DD's Christmas Carol - the end
Thursday, December 25 2003
The previous chunks
Introduction
Stave 1 - The Ghost of English Cricket
Stave 2 - The First of the Three Spirits
Stave 3 - The Second of the Three Spirits
Stave 4 - the Third of the Three Spirits
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Yes! And the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own. The room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!
Ebenezer Ducky was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, all the wonderful things he was going to do with his life, that he nearly lost himself for a minute.
Then he started to wake up.
He lay there awhile in semi-repose, mulling over the events which had unfolded - or had they?. Had it really happened? The Three Stooges Spirits? Marley/Bannerman? The gravestone? Whether true or no, he resolved in an instant to be a better man.
"Duck"
Too late.
He was brought to his senses by the cleaner, Doris, waving a feather duster about her. "Morning, Mr. Ducky. Did you sleep well?"
"Why, a perfectly good morning to you too, Mrs. Hickinbottom. I slept wonderfully well, thank you for asking. Has the post arrived?"
"There will be no post today, Mr. Ducky, for it is Christmas Day. Can you not hear the children singing their joyful Carols?"
Ducky listened. He heard angelic voices in the distance:
"I say, Justin Langer.
The pitch is your bed
since Stephen Harmison
hit you on the head.
The stars in the bright sky
look down where you lay
which is rather odd -
it's the middle of the day."
"Oh, Mr. Botham rang a little while ago. He wanted to know whether you got home safely. I must say, it is nice of him to be concerned for your welfare." added Doris.
Ebenezer Ducky felt wonderful. He smiled pleasantly at the jovial cleaning lady and said "Take the rest of the day off, Mrs. H - oh, one thing, though. Do you own a whiffle-bat?"
The cleaner answered in the negative - Ducky sighed with relief. It had all been a dream. He WOULD be a better man, though.
"Duck!"
Too late.
He was brought to his senses by the cleaner, Doris, brandishing a whiffle-bat.
Oh, no! A dream within a dream. Who did Dickens think he was - Shakespeare?
"Did you see the state you were in last night? It's always the same when you go out with your cricketing chummies. What they see in you, I will never know. You never have a good thing to say about anyone. And what were you doing with the turkey?"
Ducky slowly closed his eyes once more. His head hurt, his mouth felt like cotton-wool and his stomach was racked with cramps, but it was all worth it. He remembered. What a night! Everything was clear - the pub, the kebab - everything, that is, until the bit where they went to the club where the hypnotist - what was his name? Metal? Myrtle? No, that was it.
Mesmeric Murali.
He remembered the eyes. Cold, distant, like limpid pools deep in the haunted forest then wide, bulging, irresistible. "You are in my power, Mr. Harper. Trescothick definitely edged it - you could clearly hear the noise. He was out, out, out. You are powerless to resist."
He had been set up - but how? And why?
He opened his eyes again - and they fell upon the familiar bag of humbugs on his bedside table. Picking them up again and popping them back in (haven't we been here before?) he could see things more clearly. The humbugs! His beloved humbugs. They must have been spiked with something. Clearly Botham or Warne were at the bottom of this. Perhaps he had gone a little too far in the past, and this was Ebenezer Ducky's come-uppance.
He reluctantly got up, grunting at Mrs. Hickinbottom by way of reply. He went to the curtains and drew them wide open. It had been snowing. In July? It must be Buxton.
"Merry Christmas, Ebenezer Ducky." came the cry from the snow-filled street.
"I don't know what day it is - or even which month. I have been with the Spirits for too long." said Ducky.
"Well, you do drink rather too much whisky, if I might be so bold." said Mrs. Hickinbottom by way of chastisement. "Still, it is Christmas, Mr. D."
"You. Young boy in the street. What day is it?" cried Ducky.
"It's Christmas Day, you thick duck. How many more times do you have to be told?" replied Rikki Clarke.
"Well, run along to the poulterer's in the next street and see if that huge, plump, prize turkey is in the window."
"Ian Blackwell doesn't work at the poulterer's any more. Just f*** off, you fat pillock!" replied Rikki, mistaking Ebenezer Ducky for Mushfiqur Rahman.
"No, I mean it. Fetch the poulterer, tell him to bring the turkey here - the REAL turkey - and if you come back with him, I will give you a shilling (old money). If you get back within five minutes, I will make it half a crown (even older money)."
"Half a crown? I play for Surrey, I'll have you know. That's the kind of money they pay those bumbling country folk in Derbyshire. You can't buy many shares for half a crown." said the spotty urchin, obediently.
"I understand that Tiny Tim Lamb and the whole West Indian slip cordon are spending Christmas with the VVS-Catchits. I'll send the turkey to them. They will never suspect that it came from me." whispered Ducky to the cleaner.
"Oh, Mr. D. You can be wonderfully thoughtful at times."
"Yes - and the sooner they realise it, the better." chuckled Ducky to himself.
