A Christopher Hitchens Christmas Carol Stave 1 – apologies to C. Dickens, from 2011

see stave two here, three here, four here, five here

God was dead as a doornail.  Let there be no doubt whatever about that. The register of His burial was signed by Hitchens, and Hitchens’ name was good upon anything he chose to put his hand to.

And Hitchens missed God.  Of course he did. How could it be otherwise?  Hitchens and He were partners for I don’t know how many years.

Yes, God was dead.  This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

Hitchens never painted out God’s name. There it stood, years after His death, above the door: Hitchens and God. The firm was known as Hitchens and God. And the partnership resulted in book deal after book deal for Hitchens, along with endlessly lucrative speaking engagements and a succession of ever so intriguing reality TV offers.

Oh!  But he was a vicious antitheist, Hitchens!  The certainty of a Godless universe froze his features, nipped his pointed nose, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue and he spoke out shrewdly in his British public school voice.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Hitchens, God be with you.  When will you come to church with me?”  No beggars God-blessed him, no children asked him the correct words to a hymn, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to Heaven.  Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!”

Once upon a time — of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve — old Hitchens sat busy in his office.  The door of his office was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was probing for parcel bombs and reading Christian hate mail.  Hitchens had a very small supply of toner, liquid paper, paper clips and pencils, but the clerk’s supply was so very much smaller that he recycled staples by taking them from discarded documents and straightened them back to their original configuration for replacement in his dilapidated stapler.  But he couldn’t help it, for Hitchens kept the supplies in his own office; and so surely as the clerk came in to replenish his own supply, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part.  Wherefore the clerk went back to straightening used staples and diluting his scant supply of liquid paper with trichloroethane. He tried to warm himself at his computer’s heat exhaust, in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

Just then, two men came into the office.

They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Hitchens’ office.  They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.

“Hitchens, I believe,” said one of the gentlemen.

“Yes, what about it?”

“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Hitchens,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and Destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time.  Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”

“Do you vote,” asked Hitchens.

“Of course,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.

“And are you politically active,” demanded Hitchens.  “Are you pressuring your MP and the Prime Minister to institute change? Do you boycott and participate in protests against corporate greed and intransigent government?”

“Of course not,” returned the gentleman, “We are good men of business.”

“Then do you make a special point of hiring the poor and destitute,” said Hitchens.

“Not at all, sir. They smell, and demand ridiculous things like a living wage.”

“Then it seems you have some things to think about,” Hitchens said, returning to his work.

“Our goal is to furnish Christian cheer of mind and body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink and means of warmth.  We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices.  What shall I put you down for?”

“Not a bloody thing” Hitchens replied.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“I wish you’d bugger off.  Why should we depend on Christian charity to redistribute wealth,” said Hitchens. “Why don’t you go occupy Wall Street? If a mute, invisible and inept god is all we have to count on as a defence against unmitigated greed and injustice and the resulting poverty and suffering, then we’re all sunk.”

“Many can’t occupy Wall Street; many would rather go shopping at Walmart or view internet porn. You see, they’re depending on God to intervene, to relieve them of their misery. It’s not likely to happen, but there you are.”

“If they would rather shop at Walmart,” said Hitchens, “they had better do it, and support the very corporate criminality that defeats them daily.”

“Fine,” said the gentlemen. “We’ll just nip off to the pub, and curse your name behind your back. It is, after all, the Christian thing to do.”

At length, the hour of shutting up the office arrived. Hitchens dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly turned off the buzzing florescent lights, and put on his hat.

“You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?” said Hitchens.

“If quite convenient, sir.”

“It’s not convenient,” said Hitchens, “and it’s not fair of you to go off and celebrate the birth of some fraud of a saviour on my time. If I was to stop the equivalent of a day’s wage for it, you’d think yourself ill-used, I’ll be bound? No doubt you’d get the union involved.”

The clerk smiled faintly.

“And yet,” said Hitchens, “you don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.”

The clerk observed that it was only once a year, and that he never put down for overtime, which according to legislated labour standards paid time and a half.

“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” said Hitchens, buttoning his great-coat to the chin.  “But I suppose you must have the whole day.  Be here all the earlier next morning.”

The clerk promised that he would; and Hitchens walked out with a growl.  The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk started for home.

For his part, Hitchens went directly home to his high street townhouse on the Westside – with its tall, ornate front door and faux brass knocker that he’d ordered specially from a glossy home decorating catalogue that resided next to his commode.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large and made in China out of recycled beer cans.  It is also a fact, that Hitchens had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place.  Let it also be borne in mind that Hitchens had not bestowed one serious thought on God since his last overtly provocative speaking engagement in the American south.  So, let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Hitchens, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change — not a knocker, but God’s face.

God’s face on the knocker was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects on the street were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad Marks and Spencer lobster dinner in a dark cellar.  It was not angry or ferocious, but Godly, nonetheless.  Its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part or its own expression.

“Hit-chens,” said God’s godly face on the knocker.

“Bloody hell,” said Hitchens. He stared back at God’s face on the knocker. “What a load of crap.”

