This book is dedicated to a very good friend of mine Graham Theakston the now legendary director of Tripods. Let’s see you direct this one, sucker!

It also owes a debt of thanks to Mr Sean O’Reilly, without whose strange dreams it would never have been possible.

Thanks, Sean.

This book contains certain passages that some readers might find deeply disturbing. Due to the questionable sanity of the author and the convoluted nature of the plot, it is advised that it be read at a single sitting and then hidden away on a high shelf.

All along the Ealing Road the snow fell and within The Flying Swan a broad fire roared away in the hearth.

Neville the part-time barman whistled a pre-Celtic ditty as he draped the last tired length of tinsel about the lopsided Christmas tree. Climbing down from his chair, he rooted about in the battered biscuit tin which stood upon the bar counter. Herein lay the musty collection of once-decorations and the wingless fairy that had served The Swan well enough for some fifteen Christmas-times past. Neville considered that the jaded pixie still had plenty of life left in it, should The Swan’s Yuletide revellers be persuaded to keep their malicious mitts off her.

Drawing the elfin relic into the light, Neville gently stroked the velvet dust away. She was a sad and sorry specimen, but tradition dictated that for the next two weeks she should perch upon her treetop eyrie and watch the folk of Brentford making the holy shows of themselves. Being a practising pagan, Neville always left dressing the tree until the very last night before Christmas.

That its magic should work to maximum effect.

Clambering once more onto his chair, the barman rammed the thing onto the treetop, thinking to discern an expression of startled surprise, and evident pleasure, flicker momentarily across the wee dolly’s countenance. Climbing carefully down, Neville stepped back to peruse his handiwork through his good eye.

“Blessed be,” said he, repairing to the whisky optic for a large measure of Christmas cheer.

The Guinness clock above the bar struck a silent five-thirty of the p.m. persuasion and an urgent rattling at the saloon bar door informed the barman that at least two of the aforementioned revellers, evicted a scant two hours before, had now returned to continue their merry-making. Neville drained his glass and smacked his lips and sauntered to the door.

Click-clack went the big brass bolts, but silently the hinges.

Upon the doorstep stood two snowmen.

“Looks like filling up out,” said one.

“God save all here,” said the other.

“Evening, Jim, John,” said Neville, stepping aside to allow The Swan’s most famous drinking partnership entry. Jim Pooley and John Omally (both bachelors of the parish) shook the snow drifts from their shoulders, rubbed their palms together and made towards the bar.

Neville shambled after, eased his way behind the counter, swung down the hinged flap, straightened his dicky-bow and assumed the professional position.[1]

With stooped-shoulders back and head held high, he enquired, “Your pleasure, gentlemen?”

“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said Pooley, slapping down the exact change. Neville drew off two pints of the finest.

Jim raised his glass to his lips. “Yo ho ho,” said he, taking sup.

John took sup also and account of the tree.

“Our good woman the fairy has made her yearly phoenix rise from the biscuit tin, I see.”

“Christmas,” said Neville in a voice without tone. “Who can odds it, eh?”

John and Jim drew upon their pints, the snow crystallizing on their shoulders to steam away by the heat of the blazing fire. “You have The Act booked, Neville?” Omally asked.

Neville gave his slender nose a tap. “The Johnny G Band. Northfield lads. Oldies but goodies and things of that nature.”

Omally made a face. “I’ve heard of these fellows. Buffoons to a man.”

“The brewery,” said Neville. And that was that.

Outside the snow continued to fall and a stagecoach-load of travellers enquired the route to Dingly Dell.

The saloon bar door swung open to admit a flurry of white, an ancient gentleman and a snow-covered dog. “Good-evening, Neville,” said Old Pete, hobbling to the bar. “A dark rum, if you please, and something warming for young Chips here.”

The barman thrust a glass beneath the optic and with his free hand decanted a ladle of mulled wine into the dog’s personal bowl. Old Pete pushed the exact change across the polished bar top and accepted the drinks.

“Deepening out?” asked Neville.

The ancient gave a surly grunt. “Christmas,” he said. “Who can odds it? Norman not here yet?”

The part-time barman shook his brylcremed bonce and took up a glass to polish. “He’ll be along.”

Christmas Eve at The Flying Swan always had about it an almost religious significance. It fell somewhere near to the ritual of the high mass. There was the arrival, the blessing, the hymns, the taking up of the offering, the communion of souls and the big goodbye. You had to have your wits about you to pick up on all the subtle nuances though.

Pooley, having made his arrival, now made the first blessing. “To Christmas,” he suggested, raising his glass. “Another Christmas, nothing more, nothing less.”

Omally clinked his glass against his fellow’s and drained it with feeling. “Nothing more, nothing less,” he agreed. “Two more of similar please, Neville.”

Old Pete hefted a colourfully wrapped parcel onto the countertop as the barman did the business. “It’s a goody this year,” he confided to the drinkers.

Regarding the offering part of the high mass, it had become something of a tradition amongst The Swan’s patrons to reward, upon this special night, the year-long endeavours of their barman. That Neville should actually have survived intact another year behind the counter of The Flying Swan was a meritorious something in itself. And with the passing of time the unhealthy spirit of competition had entered this tradition and the drinking populace now vied with one another to produce the most original, exotic or extraordinary gift.

Using Christmas as a theme (it being available and everything), the plucky Brentonians chose to bombard their pagan barkeep with trinkets of a Christian nature. The irony of this was never lost upon Neville, although it had others bewildered.

Last year he had received, amongst other things, a full-length bath towel, printed with the image of The Turin Shroud, which did little to enhance the post-tub rub down; several more nails from the true cross, that didn’t match any of the others he already had in his drawer; an aftershave bottle containing The Virgin’s tears and a genuine piece of Mother Kelly’s Doorstep (this from a dyslexic).

Every gift, however, was inevitably overshadowed by that borne in by Norman Hartnell[2] of the corner shop. Norman’s present was usually the high point of the evening.

Pooley and Omally made nods and winks towards Old Pete and patted at bulges in their jackets.

Neville presented further pints and the patrons sat, took in their cups and discoursed upon the doings of the day.

Overhead, a heavily laden sleigh, jingling with bells, drawn by six reindeer and bearing a Shaman clad in the red and white of the sacred mushroom, swept off in search of good children’s stockings. The snow fell in cotton wool balls and crept up towards the bench mark on the Memorial Library wall. Several more revellers blew in from the blizzard.