Suddenly, the duck's attention was drawn to a large, unsightly lump in the centre of his otherwise immaculate front lawn (the snow having melted very rapidly). "What on earth is that?" he cried.
"Moles, I reckons." replied Doris. "You ought to do something about they before they makes a real mess. They're far worse than armadillos even, scrit-scratting around for worms. Whiffle-bats won't get rid of they."
Worms? HIS worms! Ebenezer Ducky raced downstairs before grabbing his shotgun. He threw open the front door, charged across the lawn and thrust the weapon directly in to the enormous pile. "Right! I've warned you before, mole. Now I'm going to let you have both barrels."
"P-p-please don't do that, Mister Ducky - and it's not 'mole', it's 'Moles - Andy Moles - and I used to be a cricketer."
"Really? You could have fooled me." replied Ducky. "Oh, go on. On your way - it is Christmas, after all."
"Are you sure? I thought that it was July." said the roly-poly Moley, disappearing into the distance as fast as his little stubby chubby legs could carry him.
As if to order, snow came driving down again, thicker than before.
"Hello, John. Got a new motor?" enquired Ducky, predictably.
"Ar! They gave it oi fer services to English cricket. Two 'undred wickets. Said summat about oi bein' the 'old Steve Harmison', Oi reckons. We won the Ashes, an' all" replied John Snow in an accent which bore no resemblance to his native Worcestershire but which fitted the moment and the 'thicker' reference just perfectly. "Thanks for the cameo appearance, Ducky. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hickinbottom. Caught any armadillos lately?"
God, it felt good to be alive on this fine Christmas Day morning.
I thought you said that it was snowing. Now you say that it was fine.
It is fine. The snow I was referring to was John Snow, the former Sussex and England cricketer. Harmison was likened to him the other week, remember?
You're too clever for me, Ducky
An armadillo's too clever for you, reader.
Back to the plot.
Armadillos? Armadillos? Something stirred in the back of Ebenezer Ducky's mind. The cleaning lady, Mrs. Hickinbottom. had something to do with this - or Botham, jumping tall buildings with a single bound, and Warne, jumping, er, you know. He closed his eyes, thought for a moment then opened them again.
Oh, man.
"Duck!"
He had heard it all before. Too many times. This part of his day was becoming rather predictable - only he wasn't going to fall for it again, not at all. Not now, not ever. Show me one man...
"Duck!"
Too late. Mrs Hickinbottom dug Ebenezer out of the huge pile of snow which had fallen from the roof of the house, carrying the unfortunate prize-winning author with it. She took him into the kitchen and warmed his poor little frozen webbed feet in front of the stove. "You'd better hurry. Mrs VVS-Catchit rang to thank you for the turkey - and she's invited you round for dinner. All your friends are going to be there."
"What - ALL my friends are going to be there?" repeated Ducky. "Agarkar..."
"Yes, they've gone away and the house is empty - and that's a nasty cough you've got there." interrupted Doris, entering into the spirit of things. "Now I'm off home, Mr. D. You look after yourself - and don't you worry one little bit about the er, mmmmm. I've put clean sheets on the bed. They're expecting you at three."
Three. Plenty of time yet. He donned his best hat and coat and hurried round to his favourite nephew's home. He banged on the door, which is as good a place as any.
"Who is it?" came the voice from the other side of the door.
"It is I, your Uncle Ebenezer Ducky, bringing Christmas cheer to my favourite nephew."
"Oh, f*** off." replied Rikki, but opened the door to him all the same.
"Here's your half a crown. May I come in?"
Unlikely as it may seem, Ducky had a wonderful time. All the Surrey players and officials were there - and all their wives too. A hundred of them assembled under the same roof. What a sight the women looked in their regal finery, jewels and diamond tiaras sparkling to rival even Rikki's teeth - and their wives were even more glamourous. Now Ebenezer realised the significance of the gravestone. Oh, how they sang songs, played party games (Pin the Tail on the Oik, Kick the Non-Test Match Venue Beggar, Asset-Strip Poker, Monopoly on the Championship and so forth) but soon it was time to leave. Ducky had another appointment - and he aimed to keep it.
He went via The Cross Keys, Castle Donington (you can't blame him for trying). Suitably libated, he arrived at the front door of the VVS-Catchits. He lifted the knocker, the big knocker, the big, heavy knocker, the big, hea... (yes, we get the picture) ..ker. It had a firm, reassuring feel to it, a nipple little like a, er, knocker.
Through the heavy, oak-panelled door, he heard muffled voices - children, their voices raised in worship:
"Inzamam ul-Haq looked out -
chanced a run to Stephen
Harmison at deep fine-leg.
Hansie's odds were even.
Hard and flat, in came the throw.
The Pakistani flyer
never was in danger as
it hit the square-leg uuu-uum-pire."
Peals of laughter - he didn't think it was that funny. Clever, perhaps, but it wasn't cruel enough for his liking. not like his normal style at all. A sign of the more subtle Ducky to come, perhaps?
