The real meaning of Christmas

Christmas is finally over, to everyone's great relief and surprise. The celebration which began in mid October has finally petered out on the 27th of December. The consolation is hauntingly palpable. Could it be that in all this insane consumerism we are tragically losing the true meaning of Christmas? Mayhap in all the jingle, tinsel and cheap aftershave we are missing the quintessence and true message of this ancient festival? Are our livers and waistlines so swollen that we can no longer see the garish socks, worn with gaiety and wanton abandon? Socks so festooned with comic images of Santa that it befuddles our dazed senses and prevents sound judgement. I suspect, as a society, we have lost our way and no longer see 'Christmas'. It has become festooned with cheap flashing lights and gaudy rose tinted images of sleighs and cheap aftershave. We no longer connect with the true spirit of Christmas. Everything is viewed through beer frothed goggles. Could it be that we need to recapture/recapitulate and reinvent the Christmas of yesteryear? Are we so jaded and lost, as a society, that we can no longer restore the sublime Christmases of our youth? However, I am hopeful and imbued with cheap liquor and aftershave. I see a future which is wondrous, meaningful and replete with all manner of things which connect and re-establish the heart warming, blood curdling, bone numbing Christmases we all, once knew. This is not the fevered dream or fancy of a madman, but the musings of a man with a certificate which endorses his heart felt sanity.  This writ is wrote by a MD and psychiatrist of note and notoriety. His musings are deserved of serious deliberation  and contemplation. If you are in the frame of mind to dispute, then be availed of just cause. I digress.

Of course, it is not inconceivable that I'm espousing complete and utter fanny batter and bollocks, as usual. Arse.Arse. Arse. Arse......

Bugger

          

Tis Christmastide in the hamlet of Tipton

The real meaning of Christmas

Council houses throughout the borough are bejewelled in cheap flashing lights that would make even a gypo retch in an epileptic frenzy. At the local Poundland, 6 foot high plastic Santa’s adorn the dog shit bestrewn aisles. The local pawn/porn shops are agape with stolen gifts and televisions with screens wider than Tipton High Street. The Yuletide cheer continues unabated as merry folk wander in and out of each other's houses stealing each other's stolen property.

Street urchins abound/confound on every street corner, fighting and vomiting uncontrollably, relinquishing stomach contents awash with kebabs and cheap liquor. The sound of family discord echoes from every hovel and stray dogs urinate on the legs of itinerant passers-by whilst baying at the moon in harmonious unison and frank despair......... HOWL.

Roast leg of venison will make a nice change from turkey Arse

Merry Christmas, perhaps........

In the spirit of ‘political correctness’ I thought it best to issue a carefully qualified Christmas greeting.
 
From me (“the wisher”) to you (“hereinafter called the wishee”)

Please accept without obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, politically correct, low stress, non-addictive, gender-neutral, celebration of the summer/winter solstice holiday, practiced with the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all….. and a financially successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted year 2015 but with due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures or sects, and having regard to the race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform or dietary preference of the wishee.

By accepting this greeting you are bound by these terms that:

- This greeting is subject to further clarification or withdrawal. 

- This greeting is freely transferrable provided that no alteration shall be made to the original greeting and that the proprietary rights of the wisher are acknowledged. 

- This greeting implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes. 

- This greeting may not be enforceable in certain jurisdictions and/or the restrictions herein may not be binding upon certain wishes in certain jurisdictions and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. 

- This greeting is warranted to perform as reasonably can be expected within the usual application of good tidings, for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting whichever comes first. 

- The wisher warrants this greeting only for the limited replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher. 

- Any reference in this greeting to “the Lord”, “Father Christmas”, “Our Saviour”, or any other festive figures, whether actual or fictitious, dead or alive, shall not imply any endorsement by or from them in respect of this greeting, and all proprietary rights in any referred third party names and images are hereby acknowledged.

 
Ho, fucking Ho……….

Arse

Guess what Flaxen wants for Christmas this year?

Bugger, I bet I get aftershave.... Again. Arse, arse, arse.

King Flaxen's Annual Yuletide Address: Anus Horribilis

Before treatment 

992AD is not a year on which I shall look back with unpolluted pleasure. As many of my loyal subjects have known, for a sometime I have been beset by a profusion of a protrusion from my nether posterior. This affliction has smited my countenance mightily and has contributed to my fickle and arbitrary bouts of extreme violence or beneficence, according to the waning and waxing of my lobster pots.

My physic recommended I apply leeches internally. I followed his advice and applied 50 leeches liberally to the lesion with the help of a soup ladle and goose grease. After an hour I was supposed to expel all the leeches, together with the soup ladle, and place their engorged bodies into the midden pit from whence they originally hailed. Imagine my horror when I only managed to retrieve 10 leeches. The ladle was nowhere to be found even after extensive searching. Five ferrets and twelve dwarves lost their lives as a consequence. Not all bodies were reclaimed. Subsequently, and unsurprisingly, your beloved King remains in a sustained state of permanent bliss.....

