How the Saints Stole Christmas - Part 5 (Apostles Now - Year 2)

Christmas Day 1993


Sophie woke up with a start. It was Christmas morning, the most wonderful morning of the year, but it was not merely excitement that had awoken her from her pleasant dreams of snowmen and reindeer and flying sleighs. She could hear someone downstairs, in the living room. The tinkling sound of decorations sent shivers of magical excitement up her spine – it couldn’t be... could it?

On the cusp of adolescence, Sophie was intuitively aware that her days of innocence were numbered. It would soon be time for the fun and laughter to cease and the misery and pain to begin, but by clinging on to childish notions such as Father Christmas and Jesus Christ,1 she was hoping to cling on a little longer. In all of her self-delusion, she had never really anticipated that the stories might be true.

Delicately, with an experienced covert agility gained in recent weeks from midnight trips to look longingly at her splendid presents and imagine the excitement that was soon to arrive, Sophie walked onto the landing and softly padded down the stairs in her family’s traditional St. Andrews2 cottage. There was no snow falling outside, which disappointed Sophie but also served to convince her that this was not a dream, and she peered through a crack in the door to see who this mysterious midnight visitor was.

He wasn’t wearing a red and white suit, which Sophie hadn’t really expected, and would perhaps have been more likely to assume an uninventive disguise of a paedophile in any case.3 But there was something magical about this man. She felt that she knew him, but couldn’t explain why. When she saw his accomplice, a speaking, walking Badger wearing a fez, she knew who the visitor was.

‘Bodger!’ Sophie exclaimed in glee as she recognised the TV personality, running towards the man who was rifling clumsily through her lovingly wrapped gifts. Andy turned and shushed her to silence, then immediately realised how compromised his position was. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, smiling.

It was a question he had asked himself, when Peter had dispensed the assignments. As practically every household across Britain had the Mark of the Beast4 nestled within their Christmas presents, this year’s essential toy that parents were eager to snap up without investigating its consequences, the apostles and their puppet familiars had been charged with the task of breaking in to these households and retrieving the items before it was too late. Before it was too late being, by Andy’s estimation, approximately six hours, before the children awoke.

‘Six hours?’ he had asked, exasperated. ‘It’ll take five hours just to get to bloody Scotland!’

‘You’re always saying how we should pay more attention to your country,’ Peter had unhelpfully quipped. ‘Now’s your chance to have a real influence. That is, unless you want Scotland to fall to the powers of The Other Side.’

‘Can’t we just put a message into the Queen’s speech or something?’ Matthew had asked. ‘I mean, I know she’s a shapeshifting reptile from Sirius5 and everything, but...’

‘Come on, Matthew,’ Peter had rejected. ‘She doesn’t care whether our children follow good or evil, they all taste the same to her.’

So it had been decided – the apostles would attempt the literally impossible, and break into every household in Britain to remove the offending toys. Simon had one hour remaining to infiltrate several million houses. How was he hoping to achieve this? It is not for us to question heaven’s abilities.

‘I don’t get it,’ Sophie confessed. ‘I thought you and Badger lived in a flat with Mousie. I had no idea you were Father Christmas as well.’

‘It’s... complicated,’ Andy attempted. ‘You see, Santa’s very busy tonight, and people like me and Badge... we’re just helping him out.’

‘But all the presents are here already,’ Sophie observed, pointing at the presents around Andy’s feet to illustrate her argument. She had a point. Traditionally, Santa’s job was to come down the chimney on Christmas Eve and relocate her presents from the wardrobe her parents didn’t know she knew they were hiding them, down to the tree. It seemed an impractical journey, but her trustworthy parents had ensured them of Santa’s existence, and they wouldn’t lie to her.

Andy tried a different approach. ‘You’re dreaming,’ he explained.

‘I already considered that,’ Sophie rejected. ‘But if I’m dreaming, and I’ve realised I’m dreaming, then this would be a lucid dream6 and I could do anything I wanted. Like, fly.’ She jumped and landed back on her feet, causing the decorations on the tree to tinkle. ‘This is no dream,’ she concluded.

Andy sighed. This was one smart brat.