"Fielding in the snow
at Leicester yesterday,
I saw Dominic Cork
and Cheaty-Hodge at play.
It really means too much,
this Twenty20 Cup.
The pair were crying to Tim Lamb
instead of padding up.
(chorus)
Oh, Dominic must be sick.
Brad Hodge was a cheat.
Or was it the other way?
They both were indiscrete.
(repeat)"
The door opened, slowly. It was true - they were all here. Steve Harmison, Glenn McGrath, Shane Warne (and his mum), Inzy, Bob, all the little VVS-Catchits, The Most Superlatively Wonderful, Regal And Glorious Left-Handedness Sourav Ganguly The Single-Handed Conqueror Of Australia, Ian Botham, Asoka, David Lloyd and the Muppets from Sky Television, Ajit Agarkar, David Hookes (just for a day), Shoaib, Murali, Waqar, Chris Gayle and the rest of the West Indian slip cordon, the West Indian Butter Marketing Board (Oh, sorry. Just said them), Corky, Brad Cheaty-Hodge, Shane's mum's chemist - everyone who might have played the harmless, comical, psychedelic trick on Ducky - or were they all in on it together?
He noticed that Simon Taufel was not present. That confirmed it. Simon would never have anything to do with any underhand tricks, for he was indeed an umpire of the 'Old School' - upright, correct, studious and without unnecessary gimmicks yet quite fascinating in his own cowboy hat way - the 'Thinking Man's Umpire'. He couldn't say the same thing about his own nephew, though.
"Et tu, Rikki?"
"He must have skipped ahead while I was in the pub." thought Ducky. "Still, no matter."
He glanced at his watch - 2.58 pm. Good. He was early.
"Darling, would you and Mr. Gayle hand the hors-d'ouvres around, please." said Mrs. VVS-Catchit.
There was a loud crash.
"Oops!" said Crystal and Bob.
One thing still troubled the duck. Why did all the warnings about his writing, his lifestyle even, point to him being the saviour of English cricket?
He glanced at his watch again - 2.59 pm. "Whoooah, Hoy, Docky." Even Tanny Grig had come to see him - and who was that with him? Morvellous Morvon Otopottoo from Sri Lanka.
Ducky loved Christmas.
Tiny Tim Lamb was just about to open his mouth and say "God Bless Us, Every One" when the clock struck three - and then it happened.
Ebenezer Ducky holds the bunch of flowers in his arms still. He surveys the walls, the floors. Ah, there's nothing like a bit of splatter. Blood still oozes from a thousand orifices. This mess is going to take hours to clean up, he thinks. The next time he tries it, he's going to put lots of newspaper on the floor first. Ebenezer likes Christmas - but he likes Uzis better.
Well? What did you expect?
How would YOU have ended it?
1. The Spirit of Christmas Yet To Come materialised before the assembled throng and said "I promised the Ashes to England - and here they are," tipping Hansie Cronje out on to the living-room table.
2. The small thermonuclear device concealed inside the turkey detonated, instantly incinerating everyone in the room. For Ebenezer Ducky, it was a small price to pay - and in a perverse way, he had indeed returned the Ashes to England.
3. Tiny Tim Lamb took out his cheque book and wrote "Pay to the Order of Rod Marsh the sum of Twenty Million Pounds." He handed the piece of paper over to the sound of thunderous applause and in so doing ensured the future of English cricket for ever more - or so he thought. Rod took the cheque, carefully folded it and consigned it to the depths of his inside jacket pocket. He shook Tim Lamb by the hand, smiled and said "Now for a feast" before legging it, followed closely by Inzamam ul-Haq.
4. Ebenezer Ducky, his heart heavy with remorse, walked over to Tim Lamb. He hung his head. "I now know in my heart of hearts that my glib prose and puerile innuendo is totally responsible for all of the farcical performances by England over the last one hundred and thirty years. I vow never to poke fun at English cricketers again (with the possible exception of Ian Blackwell) and feel that the only way I can make amends is financially." Ducky reached deep into his pocket and drew out a pound coin. He pressed it into Tim Lamb's hand. "Here, buy a lottery ticket. You might get lucky."
Alternative soap-opera endings for when we sell the television rights :
5. "The bloody armadillo's run off with the turkey." said Doris. "Anyone for a game of Twister?"
6. Ebenezer Ducky takes a shower. When he comes out, the Director spends the next eight episodes trying to persuade the dwindling audience that it was all a dream.
7. Thousands of aliens descend on the Earth and kill everyone who can play cricket - except for Rikki Clarke. He gets an anal probe before being whisked off to coach Aldebaran in preparation for their Ashes series against Betelgeuse (The winners to beat Bangladesh for the Intergalactic Championship).
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Devil Ducky to cricket fans, players and umpires all over the world, especially Simon Taufel. Oh, yes. And the very nice rich people at Surrey County Cricket Club.
Posted by Eddie
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