A Very Ginger Christmas

Can’t stand ‘uman ‘olidays. Take larst Christmas:
‘im indoors wants to go in fer a competition, dressed up in a daft red costume,prancin’ about bein’ jolly.
I wants to clean me whiskers.
‘Ah! There you is, you manky ol' mog!’ ‘E greets me, polite as ever, an’ grabs me by the scruff so’s ‘E can stick a pair of ’and-made antlers, and a pointy ‘at on me ‘ead.

Wiv SuperGlue.

Then ‘E stuffs all me paws through the sleeves of a little red jacket, and buttons me into it, like an ‘otel bellboy. So now I looks like a small fat ginger letterbox, wiv ‘orns.
I’m ‘avin a bad furday, but ‘Es got ‘is mind set on ‘is competition, so ‘E tucks me under ‘is arm and takes me down the Church ’All.
‘And what are we today?’ coos an ‘airy old lady at the table wiv bowls of cream an’ mince pies.
As if she couldn’t tell.
‘Santa Claus and ‘is reindeer, Rudolf,’ ‘E says, ever so proud of ‘isself.
I registers me surprise, ‘since when?’ I squawks.
But ‘E doesn’t want no passing comments from me, so ‘e squeezes me froat like a lemon, and me protest comes out like I’m a mewlin’, an’-soon-to- be-pukin’, kitten.
’Oh what a dear little puss!’ says the old lady, an’ tries to tickle me under the chin.
So I does the only sensible fing.

I bites ‘er finger.

There’s serious hettikette in chin-ticklin’, case you didn’t know. Both parties ‘as to be in agreement. It’s in the rules.
So there she is, blood drippin’ onto ‘er cardi, screamin’ like a siren, and I joins in, wiv the antlers fallin’ over me eyes - still glued on, mind.
Then I then starts swingin’ me ‘ead, to bang ‘em off on a table leg. But it’s one of them wallpaper tables wot collapses if you swings a cat at it, so down it goes, mince pies an’ cream rollin’ all over the floor.
Well, never one to miss a hopportunity, I bats a few under the next table. Mince pies improve if you ‘as an ‘andy puddle of cream to chase 'em down wiv.
I’m ‘appily 'alfway through me second mince pie when there’s a blood-curdlin’ yell from behind, and ‘E grabs me tail, and yanks me out, cream drippin’ off me whiskers, antlers swingin’ like a pair of furry pendulums, with me little red coat ‘ poppin’ buttons like champagne corks.
‘You bleedin’ cat!’ ‘E roars, one hand ‘oisting me up by the scruff, wiv the other set to wallop me bum.
But then a strange thing ‘appens.
Dead silence falls all over the Church ‘All.
It was that quiet you could hear me larst button poppin’, rollin’, and stoppin’. Everyone froze like they was playing musical statues.
Even ‘Im. Stands there like one of ‘em marble ‘eroes, puss-in-‘and instead of a javelin, and I doesn’t wriggle neivva, ‘case he launches me inta tomorra.
‘Don’t think I’d do that, if I were you!’ says a very posh voice belongin’ to a man all dressed up like a penguin, a big gold chain round ‘is neck.

‘Sez ‘oo?’ comes the reply.
‘E's got the social graces of a baboon, but ‘E does know when ‘E’s met ‘is match. Mostly he thumps first, and arsks questions arfta. More of an action man than a finker, really.

‘Put the reindeer down, sir!’ the man advises. ‘Slow-ly...!’

So ‘E lowers me onta the floor, like I was made outa china, an’ the ‘airy old lady brings me a nice saucer of milk. This time she doesn’t try none of that cootchy-coo, so I purrs a bit and rubs against ‘er legs. I always finks ‘umans needs encouragement when they learns their lesson.
But then whadduyouknow! Me ‘orns gets snagged in ‘er tights! And all of a sudden she’s tellin’ me certain fings I never knowed before, an’ didn’t need to know neivva.

‘You stupid bloody cat!’ she yells, all ‘er Christmas cootchy-coo gone out the winda. ‘Look what you’ve done now, you clumsy creature! Reindeer, my derriere! These tights were new on this morning, sent by me sister in America. You’re a health hazard you are, and you oughta be put down!’
I couldn’t ‘elp noticin’ as she tried to kick me off, ‘er manners ‘ad slipped somewhat, along wiv ‘er lovely grey wig. But me ‘orns was ‘ooked good an’ proper inta those wrinkly old tights, so we’s in a free-legged race now, whether we likes it or not.
Well, she runs up the middle of the Church ‘All, towards the toilets, shriekin’ - wiv me gallopin’ along beside ‘er, and a cheer goes up from the onlookers.

‘Rudolf to win!’ yells one of the punters, and everyone shouts and claps.
I does win, too.

Down comes ‘er tights, wrappin’ around ‘er ankles like she’s been lassoed by the Lone Ranger, an’ does she go sprawlin’!
‘Er wig goes flyin’ off ‘er head like a furry frisbee, leavin’ ‘er bald as a coot.

chunks of me own fur parts company wiv my ‘ead and all, cos the ‘orns is well-stuck to those Norah Batty’s. Leaves me wiv two bald patches behind each ear, but I’m past caring cos I’m a free moggy now, an’ not no one is goin’ to stop me leavin’ that Church ‘All!

I jumps the tables wiv one bound and ‘eads right out the winda.
Only fing was, it was winta, right?
And the winda was shut.
So, I knocks meself out cold, and wakes up later to find I ‘as a rosette pinned onta me collar. Special award for most hentertainin’ entry!
‘E’s standin’ there beamin’, like ‘Ed done all the work ‘isself, and I ‘as a very narsty ‘eadache.
So Christmas? If you calls that an ‘oliday, you can keep it.