you don’t need us to like you
The apparentness of Christmas shouldered into the room wearing a 1978 Albemarle Street clip joint doorman’s Crombie telling the Stealerant not to spoil it for the others.
Under mistletoe, in a Regency house hallway, the Boy Child celebrants’ endeavoured to gavage him with their tongues of Norwegian pine needles; while the love child of a bookmaker burgled a bare boarded fruit shop for lychees and dates.
The Stealerant recalled walking along Torquay seafront to avoid home brewed forced joviality wrapped in rictus smiles reeking of all day drinking and Frank Sinatra. He’d been on his way to Simons house a school friend who had bought him a piece of concrete from the Nuremberg Stadium. Simon’s grandmother was staying from Germany. She had numbers on her arm and never smiled. The Stealerant had never forgotten her or the young couple with the open top sports car who stopped and gave him a lift to Paignton that Christmas a lifetime ago.
The Stealerants’ kohl eyed girlfriend was still lighting bonfires beside coastal footpaths – not to welcome in the New Year.