While enjoying the warmth of my parents’ lovely traditional oil fired stove
and my mother bustles in the kitchen, readying Christmas dinner.
Dad leans over the oven “How hot do you want this then?”
“Oooohhh about 200 degrees.”
“Pffft! Fuck off! You can have simmer, bake or roast!”

Yeah, traditional’s great, but it’s got it’s limitations!

I’m not only completely blasé about the whole “Don’t wish people Merry Christmas in case they’re offended” thing, because I’d be thrilled to be wished a Happy Hannukah, or Delightful Diwali or Elated Eid and I hate the idea that one group of people gets to hijack winter when so many are celebrating.

So! I’m just going to wish you all a Merry Christmas, love to you and all of yours, apparently the 25th of December is also the first day of Hannukah, which I think sounds like a lovely festival, so to my Jewish readers, I hope you have a wonderful day.

And as for the rest of you? Happy whatever, my religious and cultural ignorance restricts a more specific greeting, so just know that I’m thinking of you all.

Now, presents!

Loping up the road to home, Giles and I. We’ve cackled at frustrated Edinburgh drivers, grinned our ways through sorting office queues and beningly watched scraped back pony-tailed Burberry-ites squabbling over final toys in shops. We couldn’t care less, we’re going home. Home where the heating doesn’t make noises like a scrap-yard having a seizure while blowing a flugelhorn, homes of hugs and kettles, where tales of financial incompetence and disaster are greeted with indulgent smiles and eyes laughingly rolled.

Over the Forth Road Bridge, through Fife, muttering all the while to each other about how that hallowed kingdom has no redeeming features. We play our music loud, make filthy jokes and sing off-key, we are Thelma and Lousie, Butch and Sundance, Lucy and Schroeder (shut up in the back).

Sausage sandwiches and Tunnocks Caramel Wafers in a truckstop, we munch our biscuits while we wait for our savouries, dessert before main. Like kids at Christmas in pinstripe suits and Saughton-style haircuts.

Back on the road, through forests of gnarled, twisted trees, we fly out of the firebreaks with a sub-audible whump, the A9’s pattern returns to my driving head. A road so slowly developed through the region that it switches repeatedly between dual and single carriageway, sometimes with the second carriageway being on the other side of entire hills. It gets confusing.

Barreling along, music up, screaming along at the top of our lungs, a car sits in a layby on the left, right indicator winking at me. I’m observant, I see him coming, so pull into the right hand lane, leaning on my highbeams, flash flash, out you come, spirit of goodwill. Foot on the floor as he starts to pull out I look further down the road and find myself facing an SUV pulling a caravan. Flying in from the middle distance of my consciousness, a neon realisation slams into my brain, bright and harsh as burning phosphorous, it reads - “This.Is.Single.Carriageway.”

Adrenaline floods my system, I feel my diaphragm spasm, my heart clamours at my sternum, bile rises in my throat and my bladder constricts. I lean on the horn, flash my headlights, there’s no agression here, just an acceptance of blame and a begging request to the other drivers to please, guys, please help us all get through my cock-up alive, c’mon, it’s Christmas.

Rapid maths, collision in the right hand lane? SUV and Caravan oncoming? 4 tonnes at 140mph combined speed. Car accelerating away in the left hand lane? 1 at 40. No contest, if we’re going to hit something, let’s hit something that won’t drive my shins through the floor of my car and my femurs through the shoulders of my pelvis. I veer into the middle of the road, straddling the central lines. The three of us abreast across the road, we rock from the wind of the passing caravan, Giles peers through the left window and in a moment of brilliance screams “Go! Fucking go!”

I stamp on the gas, we peel away from the car on our left, leaving a wake of flashing headlights, horns and shaking fists behind us. We continue up the road, my legs and arms scream with adrenaline cramps, my mouth is dry, I can’t look Giles in the eye. We travel the next mile in silence, the stereo muted.

“Sorry.”
“No bother, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, Jesus, I’m so sorry.”
“Mate, it’s nothing, you were instantly forgiven after it happened. Relax.”

We continue the journey without event, music back up, smiles return, we grab mugs of tea at another truckstop, pouring sachet after sachet of medicinal sugar into them until our knuckles stop quivering.

Dropping Giles off at his parents and I’m on my way to my house, he sees me off at the door, we hug, wish each other a happy Christmas. He winks.
“Drive safe”

As I’m off out to Christmas lunch,
but your dose of Kal-snarkiness is to be found here today, keep clicking on ‘next’ to progress through the set.

Merry Chrimbo, guys.

K

X

The hours tick away as Christmas approaches and even the most austere and solemn members of the Judiciary are starting to unwind.

So much so that this morning I was sitting at my desk, chatting to a macer, wearing my headset as I usually do. I love my headset, it lets me wander all over the department and not have to risk breaking my neck as I race downstairs every time the phone rings.

It does, however, nothing for my personal aesthetic, as is evident below.

This led to a certain nameless Judge entering the library, looking at the Macer and delivering the immortal line.

“Sorry Bill, can I interrupt? I need to borrow Lieutenant Uhura for a moment.”

#1. On delivering a document to court.

