Once upon a time there was a fish called Bob. Bob lived under the sea with his best friend Colin the Crab and other assorted underwater creatures. One Christmas Eve, Bob and Colin were at home watching TV.
'The TV's gone wrong yet again,' said Bob, waving the remote around as if he was having a sword fight with the invisible man.
'What do you mean?' Colin asked.
'Are you blind Colin? The picture's all snowy.'
'That's because it's a Christmas film,' Colin sighed.
'Really? It's not very Christmassy, is it?'
They were watching It's A Wonderful Life. George Bailey was being shown what the world would be like if he had never existed. In this scene, his brother had slipped under the ice while skating on a frozen pond, and George wasn't there to save him.
'Sorry if that sounds grumpy Colin,' Bob continued, 'but this is a bit lacking in the cheer department, isn't it? You'd think they'd make it more festive. It's almost depressing watching some kiddie drown at Christmas.'
'You didn't seem to mind when you dropped all those kiddies into the sea a few years back,' Colin muttered.
'That was different,' said Bob. 'I did that to save Christmas! Anyway, you can talk. You helped, a bit.'
Colin replied with a protracted, sceptical 'Yeessss.'
Bob drummed his fin on the side of his favourite armchair and tutted loudly. 'Yet again humans are proving that they are incapable of performing the most simple of tasks, like not freezing to death and drowning in ice cold water,' he declared. 'Useless! It's a good thing they've got me to help them. I mean, how many times have I saved the planet they seem hell bent on destroying?'
Colin sighed. 'I don't care,' he said. 'Bob, do what you want. Just switch over if you have to.'
Bob channel hopped until he found ITV, which was showing I Used To Be A Celebrity, Let Me Back In There!. Former losing contestants on I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here! were filmed trying to get back on the non-reality show. Uri Geller stood at a huge pair of wrought iron gates, demanding them to be opened, shaking his fists and shouting about what great mates he used to be with Michael Jackson. He then tried to get in by bending the gates just by rubbing them.
'Christmas TV gets worse every year,' Colin yawned. 'I'm going to bed.'
'What's up with you Colin? You used to love Christmas!'
'Nothing is the same anymore. Not since - '
'You're not going to start up that whole Pumpkin Girl thing again, I hope,' Bob interrupted. 'I've told you, I'd do the same again, given the choice between saving humanity and giving you the chance to have a bit of a fling with some lunatic orange wobbly oblate spheriod.'
'No Bob, actually. I mean since my Mum and Dad were brutally murdered on live television, in case you'd forgotten!'
'Oh, yes. Sorry.'
'I miss them both so much.'
'Colin, you don't know it was them in that cookery programme, do you? Those could have been any crabs Jamie Oliver was smashing into little pieces with a hammer.'
'It was my Mum and Dad!' Colin cried.
'But all crabs look exactly the same. Are you sure it was them, Colin?'
'Yes Bob, I am very sure, because, firstly, I heard their anguished screams! My mum wailed "I love you Colin!" before she died, remember? And secondly, the fact that I haven't heard from either of them since would suggest that it was my parents.'
'Oh yeah. Good point. But rest assured Colin, they were both dead by the time he prized their shells apart with a cleaver. They didn't feel a thing.'
'Yes, because before that he threw them alive into a pot of boiling water! If I ever see Jamie Oliver I'm going to snip off his fat flappy tongue for what he did.'
'I am sorry Colin, really. It must be difficult. But try to look on the bright side old chum,' said Bob, placing a fin on Colin's bony shoulder. 'Every cloud has a silver lining.'
'It does, Bob?' Colin asked. 'Really?'
'Yes, of course. They didn't die in vain, did they? Jamie made a lovely bisque out of them.'
'Ever since you had your brain replaced you've been so insensitive!' Colin cried, pushing Bob's fin away.
