The Night Before Christmas (Three Nights Before, Actually)
It was the night before Christmas and all through the house laid an eclectic mixture of degenerate gamblers, local magistrates, strung-out potheads, high profile public servants, low-rent hookers, depressed ex-politicians, ginger wine addicts, precious columnists, suspicious gun runners and strange Haiku poets. It was three nights actually but that is by the by. Time has never meant a great deal to these people and day and night is just a differentiation between sporting events to gamble wildly on. The Officers Club attracts an interesting crowd, particularly during the festive season.
I was on the phone with my lawyer, the renowned Dr. Fleming, discussing certain points of law. He had been put on retainer to deal with any possible incidents and he had kept me out of prison and out of court to date. He had also fixed a very important door that, whilst locked and unmovable, caused a great deal of angst in the O.C. “Criminality is an objective term in the eyes of The Law but morality and stupidity…well… they are what we in the business call subjective.” Indeed. There was talk of defamation laws, the broadness in the legal definition of the term “suspicious” and why it is entirely necessary to always have a good legal team on hand. There was also some wild ramblings on police powers and the jackboot authority they have to interrogate citizens at will. It was an engaging and useful conversation and one I am pleased was not charged by six minute blocks. We have other ties that bind and that allows small inconveniences like billing to slide by the by.
“What is that old drunk, Judge Bligh doing?” Dr Fleming inquired.
“Jesus, he has lost $12,000 at the poker table to Wild Bill, thrown up all over Bob the Train and lectured Loose Sally on the immorality of prostitution while trying to slide his hand up her skirt. He is out of control and if he wasn’t eighty years old with a penchant for losing large sums of money in nearly all gambling ventures, he would be outside in the blistering sun before you could say sustained” I replied, with some urgency.
Judge Bligh, along with most others, had been at the Officers Club for the better part of December. This incorrigible lot find it necessary to drink themselves into oblivion and gamble beyond the realms of decency for an extended period as some sort of strange festive season ritual. I am not opposed to such behaviour and usually try to involve myself to some extent though I do find it necessary to flee the premises every now and then. And so do most. The hookers have punters to see, the poets have poetry to write and the gamblers have cash to find.
They usually clear out by about December 20 but not this year. Judge Bligh had convinced most that Christmas was a ruse and the Claus would cut off their ears if they were alone on Christmas night.
“To hell with that” I yelled, waving a pick-axe around wildly. “This is Christmas time and I have places to be and I will be damned if you degenerates are going to be left unsupervised in this place of goodwill and high repute. The fun stops here. At least for you Bligh. Get out and don’t come back until next year. I have family and friends and associates to see and my plane leaves in exactly forty-two minutes. I have wisdom to impart, strange gifts to purchase, memories to relive and the seasonal analysis of the year just gone to undertake. Clear out.”
And they did, muttering obscenities hidden by Christmas wishes.
And I soon fled, zipping to the airport like a dingo on heat. I would hate to miss Christmas. And all the fun associated with it.
Merry Christmas folks. Let loose, get wild and make sure the fun is had at high voltage. And remember: Christmas really is the balls.