‘Andy, we ’aven’t got time fer this,’ Badger complained, finally locating the wig and shoving it into his bulging sack of ersatz ginger hairpieces. ‘We’ve got five million ’ouses to burgle in less than ’alf an hour.’

‘Take me with you!’ Sophie exclaimed. ‘I can be your child sidekick, like in a proper Christmas film. You might see me as a burden at first, but I soon prove my worth by rescuing you from the baddies or something.’

‘Maybe you’re in a coma or something?’ Andy suggested.

‘One coma comin’ right up!’ Badger announced, and bludgeoned Sophie over the head with a Barbie hairdryer.7

The commotion woke Sophie’s parents, who could be heard scurrying across the landing. ‘Let’s get out of here, Badge!’ Andy yelled, and hoisted his companion onto his back. ‘Bye bye Sophie. Remember to go to Mass.8 And don’t watch the Queen’s speech.’

They scarpered up the chimney as Sophie’s distraught parents phoned the emergency services.



Continued tomorrow


Notes


1. A fictional character, popular at Christmas. This note refers to Father Christmas. Obviously.

2. St. Andrews: Pleasant, if uninteresting town in Fife, Scotland. The final resting place of St. Andrew's relics before he returned to life and founded the Scotch nation. I mean, the Scottish nation.

3. Paedophile: Despite the rather friendly name, which implies they might appreciate children in the way a bibliophile enjoys worming their way into a good book, they are actually really naughty people.

4. Mark of the Beast: A mark inscribed on the foreheads of the damned followers of the Antichrist, who fall for his capitalist plot. Rod Hull's wigs, in case you hadn't worked that out.

5. Queen Elizabeth II: Queen of England, devourer of children.

6. Lucid dream: Conscious dream that some lucky bastards are able to turn to their advantage, while others fail miserably.

7. Barbie hairdryer: First blunt object I could think of to suit the context.

8. Mass: Unpopular Christmas celebration inflicted upon Christian children.

How the Saints Stole Christmas - Part 4 (Apostles Now - Year 2)

Christmas Eve 1993


The Chuckle Brothers1 broke into the busy factory under cloak of daylight. With dedicated shifts working around the clock to get Rod Hull’s inexplicably popular wig products out on the shelves in time for the last-minute Christmas rush, waiting for the night to fall would not only be unnecessary, but could also jeopardise all hopes of stopping CITV’s diablocial scheme.

Whatever that was exactly. I’m writing the damn thing and even I’m not sure, but considering Rod Hull is the current incarnation of the apocalyptic Beast of the Earth (which you’ll already know if you were paying attention in Year 1, are up on your Revelation knowledge, and have a broad capacity for loose Biblical interpretation), the idea of allowing every child in Britain to place one of his novelty wigs, complete with ominous microchip, over their head simultaneously on Christmas morning could only be a seriously unwise idea.

Paul and Barry Chuckle had been doing their bit to spread the Biblical message around the towns of the nation with their lukewarm panto show, but this current mission was of even more vital importance. Those weren’t their real names, which may seem obvious, though few are aware of the true identity behind the hapless comedy duo. Paul and Barry. The Sons of Zebedee.2 James the Great and John.3 4

It was John, or Barry to use the gonk-faced5 apostle’s current identity, who had received and transcribed those psychedelic visions of apocalyptic destruction while on a mission in Patmos, which had led to this whole situation, though he tried not to let the responsibility get to him. Nor to listen to those detractors who proposed that his supposed ‘visions’ of many-headed sea monsters, whore citadels, horsemen, trumpets and seals could somehow be attributed to the hallucinogenic fungi that infiltrated the crops on that Mediterranean island.

But John was pretty confident that what he had seen, however unhelpfully vague and metaphorical, had been the truth. He believed in the Bible – he was there, for Christ’s sake. He’d seen the things Jesus had done, which would have been impractical to achieve without the benefits of modern technology. And soon, everyone would see the glory of the coming of the Lord.6

‘Alright, Barry,’ Paul whispered, breaking his companion out of his expositional memories. ‘This is what we’ll do. You set up the ladder over there and I’ll pass you up the shelves, which you can start hammering in quietly.’