'I'm sorry Colin,' said Bob. 'You're right. I think the bit of my bionic brain that controls my mood needs to be updated. The Professor gave me a USB cable so I can plug myself into the Internet and get the latest firmware for my brain. But the bit of my brain that helps me remember where I put things has gone wrong too. I found the cable but I'm not sure where I put the Internet. I'm not even sure what it is. So, you see old chum, the Christmas fire in my heart has gone out too.'
'Shall we cancel Christmas this year then, Bob?'
'Okay then. Though we bought all that food, didn't we? We might as well eat it tomorrow.'
'Fine. There's nothing on TV, let's just go to bed.'
Colin emerged from his swim-in cupboard wearing his pyjamas and night cap. He scurried under the covers of his bed and rested his head on his luxurious jellyfish pillow. In the adjacent bed, Bob was already snoring. A bubble popped out of his open mouth every few seconds and floated out of the window. Colin looked up at the ceiling and wondered whether his mother and father were looking down on him at that moment, and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Sometime later a bad smell filled the room. It was so bad that it woke Colin. He jumped up in bed and rubbed his stinging eyes, but before he could make sense of his scrambled thoughts, he shrieked at the sight of a translucent ghostly apparition floating at the foot of his bed, smoking a pipe.
'B - b - b - b ...' Colin tried to speak but nothing but 'b's and bubbles came out.
'Hello Colin,' said the apparition, smiling and taking the pipe from its mouth.
'B - b - but ... y - y - you're dead!' said Colin.
'Yes, I am. But in life I was your father. Brian the Crab.'
'I don't understand,' said Colin. 'How?'
'Never mind Colin, I don't have much time. '
'Why are you here Dad?'
'Because, Colin, ever since you saw your mother and I boil to death, you've been getting colder and angrier. You used to love Christmas, Colin. I remember when you were a wee tiddler, how excited you'd get.'
'I - know, Dad, but I can't imagine Christmas without you and Mum.'
'I know Colin, and that's why I'm here. I've come to tell you that this evening you will be visited by three ghosts.'
'How's that going to help?'
'I've got no idea, I'm just the messenger,' said The Ghost of Brian the Crab. 'And now I must go.'
'Already? Where's Mum?'
'Only one of us could come down to see you Colin. She sends her love. We're both in a better place now, and don't worry, we'll always be with you. Except perhaps when you're having a poo.'
'Dad!' cried Colin. 'Wait! Isn't there anything else you can tell me?'
'Okay Colin, one last piece of advice. If you ever get a Trivial Pursuit question about this story that asks how many ghosts are in it, the answer is four, because you have to remember to count me too. Now, look to see me no more.'
'Wait!'
But it was too late. A loud squelching noise filled the room and Brian the Crab floated up and through the ceiling. The sound stirred Bob from his deep sleep.
'Colin, what's going on?' he said. 'And what's that disgusting smell? I think you need to see a doctor.'
'It wasn't me,' said Colin. 'I think it was my Dad.'
'That's a bit warped, isn't it Colin? Blaming your farts on your dead father.'
'He was here Bob, his ghost was here. I saw him. He told me I'm going to be visited by three more ghosts. They're going to help me learn to love Christmas again!'
'I still think you need to see a doctor, Colin. Go back to sleep and we'll take you there in the morning. Or perhaps we can get Jamie Oliver to do a full frontal labotomy on you.'
'Bob, I'm not lying! I saw him, and heard him.'
'I'll tell you what then old chum, wake me up when the first ghost gets here.'
Bob rolled over and immediately resumed his snoring. The stench in the room forced Colin to close his eyes, and he drifted back to sleep.
Some time later, Colin was awoken once again by a penetrating, sulphurous odour. He opened his eyes to see a bright starfish floating over his bed. Its luminescent arms spiralled out and undulated in the water, lending the room an electic blue glow.
'Bob, Bob!' he shouted. 'Wake up!'
Bob sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. 'What the - ?' he started.
'Who are you?' said Colin, shielding himself from the glow with a claw.
'I am the Ghost of Fishmas Past!' said the creature. As it spoke, it's light pulsated.