Merry Yuletide to all my Thegns, Carls and Bondsmen. May 993AD be a year of fruitful bounty. May your loins swell with righteous tumescence and all offspring resemble their sire, especially as paternity assignment, through DNA testing, must await a 1,000 years. Be good to your kin and women who share your bed. As for the rest, deal as you see fit and exercise your will and whim to pillage, burn and slay according to your want.

 

Aftermath.....

 

 

 

Jeremy Kyle's 12 days of Christmas......

Big Jezza in repose


12 cans of lager,
11 DNA tests,
10 dads to choose from,
9 teeth between them,
8 misspelled tatoos,
7 big fat arses (ARSE),
6 gypos farting,
5 STOLEN RINGS,
4 orange tans,
3 ugly bastards,
2 timing cunts,
And a wanker who parades them on TV.......
 

Mr Orange Mugumbo

Flaxen Saxon's Sexual Healing: Part II

I received so many complaints after last week's post entitled, 'Flaxen Saxon's Sexual Healing', that I have decided to implement a regular series of posts on the same theme. Read on and weep.....

Mr Mugumbo winking

Dear Mr Saxon,
You seem a worldly-wise old cove and I would like your help on a matter very close to my heart, or loins, depending how you look at it. Having attained the tender age of 30 I feel there is something missing from my otherwise hectic life. This is very hard for me to put into words, so here goes: I’m bereft of female company, have never engaged in amorous congress and never had my Martian probe land in Venus. Can you help me in my quest to cream my first tart?
Mr Loney Mugumbo (of course it his him- it always is)

Dear Mr Mugumbo,

Talking about beating about the bush, or not, as in your case. Mr Mugumbo, all I can suggest is that you procure the services of a local lady of the night. Prostitutes never say no, never laugh at the size of your cock and never pass comment on the size of your cock.

Here are Flaxen Saxon’s top tips to help you in your quest to top your tip. Prostitutes come in two flavours: cheap and expensive. The cheap ones hang around street corners in dodgy neighbourhoods. They are often past their best and take drugs. The tariff is usually calculated by the number of missing teeth multiplied by the number of misspelt Indian ink tattoos; the higher the number the lower the cost. Once in the lair of the prossie be wary of ‘cock oysters’. These mucilaginous artefacts appear at random on the pavement and are usually preceded by a loud gagging and harsh hacking cough. The origin of these glutinous opaque gems is one of life’s mysteries. Some say they are Angel tears, some say they are the result of prostitutes clearing their throats after a particularly heavy night. Gentle readers, I will leave you to be the judge. However, if they be Angel tears then God had better be treating his celestial companions for conjunctivitis. Not all crap that fortuitously turns up on the pavement is manna from heaven. Although you may be in an urban wilderness, please don’t be tempted to sample.

The expensive ones are found in ‘escort agencies’. I suspect they may be out of your financial league unless of course you happen to be a high court judge or prominent politician.

I remember in my youth there was a particularly tall old whore who used to ply her trade at the back of Rackhams in Birmingham’s town centre. She must have been 6’ 10’’ and towered over the sad pathetic remnants of humanity who came to her for relief. To facilitate the transaction most men had to stand on a wooden box. Just as they were about to come she would kick it away, thus saving on condoms.

Ten'Gilda' Hilda

Otherwise, may I suggest you purchase a ‘latex lady’? Love dolls come in two flavours: cheap and expensive. The cheap variety you have to blow up and have a nasty habit of deflating when you insert a prick. The expensive ones are articulated, soft and vivacious. They are so life-like that they actually laugh at the size of your cock. If you can afford one of these, you really don’t need a real women.

Hello Sailor

Gentle readers please feel free to regale me with your problems and lamentable deformities, imagined or real, and I will endeavour to profer wisdom born of fortitude and aplomb.

Arse 

Tipton welcomes thoughtful gypos......

Gypos are nice folk, really

The Tipton tourist board extends the hand of welcome to all right thinking gypos out there. Come and make camp in one of our areas of outstanding beauty. Invite your friends and perch your garishly adorned mobile homes on our green and verdant grass verges. Feel free to lovingly deposit your rubbish and faeces as you please. Don’t forget to steal from the  locals  and  from any law abiding citizens who inadvertently cross your path . Don’t worry about paying tax of any kind. Intimidate and threaten and cause drunken mayhem in the local pubs. Education is overrated and  not being able to read or write is no impediment in our modern society. Let your flea bitten undernourished dogs roam and squat, at will, in children’s play areas.

Or if you prefer: Fuck off to the benighted shit hole you hail from.   ARSE.

                                                 

Mr Gypo O'Mugumbo, coming to you, soon

                                      Saxon hates fucking gypos