He went into the townhouse, and sat down in a room the architect called the parlour, but that Hitchens had come to call the sodding broom closet. He picked up a copy of Harpers and leafed through looking for Audi ads.

“Hit-chens,” God’s godly voice came again, as though out of the A/C vents.

“Bugger off,” Hitchens said.

“Hit-chens,” said God once more.

“Look,” said Hitchens. “Whoever you are, you really have to call my agent….”

Suddenly, the townhouse was filled with the sound of piped in Christmas Muzak, and there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Then, with a resounding crash, the parlour door was flung open, and in stepped God Himself. He came dressed in a tattered pair of black 501s, black high-tops and a Lou Reed tee-shirt.

“What the hell do you want,” said Hitchens.

“Much!” said God. “But first, have you got any weed?”

“Who are you?”

“Some call me Yahweh. I have been called other names. But I’m starting to like the idea of being called Brad. You, however, may call me God.”

“Can you — can you sit down,” asked Hitchens.

“I can,” said God.

“Do it then.”

“You don’t believe in me,” said God.

“Of course I bloody don’t,” said Hitchens. “Where have you been, living under a damn rock?”

“And yet, you make a tidy living off of me.”

“It is nice, isn’t it?” said Hitchens surveying his lush surroundings.

“What evidence would you have of my reality, beyond that of your senses?”

“I don’t know,” said Hitchens.

“Why do you doubt your senses?”

“Well, I took a lot of acid when I was at university,” said Hitchens. “Sometimes I see shit that would make anybody question reality.  There’s more of bad LSD than of Heaven about you, whatever you are! You see this toothpick,” said Hitchens.

“I do,” replied God.

“You’re not looking at the damn thing,” said Hitchens. “Do pay attention.”

“But I see it,” said God, “notwithstanding.”

“Yup,” returned Hitchens. “Definitely an acid flashback.”

At this God raised a frightful cry, and made a dismal and appalling noise.

Hitchens stood and pointed, and said, “Look mate, I’ve got neighbours, and they like it quiet. So, tone it down.”

“Man of the worldly mind!” replied God, “do you believe in me or not?”

“Nope,” said Hitchens.  “Not a chance. I’ve got book deals in the works. Believing in you would void contracts from here to the sandy beaches of Belize. It could even bring down huge segments of the British economy.”

“Then what will convince you?”

“Can you bend spoons, like Uri Geller?”

“No. I mean I can, but I won’t. That’s way too 1970s Vegas.”

“Tell me what I’m thinking, then?”

“You’re thinking that I should have taken my shoes off before I came in.”

“Huh! That’s pretty close, actually.”

“Hear me!” cried God. “You will be haunted tonight by three spirits.”

“Oh, is it bloody Halloween?” said Hitchens. “I thought this was Christmas.”

“Without their visits,” said God, “you cannot hope to know me.”

“Will any of these spirits be able to bend spoons, like Uri Geller?”

“No. I mean they can, but they won’t.”

“Then I’d rather not meet these spirits,” said Hitchens. “I like a little cabaret with my haunting.”

“Tough noogies,” said God.

“Shit.”

“Look for the first spirit when the clock chimes one,” said God. “Now look to see me no more.”

And with that, God, who’d lately been thinking he’d rather be called Brad, fizzled into the wainscoting. Or at least what the architect called the wainscoting, but what Hitchens called the sodding baseboards.

 

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A Christopher Hitchens Christmas Carol Stave 2 – apologies to C. Dickens, from 2011

see stave one here, three here, four here, five here

Hitchens ordered in Chinese, drank excessively and reread favourable reviews of his books on the internet before going to bed. He slept soundly, hugging a pillow while visions of royalty cheques danced in his head. In a dream, he was standing at an old fashioned bank wicket receiving a stack of thousand pound notes, when he suddenly awoke.

Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn open.

Hitchens sat up in a half-recumbent attitude, and found himself face to face with an unearthly visitor. It was a strange figure — like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, except it wasn’t an old man at all, but an old woman. Her hair, which hung about her neck and down her back, was white as if with age, and her face was a road map of deep ruts. She wore a tunic of the purest white, and round her waist was bound a lustrous belt. She held a branch of fresh green holly in her hand.

In a moment, Hitchens recognised who it was, and was shocked. “Freaking bloody hell,” he choked. “It’s a young Mother Teresa.”

“That’s right, Christopher, and you have been a very bad boy.” Having said this, the branch of fresh green holly in her hand was magically replaced by a twelve inch wooden ruler, which she used to rap Hitchens’ knuckles.

“Owe!” shouted Hitchens. “You fascist Albanian bitch.”

“That’s not the first time you’ve called me a bitch.” She rapped his knuckles a second time.

“Ouch! Hey, I apologised the first time. What happened to Christian forgiveness?”

“Haven’t you heard, you wretched little man? I’ve been beatified. I don’t have to forgive anymore.”

“Well get the hell out of my bedroom, and take your stick with you. Go back to whatever grotty little paradise dried up catholic fundamentalists go to when they kick-off, and leave life to the living.”