'Fishmas?' said Bob. 'Don't you mean Christmas?'
'No, I mean Fishmas. Only the humans call it Christmas.'
'I call it Christmas, and I'm not human,' said Bob.
'That doesn't really surprise me. It is common knowledge that you and Colin like to help those water-shy pink lifeforms that skulk about on land. Oliver the Omnipotent Octopus only knows why.'
'They need help,' said Colin. 'Like Bob says, it's not their fault they're stupid.'
'Oh how quickly you both forget. The humans steal creatures from the sea and they squeeze them into jars, they drown them in boiling fat, they slap each other with them and even pop out their eyeballs and use them to play marbles!'
'That doesn't sound quite right to me,' said Colin.
'And if that wasn't bad enough,' the ghost continued, 'they steal and warp our traditions too!'
'What traditions?'
'Fishmas, for one! They took it and turned it into Christmas! The graceful beauty of Manta Claus, gliding over the sea bed towing a golden net full of presents on Fishmas Eve, has been transformed into some fat wierdy-beard alcoholic called Santa, with a sleigh and some scrawny, stinky reindeer. He breaks into houses by climbing down the chimney, drinks all the booze he can find, bites the kiddie's heads off and leaves a big smelly Christmas log on the carpet.'
'We've met Santa,' said Bob. 'And that doesn't sound like him at all.'
'Well, it's something like that. It's horrible, but that's humans for you.'
'Did you come here just to go on and on about humans?' said Colin, 'It's just that I'm expecting another ghost soon, so if you've got something to do perhaps you should get on with it.'
'What do you mean, you're expecting another ghost?' said Bob.
'They're here to help me,' Colin replied.
'So you want to have an adventure all by yourself?' said Bob. 'Knowing full well that I could do with some Christmas cheer too.'
'But - '
The ghost coughed to interrupt. 'Then come with me, both of you, back to a time when Fishmas was still Fishmas, and a young crab called Colin wasn't quite as unhappy as he is now.'
At that moment the striped bedroom wallpaper began to bend and wobble, before being obscured by a thick brown mist. Yet another suspicious smell filled the room.
'Urgh!' said Colin, his eyes stinging. 'What's going on? Where does that smell keep coming from?'
'Maybe it was your mum this time,' said Bob.
'Actually that was me,' said the Ghost of Fishmas Past. 'I farted.'
'Ghosts fart?' Colin asked.
'Yes, of course we do. We have to! That's how we fly about the place, we discreetly blow the little brown whistle.'
'That wasn't discreet,' said Colin, a claw pinching his nose, and tears streaming down his face. 'It was like a little piece of hell had come up to earth.'
'I pumped too hard, it's not easy to control you know,' said an irritated ghost. 'Let's just go, shall we?' He grabbed hold of Colin's free claw and Bob's fin, then squeezed out a high-pitched fart. Together they glided out of the bedroom window and into blackness.
As the darkness cleared and the smell dissipated, Bob and Colin found themselves inside the front room of Colin's parents' house. In the corner of the room the lights on a large Christmas tree flickered. Next to it a TV flickered too, and opposite that Colin's mother and father were nestled on the sofa, staring vacantly at the screen.
'Mum! Dad!,' Colin shouted, before turning to the ghost. 'Why aren't they answering?'
'These are but shadows of things that have been,' said the ghost. 'They cannot see or hear us.'
'Urgh!' said Colin's Mum, pinching her nose with a claw. 'Brian, that's disgusting!'
'But they can smell us,' the ghost added.
'They can smell you, you mean,' said Colin.
'Yes. Ghost farts have an interesting property which means the stench permeates space and time. Sometimes when you get an inkling of a nasty whiff but there's no-one in the room looking guilty, it usually means a ghost has let off.'
'Really?' said Colin. 'So I'm sitting there silently blaming Bob, and he's probably sitting there silently blaming me. Great. Why have you bought us here anyway?'
'Look to see yourself, Colin the Crab!'
