The Fat Bloke Diaries

Episode Sixty-Four – The Twelve Days of Christmas

That’s it; Christmas is over for another year. My wheelie-bin is full of shiny wrapping paper and greasy turkey carcass, and the refuse collection vehicle operatives don’t come for another fortnight. But at least they’re taking the empty bottles this week; the bottle bin is overflowing, obviously.

I hope Santa delivered lots of healthy and non-fattening treats down your chimney. That’s what you wished for wasn’t it? Good for you, a laudable effort, but I suspect that you had to make do with a great big pile of chocolate instead, just like the rest of us. (Hurrah!)

Of course Father Christmas himself could do with a little exercise. He has a rather sedentary lifestyle, sitting in his workshop all year, and on the one night when he does leave home, he sits in the sleigh even then. It can’t be good for him. It’s an entire year till I have to be good again, so I can get away with calling him a fat bloater. At his age, he’ll have forgotten by next winter anyhow.

And it’s not just him. The entire festive period isn’t good for any of us really. We do too little and eat too much – mostly the wrong things too. But it’s only once a year. Even I’m not going to beat myself up too much about having a week off (as the Scots call a little tickle at the back of the throat). I’m just making sure that I have plenty of good long walks whatever the weather. Running can resume next week. Probably. Possibly.

Some misguided people think that the First Day of Christmas is when the first chocolate in the advent calendar is popped, but I’m sure that you, being a discerning FBD reader, know better. You know that they’re the twelve days leading up to Epiphany – Twelfth Night – and that we’re currently in the middle of them. And this particular part of the festive season is the one that some of us find the most difficult, the part where there seems to be a different party every night. If it’s not yet another turkey dinner it’s a heaving buffet table, full of things that you know you shouldn’t gorge on but….

So sing along (but not if you’re reading this at work).

On the Twelfth day of Christmas the Fat Bloke left for me

Twelve vol au vents,
Eleven sausage rolls,
Ten chicken drumsticks,
Nine Yorkshire puddings,
Eight bacon butties,
Seven cans of beer,
Six mini quiches,
Five… pork… pies!
Four chunks of cheese,
Three Scotch eggs,
Half a lettuce leaf,
And a pizza with pepperoni

I know, it should’ve been two lettuce leaves, but I couldn’t face them. They’re green. And I was saving myself for the pizza.


© Shaun Finnie 2009
 

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