“Can’t do it, Christopher. I’m on a mission from God. Of course, he lets me call Him Brad.”

“Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?” asked Hitchens.

“I am.”

“Shit.”

“Watch that potty mouth!” The ghost of the beatified nun rapped his knuckles a third time. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Long Past?” inquired Hitchens, rubbing his bleeding knuckles.

“No. Your past,” said Mother Teresa. “And what a wicked journey it has been.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather not relive my past, if you please. I have no desire to appear on Donahue again.”

“Rise. And walk with me, Christopher,” Mother Teresa said as the bedroom widow opened.

“Walk where? Out the window? So they can find me in the morning, dead in the snow. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you silly cun….”

“Watch it!” Mother Teresa interjected, holding forth the wooden ruler. “Besides, it’s only two stories down. You’d probably just break a leg, if I let you fall; which I won’t, though it’s tempting. Bear but a touch of my hand, and you shall be upheld in more than this.”

Together they rose and floated out of the window, as London mysteriously vanished from beneath them and they came to drift over the city of Portsmouth. It was at once the city of the present and the city of Hitchens’ past. They soon landed on a street, and began to walk. Hitchens recognised every gate, and post, and tree, and was glad of it, until a little Anglican church appeared around a corner. He hesitated upon seeing it, and began to turn away.

“You cannot hide from your past, Christopher,” said Mother Teresa. “It is etched in stone.”

“Look, why don’t we find a pub. We could have a round of darts.”

Mother Teresa shook her head. She pointed at the little church, and soon they were in its basement watching a Sunday school lesson in progress.

“Why, that’s Miss Wickerson,” said Hitchens. “What a daffy boot she was.”

“And there you are,” said Mother Teresa.

A six year old Christopher Hitchens sat at a table toying with the gum wads stuck underneath, as Miss Wickerson taught the lesson.

“These are but shadows of the things that have been,” said Mother Teresa. “They have no consciousness of us.”

“Good thing,” said Hitchens. “Wickerson was a batty pain in the arse.”

Hitchens and Mother Teresa listened in on the lesson.

“And the proof of God’s love for us all is in the sunshine and the flowers and the food on our tables,” said Miss Wickerson. “In thanks, we praise Him at every opportunity.”

The six year old Hitchens raised his hand. Miss Wickerson tried to ignore it, but finally gave in.

“Yes Christopher,” she said, sounding annoyed and tired.

“That doesn’t make sense, Miss Wickerson.”

“That’s fine, Christopher. Thank you. Now, as I was saying….”

“But Miss Wickerson,” said the precocious six year old Hitchens, with his hand up and waving. “Why, if God is the creator of all things, are we supposed to praise him for what comes naturally for Him? It’s not like He was going out of His way, or doing us any favours. As I read it, creating things is just the sort of thing that God naturally does, like farting.”

“God doesn’t fart, Christopher,” said Miss Wickerson.

“Well, we don’t know that,” replied the six year old Hitchens. “And besides, I didn’t say God farts. I said that for Him creating was natural like farting. The inference being that we fart naturally. Farting is what we naturally do. No one praises us for it. Surely creating things is like that for God. It’s like what farting is for us. Do you see what I mean? And since this seems to be the case, why praise Him?”

“That will do, Christopher,” said Miss Wickerson. “My point is that the proof of God’s love for us is in the lovely sunset and the blue of the sky.”

“But surely, Miss Wickerson, the blue of the sky proves only that the sky is blue. It does nothing to prove the existence of God.”

“If you must know, Christopher,” Miss Wickerson said, “I need no proof of God’s existence. For me He is everywhere, and His existence is irrefutable.”

Now Miss Wickerson smiled as though a great debate had been won. But six year old Hitchens raised his hand again.

“What is it now,” she sighed.

“Well, Miss Wickerson, what you seem to be saying is that God’s existence is proven by His absolute invisibility. You continue to refer to nature’s beauty as proof of God, but perhaps nature’s beauty is an unconscious substitute for a God whose non-existence doesn’t fit with your personal worldview. I think, however, that you’ve proven the premise of your own argument incorrect. Isn’t it true that what can be asserted without proof can also be dismissed without proof? And therefore, isn’t my argument in favour of the non-existence of God valid without proof. Do you really need to go on and on, boring the whole class with your mind-numbingly groundless assertions?”

This stopped Miss Wickerson where she stood. She blinked, and the beginning of a small tear formed in the corner of her eye.

“Oh, dear,” she gasped. “You’re right. I have been deluding myself. There is no God, after all. My life, my vocation, my whole existence is a sham.”

“Well I wouldn’t go that far,” said six year old Hitchens.

“No, no,” said Miss Wickerson, holding out a hand to hush six year old Hitchens. “You’ve quite opened my eyes, boy. You’ve revealed to me the mysterious source of all my angst and hidden grief. There is no God, as you say. And, therefore, no God’s love.”

Here Mother Teresa turned to the adult Hitchens and said, “She left her job as a Sunday school teacher, and became a lesbian.”