‘Putting up shelves?’ Barry queried. ‘I thought we were here to halt this diabolical operation and save Christmas. Not do a bit of DIY.’

‘It’s Peter’s instructions,’ Paul explained. ‘He said we have to maintain a cover story of being local handymen to gain knowledge of what we’re dealing with, before we act.’

‘Oh, right. That makes sense,’ Barry lied, and obediently placed the ladder against the nearest machine, which was noisily churning out cotton wigs at a late stage in the process, ready to be died the trademark ginger hue. Barry ascended the ladder.

‘D-d-d-d!’ Paul exclaimed, ‘not so fast! Take these up with you.’ He kicked the heavy sack of wooden board and paint tins towards his brother and erstwhile fishing partner. ‘To you, then.’

‘To me, then,’ Barry diligently responded, leaning to hoist the unreasonably heavy sack. ‘But I thought you were going to pass them to me once I got up there?’

‘Not with my back,’ Paul explained. ‘Now hurry up and I’ll go put the kettle on. We haven’t got all day.’

‘To me,’ Barry wheezed, as he struggled to ascend the rickety ladder with the burden of the ridiculous sack. ‘To me... to me... to – oh dear, oh dear.’ With no one holding the ladder, it slowly angled itself away from the wall, approaching a vertical position and then, increasingly less gradually, achieving a horizontal resting place on the floor.

With the sound of machinery being suddenly silenced as the gears became jammed with paint, the impact of wood and tins on the factory floor caused workers to take notice, just as Paul ran towards his floored partner carrying a single cup of tea. ‘What are you playing at?’ Paul asked his brother, who was covered in yellow paint and sawdust in a comical heap. It was a familiar sight.

‘Did we do it, Paul?’ Barry asked, coughing.

‘I think so,’ Paul observed, realising that Peter had set them up. Their boss knew their penchant for inevitably ending up covered in paint and sawdust when attempting even the simplest DIY job, and had presumably instructed them to get into this situation knowing full well that the factory stood no chance against their destructive talents.

‘You’re too late, Apostles!’ squawked a familiar voice. Looking up to the gantry, Paul and Barry saw the chilling sight of Rod Hull, the mastermind behind the evil scheme. ‘This was an additional batch, but the wigs have already been shipped to stores nationwide. Parents have been queuing all morning to buy the remaining stock. Don’t you see? They’re already in their homes. Every child will wake up tomorrow morning to find my wig waiting for them.’ He laughed as punctuation.

‘Thanks for all that,’ Paul replied in gratitude, and he and Barry escaped to the Chuckmobile7, pedalling back to White City as fast as their legs could carry them.



Continued tomorrow


Notes


1. Paul and Barry Chuckle: Hapless comedy duo, stars of the inexplicably long-running Chucklevision (1987-) and not-short-enough-lived To Me, To You (1996-98).

2. Also known as the 'Sons of Thunder,' presumably due to their panchant for destructive antics.

3. St. James the Great: Brother of John, first of the Apostles to be martyred when Agrippa I had James executed by the sword. He got better.

4. St. John: Brother of James, author of the Gospels of John, the Epistles of John and Revelation. Banished to Patmos by the Romans.

5. Gonk: Stupid-faced toy, popular in the 1960s.

6. Jesus Christ: The goodie.

7. Chuckmobile: Environmentally friendly pedal car, also seen in Haven holiday camps.

How the Saints Stole Christmas - Part 3 (Apostles Now - Year 2)

December 23rd 1993

'And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name.'

Revelation 13:17

‘666,000 sold before production even began!’ the factory manager ecstatically announced, as he took his seat in his client’s office. ‘The wigs are selling exceptionally well, no child wants to be left out and no parent wants to let their child down. It’s one hell of an achievement, Mr. Hull.’

Rod Hull accepted the commendation with a modest inclination of his hirsute head, the original pathfinder for the product that has come out of nowhere to become the must-have Christmas toy. ‘A hell of an achievement?’ he repeated. ‘You could say that.’ Rod let out a knowing chuckle.1 This prompted the strange man sitting at the far end of the table, who seemed to be wearing one of the unconvincing wigs, to let out a similar, albeit more piercing guffaw, muffled by the green jelly he was shovelling into his mouth using his left hand.2

The factory manager was taken aback by this peculiar spectacle, but his enthusiasm soon returned. ‘Well you can rest assured that production is proceeding on schedule. We kick-started the line in the early hours of the morning and we’re paying each shift double time to make sure we hit the targets.’

