around. Social services are calling round and getting me an ASBO thanks to all the noice. The RSPCA and RSPB have blacklisted me for cruelty to animals (and that's just the ones that haven't been eaten). The Queen's taking me to court for theft of royal property, the French have refused to send any more hens to the UK due to how poorly we treat them (yes, how fecking ironic is that?), I've got a garden full of bird and cow poo, lactose obsessed women locked up in rooms around the house, other rooms filled with MC Hammer impersonators, half the house of lords pissed up and bouncing off the walls and I'm now being investigated by the Simon Wiesenthal Centre for trying to sell of some of the missing Nazi gold. I wouldn't mind, all I wanted was a fupping iPod.
I think Kirsty MacColl said it best...
Happy Christmas you arse, I hope its our last.
... A partridge in a pear tree...
Why? What sodding use is that? I mean other than plucking the bird, roasting it and eating it, then having a pear for afterwards, it's not much use is it? And lets be honest, if you are having partridge for Christmas dinner, then pear to follow, it's hardly traditional is it?
On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
... Two turtle doves...and a partridge in a pear tree.
Well, since the turtle dove is now close to extinction, probably not the best choice of present. Bill Oddie will probably throw a wobbly and lets be honest, if one Partridge in a pear tree was overkill, sending them another is just plain silly isn't it?
On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
... Three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
I mean why? Why do they have to be French? Are they somehow better at producing eggs? Do they wear beret's and smoke a cigarette doing impressions of Edith Piaf? What am I supposed to do with four turtle doves, three partridges and pear trees? Start an orchard or an aviary?
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
... Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Do you get the impression that my true love is pretty limited when it comes to ideas for presents? Either that or he works in an overstocked aviary and is doing his best to relieve the incumbent population by passing off startled feather critters to, supposedly, his true love. I've got so many birds in my house now I feel like George Best. Use your imagination for Christ's sake...
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
... Five....Gold...Rings!, four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree..."
Well... thank feck for that. One for each finger, I mean one would have done, but at least I can eBay the others.
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
six geese-a-laying, Five...Gold...Rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle dobes and a partridge in a pear tree.
Ah, well that didn't last, we're back onto our feathered friends once again. Geese this time. Could you have selected an any less friendly bird? I've rather have Rod Hull and fecking Emu sat at my Christmas table than these squawky, ill-tempered gits. Still, at least they are better eating than the bloody calling birds. I've passed them on to Heston Blumenthal to see what he can come up with.
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
seven swans a swimming, six geese-a-laying, five...Gold...Rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
What a surprise, more fupping birds. The queens not going to be too happy as I believe these things are her property. Did you know swans can break a human arm? With any luck, my true love, they'll have done yours already as it will save me a job. The house is filled with bird cack, I've got feathers in my underpants, The fridge is filled with goose eggs, I've now got my own pear orchard where the kids playhouse used to be and there's Cash for Gold on the phone offering me 50p for £500 worth of gold.
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
Eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, Five...gold...rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Ok, I didn't expect that. Still, a few more mouths to feed is good. We can divvy up the milk between us (God knows what the feck I am supposed to do with eight cows though, there's no room in the garden with all the fupping pear trees). I reckon if we start working our way through all the birds we'll have scoffed them all by Easter.
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
Nine Ladies Dancing, Eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, Five...Gold...Rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Well congratulations, I never thought I'd feel sorry for the UPS man, but you managed it. His vans filthy and when he opened up the back today, the neighbours watched in amazement as eight women climbed out and proceeded to do their best impersonations of MC Hammer down the middle of the street. Had a visit from the police asking me why I was keeping 22 women and a menagerie of animals in my home. They think I am a seasonal Josef Fritzl. The swans and geese are at each others throats, the maids are no longer milking as the cows have gone mad and the calling birds are seeking legal advice over the Talking Birds game stating that they have a case for copyright infringement. Some sodding Christmas this is.
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
Ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, five...gold...rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Oh this just gets better, now I have to deal with ten pissed up members of the artistocracy who believe that celebrating Christmas involves drinking vast quantities of wine and jumping gaily into the air. I can only assume they've been stuck with the fupping birds too long and believe they can fly. The poor ladies dancing and maids a milking have locked themselves into their room as the lecherous lords want to 'leap' onto them. I asked them if they wanted a few pears to enjoy and they giggled and said "Not alf!". Lecherous old gits.
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
Eleven pipers piping, ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, five...gold...rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.
Oh cheers, the neighbours are already moaning about the birds crapping on their washing, the cows eating their grass and the lords nicking their sherry and damaging the ceiling and now this? Do you know what it is like having the Bagpipe section from Mull of Kintyre rattling around the close at 3 in the morning? The wailing is making the geese confused and they don't know whether to attack the pipers or try and mate with them. Next year, I'm booking myself a week in Florida. Alone.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...
twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, Five...Gold...Rings! Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a fupping partridge in another fecking pear tree.
Well, thanks for that. I've had the noise abatement society on the phone and neighbourhood watch around. Social services are calling round and getting me an ASBO thanks to all the noice. The RSPCA and RSPB have blacklisted me for cruelty to animals (and that's just the ones that haven't been eaten). The Queen's taking me to court for theft of royal property, the French have refused to send any more hens to the UK due to how poorly we treat them (yes, how fecking ironic is that?), I've got a garden full of bird and cow poo, lactose obsessed women locked up in rooms around the house, other rooms filled with MC Hammer impersonators, half the house of lords pissed up and bouncing off the walls and I'm now being investigated by the Simon Wiesenthal Centre for trying to sell of some of the missing Nazi gold. I wouldn't mind, all I wanted was a fupping iPod.
I think Kirsty MacColl said it best...
Happy Christmas you arse, I hope its our last.
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