“Oh, please,” said Hitchens. “One doesn’t just become a lesbian. You either are one or you aren’t. I think it was a crucial moment of self-discovery.”

“She became a radio announcer for a radical lesbian pirate radio station that broadcasted from a surplus minesweeper off the coast of Florida. It still supports radical Palestinian lesbian causes.”

“Well, there can’t be many of those.”

“That’s not the point,” said Mother Teresa, holding up her stick. “Now, having failed in countless relationships with other Godless, radicalised women, she lives alone in a walk-up flat with three cats and an iguana. She sits alone in her apartment listening to Feist and Tracy Chapman. She has no man in her life to ground her, to justify her existence.”

“Neither did you,” said Hitchens.

“Shut it!” said Mother Teresa. “Only last week she got yet one more Hello Kitty tattoo.”

“Is that so bad?” asked Hitchens.

“Not if you like Hello Kitty,” said Mother Teresa. “Do you see now how your incessant arguments against the existence of God have ruined lives?”

“No.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Oh take me home, spirit, and haunt me no more.”

“My time with you has come to an end, at any rate,” Mother Teresa said. “I have an appointment to get fitted for my saintly robes.”

“You’re not a saint yet.”

“The Ghost of Christmas Future assures me that it’s just around the corner. A girl’s got to think ahead. There’s bound to be soirees to attend, in my honour. So good night to you, hell spawn. And good luck at the pearly gates.”

Moments later, he was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. He had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.

 

A Christopher Hitchens Christmas Carol Stave 3 – apologies to C. Dickens, from 2011

see stave one here, two here, four here, five here

There was a strange light coming from under his bedroom door, and Hitchens became convinced, in that moment, that whatever spirit was meant to come second must be in the next room. He got to his feet and went to the door.

The moment Hitchens’ hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.

It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living greenery and red paper Starbucks cups, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known in Hitchens’ time. There were bottles of pricey bourbon, gin and vodka. Pricey Rolex, Girard-Perregaux and Omega watches. The keys to BMWs, Ferraris and Mercedes. There were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. And a small steaming dish of tofu and brown rice for any annoying vegan visitors.

Seated in two high backed leather chairs, one facing the other, were two men in a great and heated discussion. One was animated, and pointed the chewed end of his odoriferous cigar at the other. While the other, on the other hand, made his salient points with a subtle spreading of the fingers, elbows firmly on his chair’s armrests, for emphasis.

“Who the bloody hell are you two?” Hitchens demanded.

“Come in!” exclaimed one of the ghosts, the one Hitchens would come to know as the more cordial of the two. “Come in, and know us better.”

Hitchens entered timidly, and hung his head before these spirits. He was not the dogged Hitchens he had been; and though the spirits’ eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.

“We are the Ghosts of Christmas Present,” said the cordial Spirit. “Look upon us.”

Hitchens reverently did so. They were both dapper in their dated tailored European suits, finely polished shoes and golden watch chains, though the spirit with the cigar did have a light dusting of ash across his lap.

“You have never seen the likes of us before!” exclaimed the cigar smoking spirit. Hitchens tried to place the accent; was it Austrian?

“I’m not so sure,” Hitchens said. ”But couldn’t they have sent just one of you? Is it really necessary to send two?”

“You shunned all preceding Spirits of Christmas Present, I think.”

“Perhaps I did,” said Hitchens. “Have there been many of you?”

“More than 2000,” said the cordial ghost.

“Ah,” muttered Hitchens. “A vast number. I may have been on a book tour.”

The ghosts of Christmas Present rose together.

“Look,” said Hitchens. “Before we fly off to where ever the hell it is you’re going to take me, just who the hell are you? Besides the Spirits of Christmas Present, I mean. There’s something very familiar about the both of you.”

“So, you think you know us!” said the cigar smoker.

“This is good,” said the more cordial of the two. “Allow me to introduce us both. I am Jung, and this specimen is Sigmund.”

“Sigmund?” said Hitchens. “Jung? You mean you’re Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung?

“Nine, nine, nine,” said the dapper gentleman with the cigar. “He is Jung, and I am Freud. Don’t get us mixed up, boyo. It could go very badly for you.”

“Crikey!” said Hitchens, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

“You see,” said Jung to Freud while pointing at Hitchens. “The personal unconscious consists for the most part of complexes. This individual is a single multiplicity of complexes.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” replied Freud abruptly. “In this subject, we have an example of how the conscious mind may be compared to a fountain playing in the sun, and falling back into the subterranean pool of subconscious from which it rises. Although, in this case, it’s a very shallow pool. And somewhat polluted.”

“Okay look,” said Hitchens. “If this is how it’s going to be, I’d rather go back to bed.”

“None of that talk, now,” Jung’s ghost said gently. “We have miles to go before we sleep.”

“That line’s not yours,” said Freud.

“But it sounded right for the moment.”

“You are a scoundrel and a plagiarist.”

“Oh, shit,” said Hitchens, shaking his head.

“Please, Sigmund,” said Jung. “We must think of the patient.”