Security Guard: “Can’t go in there, mate, it’s ‘closed doors’”(Meaning the court isn’t open to the public because the person giving evidence is vulnerable(usually kids or rape victims))
Kal: “Yeah mate, it’s cool, I’m staff.” *flashes ID*
SG: “You can’t go in.”
K:”I’m staff“
SG:”But it’s closed doors, nobody goes in.”
K: “No public go in, I’m staff, I’m delivering to the court.”
SG: “But there are really vulnerable people in there.”
K: “I’m delivering the Vulnerable Witness (Scotland) Act of 2003, I know there are vulnerable people in there.”
SG:”Oh.”

#2. On arriving for a job interview.

K: “Hi, I’m looking for room 212.”
Building superintendent :”Right, up we go.”
We walk up the stairs, he opens a door and ushers me in. I’m standing in a cupboard.
BS: “Bye then.”
K:”Ummmm? This is 212?”
BS:”Yup.”
I look at the door, the sign reads “112″
K: “Ah, mate, this is 112, I need 212.”
BS:”That’s right.”
We stand and look at each other.
K: “This is room 112.”
BS:”Yes.”
K:”I need 212.”
BS:”Yes.”
I point to the numbers on the door.
K:”This. Is. 1.1.2.”
BS:”Oh! Are you here to see Natalie about the job?”
K:”Yes.”
BS:”Well she’s in 212, that’s just up the stairs.”

#3. At a meeting discussing medical cover for Edinburgh’s Hogmanay party.

Boss:”Unfortunately we can’t use the big truck, because it’s got a flat tire and battery.”
K:”I can fix that! You just get a basin of soapy water and hold it under, then when you see bubbles coming up we can put a wee patch over the puncture!”
Table: *Collectively laughs at concept of fixing enormous truck tire in this manner.*
Person who shall remain nameless: *Gives withering look*”It’s not the same as changing the tire on a bicycle, Kal. Tsk, honestly!”
Table:*Stares in disbelief*

I ask you, how are these people still alive? Shouldn’t Darwinism weed them out?

Reintroduce wolves to the Highlands! We’ll stop them preying on livestock by feeding them glaikit arseholes, it could even be televised, neatly side-stepping the recent problems with fox-hunting.
A new blood sport! Doofus-baiting!

To anyone who can explain how “kong my whopper” has anything to do with adding toppings to burgers.

Really quick post because my desk is absolutely swamped, but I couldn’t NOT tell you about this right now.

Just came back from lunch with the nerfs and they brought me one of these!

Now, this is awesome in itself, because we all know that Gromit rawks.

But when you fill him up with something hot…THIS HAPPENS!

This is particularly brilliant because there was lots of grumbling in the papers recently regarding these, they’re only really available in England, but because the Nerfs live so close to the Border, they’ve got them in their local supermarket. I went to buy one last time I was down, but wasn’t able to lay my hands on one, so they got me one for Christmas!

Thankyou nerfs! Thankyou thankyou thankyou!

Driving back from Ambutown, having popped over to see the bloke (redundantly, he was out on a call in a notoriously dodgy area, chances of him being caught in the area by repeated calls were very high, thought it best to just come home) and I’m passed by a bright yellow MG, stomping past at a comfortable 85.

“Splendid!” thought I “I can speed in his wake, if there are cameras ahead I’ll see him getting flashed and I’ll be able to slow down.”

It should be noted that I don’t speed, I already have three points on my licence and a further three will stop be being accepted into SAS while they’re active. This night, I took leave of my senses and pushed down with my right foot.

Romping along at a solid 80 (speed limit 70), I become aware of a car in my right wing mirror, slowly creeping past at approximately 82. Even better! More stop-gaps between me and any speed cameras.

No.

The car passing is a traffic car, with two of LBP’s finest sitting in the front, casually speeding past me. The passenger looks over, catches my eye and wags a finger.

I slow down, they take off into the distance.

And God did look down and utter the immortal words - “Don’t be a smart-arse, Kal…Don’t be a smart-arse.”

Sitting at my desk, a macer updating books beside me, we’re chatting.

“You know who’s a bit dodgy at updating these? He’s a lovely guy, but he’s kind of slapdash.”
“Who’s that?”"Mr X.”
“Ah, true, true…Oh! Shhh.”

The automatic doors open, the ble-beep of the security locks disengaging followed by the whirr of it’s opening mechanism provide herald the arrival of….Mr X. He uses the photocopier and leaves.

“That was creepy.”
“What?”"We were just talking about him and he came in.”
“That’s true…ooooh! I wonder if this works across the board. You know who’s really bad at updating these? Firemen!”
“Aye right, you’re pushing your luck, son.”

Ble-beep-whirr…..a security guard walks in.

“Afternoon, I’ve been made responsible for sweeping this wing in the event of a fire alarm, can you show me around?”

The macer dissolves into fits of giggles at her desk, the guard wanders about and leaves.

“Right, this is silly, but let’s not waste it. You know who sucks at updating? Brad Pitt, when he’s only wearing baby oil.”

The doors remain resolutely shut until I leave the office.

Bollocks.