At that moment the door burst open and Colin entered. 'Whoopee!' he said, 'School's over, Fishmas starts here!'
Brian and Coleen looked on bemused, as Colin scurried around the room in tight circles, whoopeeing and hooraying.
'So here it is, Merry Fishmas, everybody's having fun,' sang Colin, before scurrying back out of the door and running upstairs.
Brian and Coleen turned to one another and said, simultaneously, 'Who the bloody hell was that?'
Bob and Colin gasped.
'He's obviously got the wrong house,' said Brian, getting up out of his chair. 'I'll tell him.'
'No, wait,' said Coleen. 'We've always wanted a son. And he's so cute.'
'But what about his real parents?' said Brian.
'They'll get over it,' said Coleen. 'And they can always have another one. It's alright for them, we can't have children.'
Brian slumped back into his chair. 'Oh alright then,' he said. 'Though it's going to be fun trying to find out what his name is.'
Colin turned to the ghost, aghast, as the view of the front room faded into darkness.
'Why did you show me that?' he said.
'Isn't it obvious, Colin?' the Ghost of Christmas Past replied.
'So one day you went home from school to the wrong house and didn't realise?' said Bob. 'That's ridiculous. Didn't you wonder why your mum and dad's names changed all of a sudden?'
'I didn't know their real names until recently,' said Colin. 'To me they were just "mum" and "dad".'
'And when you went upstairs, didn't you wonder why your bedroom wasn't there, and where all your stuff vanished to?'
'Oh yes, I remember that. It was a bit strange, but they told me that they'd thrown all my things away to make room for all my Christmas presents. Even the furniture and the wallpaper.'
'Well, at least you know it wasn't your real parents that ended up in Jamie Oliver's food blender,' said Bob. 'So there's no need to be unhappy.'
'Well I am still a bit upset,' said Colin.
'That's all I have to show you,' said the ghost. 'And now I must go.'
The Ghost of Christmas Past grimaced, let out a thunderous, roaring chuff and took off, leaving Bob and Colin in darkness.
Colin sat up in bed. All was still. The window was shut tight. Outside, snowflakes floated silently down to the seabed. In the next bed, Bob was snoring.
'It was a dream,' Colin tried to convince himself. 'This has all been a dream.'
Just as he was wondering quite how much cheese he'd eaten before going to bed, Colin heard the distinct sound of the creaky fridge door opening in the kitchen. Suspecting that someone had broken in with the intention of stealing all their Christmas food, Colin leapt out of bed and down the stairs. The kitchen door was closed, but light was streaming out of the gap at the bottom. He took a run up then barged in, and scurried straight into an unfeasibly large and sticky Christmas pudding.
'Ho ho ho Colin the Crab!' boomed a voice. 'Hairy Christmas!'
Colin looked up to see a giant man sitting in the corner of the kitchen, munching on a whole leg of pork. All around the room there were piles of food and unopened Christmas presents. The man had a flowing beard which extended all the way down to his ankles, and a moustache you could easily lose a flock of sheep in. His grey curly hair brushed against the ceiling as he spoke, and his deep voice made the walls vibrate. 'I found some pickle in your fridge, I helped myself, I hope you don't mind,' he said. 'Hairy Christmas!'
'You mean Fishmas,' said Colin, freeing himself from the pudding and pulling a sprig of holly out of his head.
'Hairy Fishmas it is then! As long as it's hairy, that's the main thing.'
'Who are you?' said Colin.
'I am the Ghost of Fishmas Present!' said the man.
'And why are you here?'
'I have some things to show you. Touch my robe, Colin the Crab!'
Colin approached and extended his claw, but paused before touching the ghost.
'What's the matter? Do you not trust your senses Colin the Crab? Do you not believe in me?'
'No, it's not that,' said Colin. 'You're going to fart, aren't you?'
'But of course! How else do you expect us to get airbourne?'
'Ok, let's go,' Colin replied, pinching the ghost's robe with one claw and his nose with the other.