“Yes, you are correct,” Freud said, offering a freshly lit cigar to Hitchens. “Take this and fly with us.”

Hitchens took the cigar, and marvelled at it. “Is it magic?” he asked. “Will it help me to fly?”

“Of course not,” said Freud. “It’s just a cigar. Have a good smoke. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, you know.”

“Touch the tweed of my jacket,” said Jung. “And you shall rise with us into the world.”

They rose up together, the three of them. Over London on that Christmas Day and landed on a grey street of filthy, cracked concrete sidewalks, infested with brown and brittle weeds. Before them was a dilapidated apartment building with its security door ajar.

“Shall we enter,” said Freud.

“Why, this is the building where my clerk, Bob Cratchit, lives,” said Hitchens. “I know because it’s the address on his meagre biweekly pay cheque. Gawd, what a dump.”

“And the elevator is out,” said Jung. “So we will take the stairs.”

In the apartment, Bob wasn’t present, but some of the Cratchits were sitting in front of the television watching The 700 Club with Pat Robertson. There mouths, being their primary source of inhalation, hung half open, and they didn’t seem to blink.

Just then, Bob Cratchit walked in with Tiny Tim.

“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs Cratchit, not taking her eyes off the television screen.

“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting in the food fair at the mall. He thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the mall, because he was an unemployable, dim witted elementary school dropout with a bum leg, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”

“That’s nice, Bob,” said Mrs Cratchit, without lifting her slack jawed gaze from the TV screen. “Pass the chips, somebody.”

“I must say, though,” said Bob. “Tiny Tim isn’t so tiny anymore. He is twenty-eight, after all. And he’s over six foot, and going on 14 stone. People are starting to point at us when I carry him on my shoulder. Not only that, Dr Knoddle tells me I’ve developed a herniated disc as a result of packing him round like that.”

“That’s nice, dear. Is there any beer in the fridge?”

Bob’s voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty. His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken. He sat on his stool before the TV.

“And what about Christmas dinner,” asked Bob of Mrs Cratchit.

“There’s Spam in the cupboard,” Mrs Cratchit said before her jaw relaxed again, and sagged for a moment. There was a commercial break on the TV, but none of the viewing Cratchits looked away. Then Mrs Cratchit said: “Though I’m worried there might not be enough. Tiny Tim’s been into it, and we’re between pay cheques.”

“Between pay cheques?” said Bob incredulously. “I just got paid yesterday. What happened to it all?”

“Well,” said Mrs Cratchit, as a string of drool dripped from her mouth, and her eyes burned into the screen. “Pat Robertson said Jesus needs cash to do His awesome work on Earth, so I sent it all to the 700 Club.”

“What? Every farthing?”

“And I sold the car and took out a payday loan from the Money Mart. Jesus should be able to do some very awesome work indeed with the wad we sent Him. ‘Course, you’ll have to pay off the payday loan next week. Interest is running at 85%.”

“Well there seems to be plenty of beer in the fridge,” said Bob.

“Oh good,” said Mrs Cratchit. “Gives us a couple, will you.”

Bob Cratchit gave his wife a couple cans of beer, and sat beside her. He’d brought a can for himself.

“Okay,” he said, sitting there. “All we have for Christmas dinner is a can of Spam. And you’ve given every penny we have to an American televangelist. Well, at least we have beer and a roof over our heads.”

“We’ve been evicted,” said Mrs Cratchit, lazily swatting at the drool hanging from her chin.

“What? When?”

“Last week,” said Mrs Cratchit. “Rent’s two months past due; we have to be out by the 31st. Pat Robertson’s building a church in Tulsa; he needed the cash.”

“So you gave him the rent?”

“Pat Robertson said we’d be assured a place in heaven if I did. And because we were among the first 300,000 generous followers of Jesus to donate, we received some very nice steak knives etched on the side with the 23rd Psalm, except they spelled shepherd wrong. It says, The lord is my shepnerd. But I’m too full of Jesus to care.” And here, Mrs Cratchit belched.

“This is very depressing,” said Bob Cratchit. He cracked open his can of Fosters. “Well, at least let’s have a Christmas toast. Here’s to Mr Hitchens, though if he knew he was indirectly funding Pat Robertson, I’m sure he’d blow a gasket.”

“Hitchens!” cried Mrs Cratchit, suddenly animated. “I wish I had that Godless bastard here. I’d give him a piece of my Christian mind.”

“My dear,” said Bob, “the children. Christmas Day.”

“It should be Christmas Day, I am sure,” said Mrs Cratchit, “on which one drinks the health of such an odious, unbelieving, antitheist tosser. You know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow.”

“Actually,” said Bob, “I rather agree with him.”

“I’ll drink his health because I’m a good Christian,” said Mrs Cratchit. “Here’s to him, and may he smoulder in hell for all eternity.”

“Okay, okay,” said Hitchens to the Spirits of Christmas Present. “Just what the hell is the point of this? Is this supposed to change me? Make me a better, Godlier man? Well it doesn’t. It just proves my point, and it’s pissing me off.”

“He seems to have absolutely no ability to compensate,” said Jung of Hitchens.

