The Christmas Blues

Great show yesterday kid. A great show which made Prince Philip pick up his bed and growl, " TAXI, Taxi for the Prince! We had that Anderson chap round one night. The wife seemed greatly taken with him, but I still have some misgivings. I walked up to him with my hands behind my back, as is my wont and said, "Hello and what do you do?"
The silly ass looked at his Hopalong Cassidy watch and replied, "It's twenty five minutes to nine your highness! TAXI! TAXI for Phil."
Tommy my cat strolled into the room wearing his Christmas jumper. It was a vomit inducing extravaganza of snowmen, holly, robins and Santa Claus. As Tommy picked at the left over Chivers jelly in the fridge, I thought of all the poor men who were sitting in corners afraid to go out and face the scorn of the Christmas jumper jury. It's an awful experience for a man to go for a walk, or pop into the pub wearing the hideous creation their wives and girlfriends had given so much though to. Some men go to extremes to rid themselves of the Christmas jumper. Some set themselves on fire, leap into sewage tanks, or go to the police and report the theft of their Christmas jumper.
"Let's see if I've got this right," said the detective. "Two burly men jumped on you, forced you to take off your Christmas jumper and made off with it. You received no injuries. The jumper thieves never stole your money or mobile phone----just your jumper. The detective winked and said, "Leave it with us sir. I think we're dealing with an International gang of Christmas jumper thieves. Only yesterday sir, I was mugged and left bereft of my wife's lovely "Christmas in Lapland" jumper."
What an air of depression and sadness has settled over Belfast. You would think one of the giant cranes had died. It's a condition known as, the Christmas blues. Millies don't have the same arrogant strut to their fluffy, pink, bedroom slippers. The little hoodies huddle together for comfort. Old codgers don't spit their phlegm half as far. Shopping housewives walk round in circles like dead planets circling a dying sun. People burst into tears for no reason. Husbands cling on to their wives' ankles, begging not to be left alone.
Then, the dismal darkness is shattered by a cheery whistle. It's big Jim McDowell, sweeping the street with his giant stuck out feet. "How's about ye Belfast. Come on, snap out of it. It's nearly the New Year. Plenty of Northern Ireland nils to look forwards to. May McFetridge is still at the Opera House and Tubby Nolan will give us all a good laugh when he appears in a big Christmas jumper. Sticking out Belfast! Sticking out!!!"