'Give me a second or two while I tune into Radio Bum,' said the ghost.
Just then the door flew open and Bob swam into the room. 'What's going on?' he said.
'Oh, can my friend Bob come along?' Colin asked the ghost.
'Of course. The more the hairier!' the ghost replied.
'Hang on a second,' said Colin. 'I just thought of something. If you're the Ghost of Fishmas Present, how come you're not an underwater creature? You look kind of human to me.'
'We ghosts work in mysterious ways, Colin. There was probably some mix up back at the office, I wouldn't worry too much about it.'
Then the ghost's rosy cheeks turned purple as a grimace spread over his face. Then, with a loud rumble he, Colin and Bob lifted off, up and out of the kitchen. Soon they were floating over the sea towards the lights of London.
'Where are you taking us, spirit?' Colin asked, as they flew over the snow coated rooftops.
'To the lard factory of Ebenezer Scrungebucket.'
'Any particular reason?'
'Patience, Colin the Crab!'
Soon they were floating down towards the ground, alongside a tall, wide chimney, which churned out fowl smelling black fumes into the cold night air. At its base it disappeared into a long single storey brick building, with rows of tiny snow bordered windows glimmering faint yellow. The ghost opened the only door into the building and they entered.
Inside a rotund man was running against a fast moving conveyor belt which stretched the entire length of the building. In his hand was a mop and a bucket of steaming dirty water. As they stepped in, the man stopped and whizzed along the belt, hopping off awkwardly at the end, then he hit a large red button on the wall that bought the conveyor to a gradual stop.
'All cleaned, Mr Scrungebucket!' he shouted.
A frail, gray man sat behind a desk in the corner. He was barely visible in the dim light of a small candle stub. Using a walking stick, he lifted himself out of his seat and approached the fat man.
'I'll be the judge of that!' he said, with a voice that made him sound as if he'd been eating holly. 'You'll be finished when I say you've finished, and not a moment before. Never forget, Blob Scratchitt, that you are a mere guttersnipe in this fowl smelling city of ours. There is no-one, and no thing, lower than you! I have more respect for whatever happens to be stuck to my shoe than I do for you.'
'Yes Mr Scrungebucket,' Blob replied.
Mr Scrungebucket walked alongside the conveyor, ocassionally stooping down to insert a finger into the belt mechanism. His steps were slow and deliberate. Blob drummed his fingers on his thigh, casting a frequent glance at the clock on the wall.
'Something wrong, Scratchitt?' Scrungebucket asked. 'With this being Christmas Eve, you are no doubt eager to get home to begin your festivities, and everything does appear to be reasonably clean.'
'Yes sir, thank you sir!'
'But sadly this is not good enough. You will do it again!'
'Yes sir,' Blob sighed.
'And when I say do it again, that is exactly what I mean!' snapped Mr Scrungebucket. 'First you will make it dirty.'
'Sir?' said Scratchitt.
'You will restore every piece of crud and fatty smear back to its original position, exactly as it was five hours ago before you started. Is that clear?'
'But sir, I - ' Blob started.
'But nothing, Scratchitt! Now get to work before I lose my sense of generosity and sweep you back into the gutter where you belong!'
'Yes sir,' said Blob.
'Do you not have anything else to add, Scratchitt?'
Blob shifted about on his feet, his face a picture of mild confusion.
'Do you not think that a thank you is in order, Scratchitt, considering the generous reward I'm giving you?'
'Er, thank you sir.'
'That's quite alright,' said Mr Scrungebucket, adding, 'you can't expect to take an entire day off with pay without offering something in return can you? Christmas is a time for giving as well as taking.'
'It is only once a year sir,' Blob replied.
'That's a poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December.'
'But - '
'But what, Scratchitt?' Mr Scrungebucket spat.
'You don't actually pay me sir. With real money, I mean.'