‘Quadruple their pay,’ Rod suggested with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘It is the Christmas season after all.’

‘Most kind, sir,’ the factory manager diligently responded, bowing before realising how foolish he sounded. Rod Hull did not seem similarly perturbed by the conciliatory gesture. Attempting to regain his equal status, the manager leaned casually against his chair. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m astounded that the product’s taken off this well. I mean, it’s just a stupid wig. But that’s the power of marketing, I suppose. I don’t know how the hell you’ve done it, but it’s one hell of an achievement,’ he repeated.

‘One hell of an achievement indeed,’ Rod needlessly repeated once again, followed by another laugh. His bizarre companion, whose attire seemed almost like a self-parody of Rod’s, let out another shrieking laugh in response.

The factory manager sipped at his water3 and shrugged off the uncomfortable atmosphere. ‘So, um, where’s your emu then?’ he asked Rod, laughing at what he imagined to be an inventive observation.

All traces of mirth drained from Rod Hull’s sour face, and the manager realised it was time to depart. Restoring his jacket, he bid his client farewell. ‘Before going, I’d like to see the head of your network, if that’s possible,’ he ventured. ‘To congratulate him in turn.’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ Rod conceded, opening the door for his guest’s departure. ‘Nathanael doesn’t see any body.’ He laughed maniacally at this joke, and his grotesque doppelganger joined in. This time, the factory manager remained stoic.

‘So there’s something wrong with his body, then?’ he proposed. Rod and the False Rod looked sheepish. ‘They’re great, in-jokes, aren’t they? Well, thank you again. It’s certainly going to be a Christmas to remember.’

As he retuned down the helpfully signposted corridors, the factory manager felt an overwhelming urge to see the grey sky and feel the frosty air again, even to return to his own dingy workplace, anything to escape the inexplicably oppressive atmosphere of this dank building. But his curiosity began to get the better of him. What was it about the controller of ITV that meant he never granted an audience with anyone? Come to think of it, had he ever heard anything about this individual? Disobeying every instinct proffered by his body, mind and soul, the factory manager navigated his way down staircases and through darkened, long-abandoned corridors to eventually stumble upon an unremarkable blue door.

He knocked. The voice inside sounded startled. ‘Who’s that?’ it enquired.

‘Hello?’ the manager replied. ‘I’m the manager of Benson’s Yard. We’re the ones doing the line of microchipped wigs for Rod Hull. I was hoping to find the manager of ITV, to express my company’s appreciation for the agreement.’

After a pause, he heard: ‘Wait there.’

The manager waited as instructed, until he was permitted entry. Walking into the dingy room that smelt vaguely like old books and ozone, the manager could see an obese form squatting uncomfortably in the far corner, seemingly avoiding the illumination from the bank of television monitors that offered an insight into all four of the nation’s terrestrial entertainment channels. ‘Thank you,’ the figure said. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m quite busy down here, what with the Christmas programming schedule and everything.’ His voice echoed in a strange, almost mechanical manner.

‘Um... right,’ the factory manager replied, nodding his appreciation and turning to exit. But he realised, once again, that he was merely giving in to the psychological pressures again. These people had evidently been trained to an exceptional level of public relations, to the extent that their effect almost seemed supernatural, but he was damned if he was going to give in to their Jedi mind tricks. Instead, he flicked on the light switch, revealing the popular children’s character Mr. Blobby.4 ‘Why are you dressed as Mr. Blobby?’ the manager succinctly asked.

‘Market research,’ Nathanael responded, his voice still flanging under the suit.

‘But Noel’s House Party is a BBC production,’ the manager noted.5 He might not know much about art, but he knew what he liked.

‘Yeah.’

The factory manager had been messed around enough. Giving in to his primal urges, he launched at the figure and wrestled him to the ground, eventually succeeding in tearing the arm from the suit, revealing nothing underneath. Demanding answers, he pulled the helmet from ITV’s controller, revealing another mask – in the image of rotten flesh hanging limply from half of a skull – beneath. ‘Blobby Blobby Blobby,’ the manager whispered in shock, and tugged at the highly detailed mask. This caused the controller to emit a squawk of pain.

