A Christmas Shanty by ye olde Willy Dickespeare

Dear readers.

Behold, the dreadful mess, which ensues when I dare take a brief respite from my ghost writing duties, to recover from the writer's cramp, induced by NaNoWriMo. These are the words of Eddie Stardust himself. You have been warned.

A Christmas Shanty

By ye olde Willy Dickespeare (aka the magnificent Eddie Stardust)

Christmas Eve

'Twas the night afore the Mass o' the Christ when all through ye olde house,

not a Yorrick was stirring, he was stuffing a grouse.

Mama's stockings were hung on the airer with care.

Not for her, being dead, she was no longer there.

As for Yorrick, the grump, he awaited with glee,

The moment to pull mama's stockings to his knee.

You are the worst kind of moron, Stardust. How does this awfully written piece reflect either of your literary heroes? You will never be a troubadour or a bard. Give it up. It's already too late. Furthermore, I'm not Yorrick. I'm Igor. IGOOOOOR!

Methought I heard a voice cry “I'm Igor! I'm really sore! Don't write anymore.”

Stardust doth murder writing, therefore Dickespeare shall write some more! Yorrick shall sleep no more!

Yorrick, Yoooooorrick. Thy stocking doth lie empty, bereft as thy soul.

How shall we compare thee? To a midwinter night's dream. Thou art more grumpy and more grim than any I have met. Torrid gales doth shake the rancid leaves of death from thy branches but yet thou remainest, winding me the hell up.

That's right, Stardust, take the sonnet and destroy it, why don't you?

Just write my damned memoirs Yorrick, you snivelling dimwit. I am the diva, not you.

Nay, a nightmare, forsooth! Thou art a miser, Yorrick. Alas, I knew you at all. That I shall yet sup on the green liqueur from thy cranial cavity is my one solace. That sweet sweet nectar, tainted with thy brains. Thy pantry standeth stocked with the most rancid of stores: bitterness, bile – a vile draught to swallow! Thy breast's milk is tainted, you cow. Hast thou no charity for a poor and weak disco gimp vampire? Thy heart is as empty as thy body.

But I digress.

Yorrick standeth in the graveyard, looking disgruntled, wishing he could join the ranks of the gruntled … if that's even a word. (Yorrick, get on it!) It matters not. Yorrick will never be worthy of gruntling, therefore the point is moot.

He is approached by his downtrodden employee (NOTE TO SELF: Clearly this is a work of fiction – Yorrick will never be the employer), Edward Gimlet (Hamlet, you moron!)

“Mr Yorrick, work is over. My son little Gimlette wishes a word with you,” sayeth the tragic Edward.

“Please, Sir, spareth me a bite to eat. Spare some bread?” addeth little Gimlette, who dreams only of tinsel and fairy dust, he's a bit fabulous, you see, like his old man.

“Bread?” Yorrick yelleth, indignant rage furrowing his brow. “Bread? Thou shalt rob an old git of his only sustenance? Thou art a villain, Little Gimlette and your father, well, he be fired. Let me fetch the matches.”

“Thy heart is as empty as my stomach, thou plain dealing villain, thou rancid scoundrel. I will leave you now, and henceforth, thou shalt forever walk this earth, holding thy pieces, as thy dead yet living corpse rots around you.” Alas, Little Gimlette's words startled poor Yorrick somewhat. Such words should never have issued from the mouths of babes or urchins.

Later that night in the Hippodrome, Colchester ...

“When shall we three meet again?” Les Fates of Christmas trois croon.

“In snow shower, fog or just in pain?” Fate 1 – the Fate of Christmas past giggles into her eggnog and babycham cocktail.

“When the weekly shoppe is done.” Fate 2 – the Fate of Essex Christmas Present drools.

“When the Lotto's lost and won,” Fate 3 – the Fate of Christmas Riches Yet to Come, heavily pregnant and even more heavily made up, whines, examining her lottery tickets. “That will be ere the dreadful pun.” Fate 3 goes on.

“Where the place?” Fate 1 cries out

“Ow 'baat in Lakeside?” Fate 2 whines on.

“There to meet with Yorrick's fate,” Fate 3 jumps up and down with fake excitement.

“I come, dear tanning salon man,”

“Towie calls,”

“Anon”

“Yorrick, oh Yorrick, wherefore art thou Yorrick? Awaken thou thy broken body. Haunt not the season to be merry. Make a cake like Mary Berry, Thou never shalt bestow thy cherry. Really, thou art far too hairy.”

“Maybe have some coal instead, lest Eddie drinketh from thy head.

Blah blah blah, Yorrick dies.

The end.

... Ho ho ho!

And so you see, poor, long suffering readers, exactly why Stardust needs my services. His writings truly are the ramblings of an insane person. Be grateful. Should I depart this immortal coil, this is what you would be stuck with.

Merry Christmas.