“As I have said before,” said Freud. “Civilized society is perpetually menaced with disintegration through the primary hostility of men towards one another.”

“He may not be able to recognise the subtleties of our unconventional therapeutic approach,” said Jung.

“Oh that’s just typical, isn’t it,” said Hitchens. “Therapeutic approach? You two are classic. I suppose you’re going to bill me for this, aren’t you? I mean, that’s what psychiatrists do, isn’t it?”

“Cigars aren’t cheap, you know,” said Freud.

“And I have my place in Geneva to maintain,” said Jung.

“That’s it. Take me home. I’ve bloody well had it.”

“Is this where we reveal the little boy und girl as metaphor for want und ignorance,” asked Jung of Freud.

“Nine, nine, nine,” said Freud. “His psyche is too fragile. He needs to get shit face.”

 

A Christopher Hitchens Christmas Carol Stave 4 – apologies to C. Dickens, from 2011

see stave one here, two here, three here, five here

Hitchens found himself standing alone on a dark wet street, under a lamppost, like Lili Marleen. Presently, he was aware of a presence standing before him. And he rolled his tired eyes as if to say, with that small but telling gesture, what the hell is it now?

The night creature before him was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its entire form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

Hitchens felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for, at first, the spirit neither spoke nor moved, but breathed very heavily.

“I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” said Hitchens.

The spirit answered not, but pointed downward with its hand.

“You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not yet happened, but will happen in the time before us,” Hitchens went on. “Is that so, spirit?”

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer Hitchens received.

Now it was obvious that the spirit was helmeted, and its face was covered by the visor of that helmet. It made more deep, dark breathing sounds, as though it relied upon a respirator.  Altogether, it was an evil and disconcerting visage to behold.

Finally Hitchens had had enough and spoke up: “Just who the hell are you?”

“It is I,” rasped the spirit, triumphantly. “Darth Vader. And I want to get this over with. The rebels are massing, even now, round the Moss Planet of Humidor. No doubt, they plan to invade over Christmas. But I may have outsmarted them. I have sent them several thousand cheap and unwholesome festive shrimp rings via FedEx for their holiday feasting. And in this way, I hope to spread vexatious tummy troubles among them all, and foil their plans. HA! HA! HA! Now let’s boogie.”

In a moment, they were in a Westminster pawnshop, and they observed as a small group of people huddled there with bundles and packages. In the centre of the group was a short man with a moustache, wearing an AC/DC tee-shirt.  There seemed to be a joke they all shared, for they smirked and chortled, as though at the unfortunate expense of someone not present.

“Alright, you lot,” said the moustached pawnbroker in the AC/DC tee. “Let’s have some order now. And ain’t this something special, after all. To have all you three here at the same time, ha!

“Now what have we from you, undertaker?”

The undertaker pulled a small bundle from his pocket and unwrapped it. “Watch: Rolex,” he said. “Graduation ring: Oxford, 1970. Toe ring: silver with turquoise and garnet inlay.”

“Toe ring?” said the group in unison. “Har, har, har.”

“I wear a toe ring,” mumbled Hitchens.

“Really,” wheezed Vader.

“Thirty ponds,” said the pawnbroker. “I always give too much for a genuine Rolex. It’s a weakness of mine, and that’s the way I ruin myself. If you asked me for another penny, and made it an open question, I’d repent of being so liberal and knock off five pounds.”

“Now for me,” said the woman from the dry cleaner. “It ain’t much. Just some shirts, jeans and a raincoat.”

“Hey that’s an Aquascutum,” Hitchens said. “I have one just like it.”

“And, oddly enough, you also have your jeans dry cleaned,” said Vader.

“Don’t you?”

“Five pounds,” said the pawnbroker, “and I wouldn’t give another sixpence, if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who’s next?”

“And now for my bundle,” said the cleaning lady.

She stepped forward and unfastened a great many knots, and dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.

“What do you call this?” said pawnbroker.

“Ah!” returned the cleaning woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. “Bed-curtains.”

“Bed-curtains? Who has bloody bed-curtains anymore?” “

“I do,” said Hitchens to himself. “They make me feel all cozy.”

“Hear,” said the pawn broker. “You don’t mean to say you took them down, rings and all, with him lying there?”

“Yes I do,” replied the cleaning woman. “Why not?”

“You were born to make your fortune, and you’ll certainly do it.”

“I certainly shan’t hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a Godless man as he was. And I have his nightshirt. It’s the best he had, and a fine one too. They’d have wasted it, if it hadn’t been for me.”

“What do you call wasting of it?” asked the pawnbroker.

“They’d have buried him in it, of course.”

Hitchens listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the fluorescents above, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though they demons, marketing the corpse itself.

Hitchens and Vader moved on.

“Well wasn’t that a bloody uplifting experience,” said Hitchens as they travelled through time and space.

Soon they arrived at their next destination. It was the Cratchits’ apartment, the television blazing. The family was watching a television special called A Christian Rap Christmas. One rhythm-challenged Caucasian Christian Rap act followed another, punctuated by a succession of white bread Christian celebrities imploring viewers to give until it hurt, in Christ’s name.