‘No, no, the face is real,’ Nathanael admitted. ‘Long story. Let’s just say, some apostles were luckier than others, in having their full complement of relics cared for after our original deaths.’ Sadly, this exposition was lost on the factory manager, who was now slumbering, his mind having opted to take a well-earned break from reality for the time being. ‘Probably for the best,’ Nathanael noted, and dipped his surviving arm into the man’s jacket pocket to produce a business card with the address of Benson’s Yard. ‘So, you’re the ones producing the toys for the Beast,’ he stated out loud, for dramatic purposes.



Continued tomorrow


Notes


1. Hell: A very bad place.

2. See Apostles Now - Year 1 - Part 3

3. Water: The liquid form of ice.

4. Mr. Blobby: Grotesque character, companion to Noel Edmonds. Noel Edmonds is not an Apostle. He is just a very sad man.

5. Noel's House Party: Saturday night variety show, inexplicably popular during its lengthy tenure before its immediate decline (1991-1999).

How the Saints Stole Christmas - Part 2 (Apostles Now - Year 2)

December 22nd 1993


The black and white badger fell obediently limp as Andy Cunningham, patron saint of Scotland,1 withdrew his ancient hand from his familiar and the production crew began filing out of the studio with no small degree of haste.

‘And cut,’ the director unhelpfully announced. ‘That’s Christmas, everyone. Enjoy your breaks and we’ll try to salvage this piece of shite in the New Year. Good job, people.’

It had been a terrible year, as far as the network was concerned, and the mood among the crew was palpably tense, with many uncertain whether they would even have a job if things continued to go this badly. The BBC’s new demands had made this year more gruelling than ever for children’s afternoon television, as someone in marketing had decided to essentially copy what the more forward-thinking CITV was doing in appealing to the young audience more directly, whether presenters were up to the task or not. So gone was the friendly broom cupboard and reliable puppet familiars, replaced with glaring studios and poorly animated computer sprites.

Oh, and Bodger & Badger was now a flat-based sitcom featuring a stupid mouse.2

Andy was unsatisfied with the arrangement to say the least, feeling marginalised with every episode as more screen time was devoted to Badger and that bloody mouse.

‘’Ow d’you fink oi feel?’ Badger3 asked indignantly, finishing off the cold mashed potato from the day’s shoot. ‘Sharin’ the limelight wiv a bleedin’ mahse?’ He shovelled the potato clumsily into his soft mouth, for effect more than nutrition.

‘You do know that’s full of bleach to keep it bright under the studio lights,’ Andy informed his sidekick.

‘Ah carn bloody taste it anyway,’ Badger admitted, ‘Am made o’ cotton. Still, would be nice to ’ave some neeps an’ tatties, like in the old days.’

Andy sighed. That would be a pipe dream at best, what with the BBC’s policy towards regional accents and traditions. If they were intent on saving the souls of all the children of Britain (as well as the unemployed adults who formed a bonus segment of their audience), they could at least pay the Scotch children their proper respect.

‘“The Scotch children?”’ Badger repeated. ‘Dontcha mean “the Scottish?”’

‘’Ere laddie!’ Andy retorted in an unconvincing Scottish dialect that he subsequently abandoned, removing Badger’s bowl from him. ‘Don’t lecture me on the Scotch. I bloody invented Scotland, pal!’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ sighed Badger, aware that he shouldn’t have opened this metaphorical packet of instant mashed potato again and taking off his fez. ‘Still, dontcha sometimes wonder what the hell we’re doin’ here, makin’ these stupid programmes wiv a fake mouse when we should be out there in the streets, tryin’ to make a practical contribution?’

‘We reach millions of kids this way!’ Andy reminded him.

