Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 6^th January 2008

So how was it for you then? The festivities that is? Was the jolly fat housebreaker good to you? Did he shimmy down yer chimney and ruin a perfectly good sock by stuffing it with oddly shaped gifts he’d purloined from the previous property? You didn’t realise that did you. The thieving git just ‘shuffles’ all the gifts about, that’s why you’ve always got stuff from mysterious Aunties you’ve never heard of. Santa doesn’t actually make any presents, he doesn’t in reality bring a chuffing thing on his sleigh. He’s just a slightly obese kleptomaniac who gets his kicks breaking in through yer lum and dumping stolen goods on unsuspecting kids.

The other common myth about our red jacketed friend is that he was a creation of the Coca Cola Company. This is also incorrect. In actual fact he was created by a global sock producer, why else would you hang a stocking at the end of your bed? Surely a big wooden box would be better suited for the task. It could store so much more and wouldn’t be destroyed in the process of being filled.

But destruction is the major part of their evil plan. You see ruining a single sock necessitates the purchase of a new pair! Unless you have an extremely odd shaped foot or a single leg. So Heather Mills McCartney is probably quids in on both counts.

But for the rest of us it’s rather annoying. Did you thrown out the remaining good sock or did you use it to wipe up the sherry stains and mince pie crumbs after the thieving fat b@stard raided your drinks cabinet in the process of committing his crime? It didn’t bother me this year because I’d popped up to the roof the previous evening to set a couple of ‘reindeer’ traps. Caught three of the b@stards; we ate like Kings on Christmas day. Ye canna beat a nice piece of venison slow roasted over a chimney stack.

Mind you I had a fecking nightmare with the trimmings. On top of the traditional pigs in blankets, stuffing balls and other meaty treats that are mandatory on these occasions I’d planned to do a couple of the vegetable recipes I’d seen on TV. Specifically Nigellas (mwuuuaaahh oooh my oh my she’s flipping gorgeous) brussel sprouts with chestnuts, pancetta and parsley and her perfect (she is isn’t she) roast potatoes. Unfortunately I’d left the shopping to my elder brother Neil or the PG Tips Chimp as he will henceforth be known.

I really enjoy cooking and I’m not a bad cook; but I’m no chef. I couldn’t design a dish; however I’m a dab hand at following recipes. This is because I am very meticulous about temperatures, weights, measures and getting the correct ingredients. I have never failed when I’ve followed a recipe precisely and when it comes to the Christmas dinner I always execute it with military precision. Everything has to get cooked at the right time in the right order or it can all go horribly wrong. I was currently at the sprout preparation stage.

‘Okay that’s leaves peeled, stems trimmed and X’s cut on the bottoms’ tossing the last sprout into a pan of cold water I opened the fridge to retrieve the pancetta. After ten fruitless minutes of searching I had raked in every nook and cranny but nary a slice of salt cured spiced pork was to be found. I marched through to the living room where my elder brother was reclining with a glass of vino ‘Eeer where’s the pancetta’ I enquired with raised eyebrows.

‘The what?’ he replied with both eyes still fixed firmly on the TV ‘The pancetta’ I repeated, I was now standing in front of the television ‘you know you really shouldn’t stand with your hands on your hips like that’ he mumbled whilst trying to squint past me, ’it makes you look quite gay’ jabbing the off button I rounded on my brother ‘the pan-fecking-cetta where is it?’, ‘oh yeah, I couldn’t get any’ he smirked in reply ‘WHAT!’ my face was crimson with rage and I was about to explode into a full blown strop when he continued ‘keep yer pinny on, it was sold out so I got a substitute’, ‘WHERE!’, ‘cupboard above the fridge, top shelf’ I stomped back to the kitchen as he poured himself another vat of wine and switched Noels Christmas Presents back on.

I was well and truly bumping my gums as I raked through the cupboard ‘I ask him to do one simple thing and he-‘I spotted the substitute ‘you have got to be fecking joking’ clutching the object I strode back through to the front room ‘SPAM!’ I exclaimed, thrusting the can in his face ‘yes?’, ‘chopped ham and fecking pork!’ I continued in an increasingly high pitched voice ‘yes’, ‘what in Gods name were ye thinking?’, ‘it’s from a pig isn’t it?’, ‘I-‘ beep-beep-beep-beep!

Fishing out my timetable for the day I quickly cross checked the time - That had been the roast chestnut alarm, I should have finished the pancetta by now and be preparing to roast the nuts ‘Right I’ve no time for this, where’s the fecking chestnuts?’, ‘oh aye, couldnay get chestnuts either’ I stared at him incredulously ‘for fuuuucksake what did ye get then?’, ‘walnuts’, ‘WALNUTS!’, ‘aye’, ‘they aren’t sweet ye Muppet, they are bitter as hell, ye might as well have got fecking wingnuts ye dozy prick!’ Beep-beep-beep-beep!

He just shrugged and took another slug of wine ‘You fn-’ Glaring fiercely at my brother I legged it back to the kitchen. I hadn’t factored in 20 minutes searching for ingredients and 5 minutes cursing the chimp so now my carefully planned timings were in disarray ‘Okay Ham, just get the chest- I mean walnuts in and then-‘ tssspffftt ‘Shiiiiiiiiiiiit the tatties’ I pulled the overflowing pan off the hob.

‘Oohahh oyaahfckk’ the potatoes were supposed to be par-boiled for 4 minutes before roasting. I stared forlornly at the pan of mush in my hand ‘Okay so we’ll have mashed potatoes, if I can jus-‘ Beep-beep-beep-beep! ‘What’s that, what’s that’ I whimpered as I pulled out my timetable again ‘stuffing balls in the oven and-‘ suddenly everything went black, no lights, the fan of the oven whirred to a stop and all was silent but for the faint hissing of cooling food – A power cut on Christmas day – Yo ho fecking ho!

‘Beep-beep-beep-beep! ‘shut-up shut-up shut-up’ I ripped off my watch and started ‘tenderising’ it on the worktop ‘for pities sake stop fuuuucking beeping!’ Beep-beep-b.e..e… My brother came through with a candle as I carefully folded my schedule and placed it on the table beside the remnants of my watch. I untied my pinny and pulled it over my head. There was no longer any humour left in a comedy ‘bikini’ pinafore.

‘Ish it ready yet’ he slurred though an alcoholic haze …….