Solstice

Ebeneezer Scrooge sat, hunched, over his desk, scrolling through December’s coverage of the Brexit debate. He emitted a low growl, whereupon his clerk, Bob Cratchit, suggested the pile of newspapers on Scrooge’s desk might be better employed as kindling for the fire in the freezing anteroom in which poor Mr Cratchit sat shivering.

“NONSENSE” bellowed Scrooge, as he mansplained to Cratchit how important it was that he figure out precisely what the leader of the Opposition was saying whenever his lips were moving.

Scrooge returned home, shunning his nephew Fred’s invitation to the Christmas party. “But we’ll all be exchanging brightly coloured socks!” implored Fred, “just like Justin Trudeau and Leo Varadkar” he said. “BAH…HUMBUG!” was Scrooge’s pithy reply, as he threw back the gift of a lovingly embroidered Christmas jumper (which read “All I want for Christmas is EU”, see photo above.)

Scrooge was visited that night by his childhood musical hero, reggae legend Bob Marley, who told Scrooge that the legalisation of cannaboids for medicinal (and perhaps even personal) use was likely to enter the public discourse before the next general election, despite the nation's  focus on health, housing and Brexit. “It’s one way to mobilise the vote of the younger generation and keep them political engaged and on-side” said Marley, through a haze of sticky vapours.

“What’s that you’re smoking Marley? You’re talking nonsense man!” said Scrooge, as he settled down to watch a compilation of arguments on The Tonight Show on Virgin Media One. “BRING BACK VINCENT BROWNE!” yelled Scrooge, aiming his ire, and his remote, at the small HD black and white television in the corner.

Marley told Scrooge that he would be visited that night by three spirits, each representing Christmas past, present and future.

Christmas past was pale, gaunt, shivering and had a voice like two heavy tombstones being rubbed together...”Scrooge, remember the snow as it fell generally on Merrion Square in 2009, remember the pain and misery that was visited upon the nation,” he said, spookily. “BAH, serves ‘em all right. We imposed a bit of fiduciary discipline on ‘em. I miss the recession…now the notions are back. I hear that Dylan McGrath fella is selling steaks in Ballsbridge for €120 a pop...notions.”

Christmas present arrived in the form of a smartphone-wielding PR specialist from the Government’s strategic communications unit. His voice sounded like a thousand Twitter servers humming in unison. “Everything is fantastic and I am particularly wonderful and, y'know, quite beautiful.” Scrooge eyed him up and down and demanded to know how that information was of any use to anybody.

Christmas present replied (somewhat defensively) “Look, things have never been as brilliant as they are now, so they are. So there. It's all about confidence...and supply” and vanished in a puff of blue smoke in the shape of a small bird.

Christmas future had the appearance of Scrooge himself. He looked weary, and a little worried. “What’s up?” demanded Scrooge. “Oh, you know, just had a look there at the old Brexit no-deal scenario.” “And?” Scrooge enquired, “how’s it looking?”

Christmas future shrugged his shoulders, “I couldn’t really tell. There was a lot of shouting, something about blue passports and Jacob Rees Mogg living in a bedsit in Crumlin to keep an eye on his Irish investments.”

Christmas future then told a tale to Scrooge of 80,000 people gathered under a single banner, who were marking their first year together. In that first year they had taken on the might of Ryanair, the rancour of the Roscommon county manager, and had a breakthrough on new entrants pay. “Not bad for their first year in business,” said Scrooge, as a smile spread across his wrinkled face.

He threw open his windows and greeted the punters below in the street, “Merry Christmas one and all!”.

Fórsa’s music critic Raymond Connolly knocked feverishly on Scrooge's heavy wooden door, clutching a copy of the union’s latest magazine under his clammy armpit. Scrooge answered, and threw his arms lovingly around the nation's favourite barstool baritone barrister.

“C’mere” said Connolly, “this edition isn’t out until the first week in January, but here’s an exclusive copy, just for you. Now, let’s get ourselves down to the pub!”

Scrooge and Connolly linked arms, and danced all the way to Finglas...as the boys of the NYPD choir were singin' Galway Bay...

If you've made it this far and fancy a bit more reading about Dickens' classic Christmas tale, you might like this: Bleak house: the dark truth behind Charles Dickens' Christmas obsession.

Happy Christmas to you and yours from the communications team, we'll be back with all the latest daily news (digested), and a slice of nourishing Zen, from Monday 7th January, 2019.