‘An’ droppin’ by the week,’ Badger retaliated, spinning his fez absent-mindedly on his paw. ‘Ah sometimes wonder if Peter really has any kind of long-term plan at all, with all this. Ah mean, look at what ’appened last year – Mark showed up outta the blue an’ achieved more wiv a direct assault than we’ve done in ten years of amicable rival broadcastin’. Before ’ee pissed off again.’4

Andy opened his mouth to defend their appointed leader, but it was a force of habit more than a retort. Instead, he simply sighed, and removed his own daft character hat to scratch his long hair. ‘Things are going to change soon, Badge,’ he comforted. ‘I can feel it in my relics. Just call it Scotch intuition.’



Continued tomorrow


Notes

1. St. Andrew: Brother of Peter, disciple of John the Baptist. Crucified on an X-shaped cross and had his relics sent to "the end of the Earth." i.e. Scotland.

2. Bodger & Badger: Children's BBC programme featuring the hapless adventures of Simon Bodger and his Badger friend. In later years featured a stupid mouse as well (1989-1999).

3. Badger: St. Andrew's puppet familiar, a fez-wearing badger with a penchant for haggis, neeps and tatties, though these Scottish traits were downplayed in the television series, where Badger merely enjoyed mashed potay.

4. See Apostles Now - Year 1 - Part 4.

How the Saints Stole Christmas - Part 1 (Apostles Now - Year 2)

Apostles Now is the true tale of what happened in the final years of the last millennium, as the surviving New Testament apostles, working as Children’s BBC presenters, wage holy war against the evil forces of The Other Side (CITV) to win over the young British audience before Armageddon arrives.

Last year saw the Apostles deliver a temporary setback to The Other Side, but the Christmas season of 1993 is bringing an insidious new threat.

Year 2

MCMXCIII

'And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up for ever and ever: and they have no rest day or night, who worship the beast and his image.'

Revelation 14:11

December 21st 1993


The orange bear fell obediently limp as Matthew Corbett,1 patron saint of accountants,2 withdrew his ancient hand from his familiar and the production crew began filing out of the studio with no small degree of haste.

‘That’s a wrap,’ the director needlessly announced. ‘Enjoy your Christmas breaks. Good year, everyone.’

It had been a good year, as far as the network was concerned, but the mood among the crew was one exhaustion rather than celebration. ITV’s new demands had made this year more gruelling than ever for children’s afternoon television, as someone in marketing had decided to actually listen to the nation’s children and base the station’s output on what the juvenile audience actually wanted to watch, rather than supplying them with a convenient set-list that broadly satisfied national curriculum requirements.

For Matthew Corbett, accustomed as he was to preaching a strict credo through the generations, this age of liberation would take some getting used to, but it was working wonders for CITV’s audience figures. Which was, of course, terrible news for the good guys, what with Children’s ITV fundamentally being the soul-destroying, hellish alternative to the good and proper Children’s BBC that sought to save the nation’s youth.

Sooty & Co, the latest reinvention of the Sooty brand for Generation Y – or whatever they would call themselves when they hit Sixth Form and discovered cannabis3 and depression – was tragically proving a huge ratings success for the channel, which had Matthew and his woolly animal companions worried. Although, as Matthew was about to discover, they had a more immediate problem at hand.

As the last crew member departed the empty set, Sooty4 ceased playing dead and crawled, leglessly, over to Matthew.

‘What is it?’ Matthew asked, inserting his hand into the bear and holding it up to his ear. Although his communication with the creature was telepathic and did not require ear proximity, the perseverance of ritual was important for Matthew and his kin. ‘You what?’ he exclaimed, and spun round to view the monitors that Sooty had directed him to.

Currently airing on the ITV channel was an advertisement that Matthew had not seen before, evidently the launch of a new product released for the busy Christmas market. It seemed to be a simplistic ginger wig, with some kind of microchip technology performing a non-descript function. Matthew shivered when its celebrity sponsor appeared in a soundless cameo on the muted screen.

Rod Hull. The Beast of the Sea.5 The real power behind CITV’s fiendish plot to ensnare the children.