“Where’s your father with the beer?” said Mrs Cratchit, her eyes glazed and unblinking. “The bugger’s late again.”

“He is,” Peter answered, toying with the remote. “But I think he’s walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mommy.”

“I have known him to walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder very fast, indeed. Never mind that Tim was near 200 pounds and over six foot.”

“And so have I,” cried Peter. “Often.”

“And so have I,” exclaimed another. So had all.

“But your father’s a bit dim,” Mrs Cratchit said, as Pat Boone was wheeled onto the television stage on a gurney. “And Tim was a manipulative bastard. And there is your father at the door!”

Bob came in with a bag, shaking off the cold.

“Beer!” barked Mrs Cratchit, never taking her eyes off the screen. Pat Robertson was prostrate on the stage, convulsing, beseeching, pleading viewers to sell everything, and give the proceeds to his ministry.

Bob gave the bag of beer to Mrs Cratchit.

“You went today, then, Robert?” said his wife.

“Yes, my dear,” returned Bob. “I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child!” cried Bob. “My little child! I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim — shall we — or this first parting that there was among us.”

“Tim? Tim who?!” Mrs Cratchit and the others around muttered as a particularly bad white Christian Rapper tried to recite The Twelve Days of Christmas, but lost count after five.

“And I know,” said Bob, “I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he was a bloated burden on us all; we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it.”

“Pass the chips,” said Peter.

“I am very happy,” said Bob, “I am very happy!”

Vader placed a hand on his light sabre, and said: “Time to go.”

“Thank goodness,” said Hitchens. “I couldn’t take much more of that. But where do we have to go now? This is really getting boring.”

And in a moment, they were in a churchyard. It was a typical, neat modern cemetery; owned by a massive trans-national corporation that primarily manufactured toxic chemicals and weapons systems for third world and developing nations so that they might wage war on one another. It also, ironically, made navigation systems for US Air Force drones that routinely fired rockets at wedding parties in the same third world and developing nations. Though the funeral business was a small arm of the corporation, it nonetheless turned massive profits.

Darth Vader stood among the graves, and pointed down to one.

“Oh stop,” said Hitchens. “I know where you’re going with this, but you should know that I have purchased a prearranged plot in this cemetery. So it’s no shock that this is where I’ll end up.”

“But look at the tomb stone, you Godless heathen, and see the name upon it.”

Hitchens looked down, and sniffed. “Oh, my,” he said in a mocking falsetto voice. “It says Christopher Hitchens. Is this supposed to frighten me into submission?”

“Does that not make you tremble with fear,” asked Vader, ominously.

“Why would it? I can’t live forever. I’m going to die, and so are you. This whole premise in ill-conceived.”

“Me, die?” said Darth Vader. “No, no, no. You’re mistaken. I am the immortal Vader. I’ve got these Spielberg things lined up into the next century. And he’s thinking of working me into Tin Tin II. And my agent is signing me to a reality TV deal. It’s called The Vaders. It’s a program that profiles the nutty goings-on in the life of an intergalactic fascist imperial ruler with sociopathic tendencies. They say the ad revenue and syndication possibilities are endless. Then there’s the Walmart Super Bowl advertising contract. I’m a franchise, man. And I have the….”

“You’re delusional,” Hitchens interrupted.

“Am not,” said Vader.

“You bloody are.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“Okay, I’m done.”

“No you’re not.”

“I want to go home.”

“No you don’t.”

“Look, stop contradicting me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“There, there, you just did it again.”

“Did what?”

“You contradicted me.”

“Never did.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Hitchens?”

“Yes, what now?”

“I am your father.”

 

A Christopher Hitchens Christmas Carol Stave 5 – apologies to C. Dickens, from 2011

see stave one here, two here, three here, four here

He awoke on the floor to the sound of church bells tolling across London. His head ached. As he blinked and looked around his room, he could see that the bed-curtains were still there. He saw the door through which God had entered the bedroom, and through which he’d passed to greet Jung and Freud.

“Gawd, what a night,” he said to himself, as got to his feet. He went to the window, and opened it. In the alley was a man with his arse sticking out of a dumpster. “You there,” said Hitchens. “You, digging through the trash. What day is it?”

The dumpster-diver extricated himself, and looked up at Hitchens. “Why, Christmas Day,” he said.

“Damn,” muttered Hitchens. “I’d hoped to sleep through it.”

“Say,” said the dumpster diver, sounding offended. “Everyone knows it’s Christmas Day. Are you being smart?”

“No,” replied Hitchens. “Not especially.”

“You mocking me in my poverty?’

“Certainly not.”

“Oh!” said the diver, mimicking Hitchens. “Look at old Sam with his ass sticking out of a dumpster on Christmas Day.”

“Really, I….”

“Look at old Sam who left college with only a BSc in Astrophysics, and couldn’t get funding for his Master’s degree.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to….”