‘I’ll tell him,’ Matthew answered, and restored freedom to his furry familiar, who retired to the far end of the desk to begin the traditional wrap poker session with Sweep, a panda called Soo and Little Cousin Scampi too.6

Matthew navigated the labyrinthine corridors of ITV’s bowels to quiz Nathanael7 on the disturbing commercial. Traditionally, meetings with the acting Head of Children’s Entertainment for ITV must be arranged far in advance and are almost never conducted in person - for obvious reasons for the few who have had the honour of seeing the apostle in the flesh (what’s left of it).8 Nathanael’s tenure at the organisation was a mixture of luck and exhaustive conspiratorial plotting, retaining a holy influence within the lair of the enemy.

‘Yes, I just saw it,’ Nathanael confirmed with his usual reliability, as Matthew sat down in the customarily darkened room. Nathanael had a lot of time to watch television, and could always be relied on to be up to speed on the latest developments. ‘Evidently, this was shielded from the highest levels of the company, even from retailers. Normally, you’d expect the network to be pushing this kind of festive tat from around August onwards, but Hull’s a devious one. He’s shielded it for a reason, and now it’s out there, we must discover why.’

‘Is it out there?’ Matthew queried. ‘The advert only said “coming soon.”’

‘I don’t need to remind you that there’s only four days ’til Christmas.9 It’ll hit us fast,’ Nathanael predicted, with the kind of foreboding delivery that can only be achieved with a face that displays the majority of its underlying half-skull to the outside world. ‘But as for more knowable matters, well done on completing the year. It went very well.’

‘Too bloody well,’ Matthew rejected. ‘It looks like we might actually be onto a winner. What kind of covert takedown is that?’

Nathanael shook whatever it was that remained above his neck. ‘Just in the short-term. Rest assured, Matthew, that in the long term, all will take care of itself.’

Matthew sighed. Everything was long-term in this game. That passive attitude had served them fine for the last nineteen centuries, but if things weren’t shaken up sometime soon, they’d have a losing battle on their hands. ‘Any examples you’d care to impart?’ he requested.

‘Reality television,’ Nathanael instantly responded. ‘As the time of Judgement approaches, we’ll be pushing a whole arsenal of terrible shows that will ensure the destruction of this network’s reputation. No one will be watching ITV when the time comes.’

‘There’s a variable you haven’t considered,’ Matthew observed. ‘What if that rubbish catches on? I’ve walked amongst the public. A lot of them are idiots. If this new wave of programming turns out to be a hit rather than a stinker, what can the BBC do then?’

This possibility caused Nathanael to pause, but it was only momentary. ‘In that case,’ he answered, ‘we’ll just copy it.’

‘That reminds me,’ Matthew broached. ‘How are Andrew and his badger getting on over there with that complete rip-off of my show?’

‘Very well indeed,’ Nathanael lied.



Continued tomorrow


Notes


1. Matthew Corbett: Presenter of The Sooty Show in its various incarnations, taking over from his 'father' in 1976 and 'retiring' in 1998.

2. St. Matthew the Apostle is the patron saint of accountants; bankers; bookkeepers; customs officers; financial officers; guards; money managers; Salerno, Italy; security forces; security guards; stock brokers; tax collectors; diocese of Trier, Germany
http://www.catholic-forum.com/saints/saintm13.htm

3. Cannabis: a genus of flowering plants that includes three putative species, Cannabis sativa L., Cannabis indica Lam., and Cannabis ruderalis Janisch. Popular with stoners.

4. Sooty: Glove puppet of an orange bear, with cross-generational appeal. Saviour of the blind.

5. Beast of the Sea: Also known as the Antichrist, having seven heads and 10 horns. Bear in mind that Barry may have been under the influence when he received his visions on Patmos.

6. Sweep &c.: Sweep is Sooty's homosexual lover, though the relationship was never alluded to in their televised adventures. The other characters are barely worth mentioning.

7. St. Nathanael: Also known as Bartholomew, a friend of Philip. Carried out much work in the East. Caused controversy with his initial judgement of Jesus, when he stated: "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" Now controller of Children's ITV.

8. Relics of St. Nathanael: Nathanael's body was distributed all over the place following his initial death, and has never been fully recovered. Half of his skull resides in Frankfurt, his arm in Canterbury Cathedral and his skin in Sicily. This arguably makes Nathanael the least attractive of the surviving Apostles.

9. Christmas: A pagan winter festival appropriated by Christianity, marked by the distributon of gifts and excessive consumption of alcohol.

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