“I wanted to work for NASA, you know. But now old Sam doesn’t even qualify for a job in a chip shop – not with a measly Bachelor of Science Degree. You need a PhD to bus tables in this town. Did you know that, Mr I Got a London Townhouse and You Don’t?

“Alright, alright,” Hitchens said. “Stay where you are.” He went to his dresser, and grabbed some five and ten pound notes. At the window, he called down to old Sam, who looked no more than thirty. “Here,” he said, tossing the notes down.

“What’s this, then?” said Sam, holding up the notes.

“It’s a Christmas present,” said Hitchens with uncharacteristic empathy.

“Twenty, twenty-five, thirty-five…. That’s it?” old Sam counted. “Thirty-five pounds? You greedy bloody bastard. On Christmas Day, and all. Oh, that’s just great; that’s rich! Old Sam’s good enough to rummage through your garbage, your egg shells and used prophylactics, your coffee grounds and sticky backdated Hustler magazines – which you’re too embarrassed to put in the recycling bin where they belong. But separate yourself from enough folding dough for a man to get a decent massage and pedicure? No not you, you Godless son of a bitch.”

“But, I just wanted to….”

“Sod off, you one-percenter, you. I’ll keep your little handout, but I’m not pleased about it. Not by a long chalk.” With this, Sam took hold of his stolen shopping cart and walked down the alley, holding up the middle finger of his left hand all of the way to the next dumpster.

“Well,” said Hitchens. “That was pleasant.”

He spent the rest of Christmas Day listening to Amy Winehouse and Adele on his ipod, and polished off a bottle of Chivas Regal while rereading reviews of his numerous books online. And as he did, he had a softening feeling toward the idea of God and Christmas that was quite unexpected. He quashed it immediately, though, knowing that it constituted professional suicide. Still, it was hard to think of poor Bob Cratchit in the way he always had.

He was early at the office next morning.  Oh he was early there.  If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late!  That was the thing he had set his heart upon.

And he did it; yes, he did.  The clock struck nine.  No Bob.  A quarter past.  No Bob.  He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time.  Hitchens sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the Tank.

His hat was off before he opened the door; his scarf too.  He was on his stool in a jiffy; reshaping used staples to reinsert into his stapler, as if he were trying to overtake nine o’clock.

“Hello,” growled Hitchens, in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it.  “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Bob.  “I am behind my time.”

“You are?” repeated Hitchens.  “Yes.  I think you are.  Step this way, if you please.”

“It’s only once a year, sir,” pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank.  “It shall not be repeated.  I spent most of yesterday and yesterday night trying to convince the missus not to send any more money to Pat Robertson. You see, The 700 Club is giving away these ingenious little capsules that, when put in a glass of water, grow ten times their original size into glow in the dark Jesus. It’s a premium, you see, that one receives when one donates one thousand pounds or more to The 700 Club’s Obliterate Obama in 2012 Campaign. I finally had to sedate her with ether, gag her and tie her to a chair. She’s gone quite mad, I’m afraid. She threatened to stab me with a 700 Club 23rd Psalm steak knife.”

“Hmm, yes,” said Hitchens, making a steeple with his fingers beneath his chin, and nodding. “I’ll tell you what, my friend. I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer.  And therefore,” he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the Tank again; “and therefore I’m going to refer you to a good divorce lawyer I know. The best damn divorce lawyer in all London.”

Bob Cratchit look stunned. He hadn’t expected this. His mouth opened and closed as though he were a fish stranded on a wharf.

“A merry Christmas, Bob,” said Hitchens, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back.  “A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year.  I’ll get you that divorce lawyer, and set you up with these Malaysian twins I know. Do you enjoy being tied down and spanked? I know I mightily do. Maybe I can even help you with that boy of yours, Tim. I could get him a job in this shop I know of where they employ the disabled assembling waffle irons for Walmart. It’s piecework, and the conditions and pay are rather third world. He’ll likely lose a limb before the year’s out. But what can a disabled person really expect in this world?”

“No need for that, Mr Hitchens,” said Cratchit. “They nicked Tiny Tim the other day on an outstanding warrant. Seems he was a London rioter. They caught his image on CCTV video as he smashed the window of an Apple Store with his crutch. I was wondering where all the Mac equipment came from. But a parent has got to trust a child, no matter how shifty.”

Hitchens was better than his word.  He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did three years for his crime, and quickly re-offended after his release, he was a second father, smuggling pornography and marijuana into prison for Tim to sell to other inmates at a substantial profit.

And did all of Hitchens’ newfound kindness have anything to do with his being visited on Christmas Eve by the spirits of Christmas? Not really. You see, dear reader, a man can be good without the benefit, or encumbrance, of religion. He can simply do what’s right for him. And in a world of mind boggling hypocrisy and injustice, which of us is qualified to judge?

As for whether there is a God petty and perverse enough to condemn us strictly on the basis of our human condition? Well if there is such a God, then screw Him for not having a sense of humour.

Let Christmas be celebrated as each of us sees fit. For none of us can claim to be absolutely right about anything.

Consume less and recycle – everyone.

(Cue cheesy eXmas Muzak here….)