'Well I'm only saving you from yourself. Look how fat you and your family are! If I gave you money you'd only spend it on all kinds of gratuitous food items that would make you even fatter! Titanic Tim would surely explode, given that he is already half the the size of a ... well ... half the size of two big fat people.'
'Is that why you pay me with lard instead sir?'
'I don't like the tone of your voice Scratchitt, and if it continues you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation. You don't seem to appreciate what a considerate employer I am. Who else in this God-forsaken city earns as much lard as you do? Tell me, hmmm?'
'Well, no-one - ' Blob started.
'No-one, exactly! And tell me, what other boss would also let you take your own excrement home? And on top of all that you get an entire day off every year to indulge yourself!'
'Yes sir, you're very generous sir. Thank you.'
'I know I am. But don't dare take advantage of my benevolent nature Scratchitt! Be here all the more early the following day. You may be content to take lard from your employer for no work, but frankly I find such behaviour contemptible. Don't forget that! Now dirty up this factory and clean it again, then you may leave!'
Colin tugged the ghost's robe. 'Spirit, I don't understand. Why are you showing us this?'
'You'll understand soon enough, Colin The Crab. Now we go back outside, and forward seven hours.'
Outside in the pouring snow, a huge boy sat in a wheelbarrow, holding a pair of crutches in his sausage-like fingers. Green translucent icicles had begun to form on his nose, and his lips were a dark shade of purple.
'What the hell is that?' said Bob. 'Are whales returning to the land?'
'That's Titanic Tim,' said the Spirit. 'Blob's youngest child.'
At that moment the factory door opened and Blob Scratchitt skipped out.
'Father!' said the boy.
'Tim! You're still here! I feared you'd have returned home.'
'On Christmas Eve!' said Tim. 'I wouldn't miss our traditional Christmas shopping trip for the world!'
'Of course not,' Blob smiled. He lifted up the wheelbarrow and pushed it across the snow.
'I can't wait to see all the lovely things,' said Tim. 'Did Old Mr Scrungebucket give you any money this year, father?'
'No, I'm afraid not,' said Blob. 'But we'll have more than enough with all the lard I have, and each other.'
'Yes father,' said Tim. 'God bless us!'
Blob and Titanic Tim faded into the darkness.
'Now we're going to Blob's home,' said the ghost. 'His family celebrate Christmas at this time every year. Take my robe and hold on tight while I whip us up a brown storm.'
A loud fart ripped through the cold night air and they lifted off. It wasn't long before they floated back down and landed in a narrow thoroughfare. People plodded up and down carrying assorted Christmas goodies: turkeys, bags of hot chestnuts, presents. There was an atmosphere of serenity and calmness in the air in spite of the hustle and bustle.
The ghost led Bob and Colin off the street and into a narrower street called "Dark Alley". Here there were assorted beggars and heathens lying in the gutters, muttering incomprehensible incantations as they passed.
'I don't like this one bit,' whispered Bob.
'Don't worry, they don't know we're here,' Colin replied.
The spirit took another turning into "Darker Alley", then another into "Pitch Black Alley", each more claustrophobic than the last, before finally entering "Crapper's Row", along which a steaming yellow brook carved it's way through the snow and over the cobblestones. Here there were no houses. The alley was lined on each side by a row of cubicles that disappeared into the distance.
'Yuk,' said Bob. 'This place is disgusting!'
'Ssshh!' said the Ghost, 'I'm counting. We're looking for number three hundred and sixty-seven.'
'Why?'
'Please keep quiet until we get there.'
'Why don't they just put numbers on the doors?' said Colin.
'People who live here are too poor to be able to afford door numbers,' the ghost explained.
'People live here?'
'Ssshhh! I'll lose count!'
After walking for some time, Bob, Colin and the Ghost of Christmas Present stopped outside a damp wooden door which looked pretty much like every other wooden door that lined the alley. Something green and brown appeared to be growing over it, and a brownish wisp of gas seeped out through the gap at the bottom. There was no door handle, just a hole into which the ghost inserted a finger and pulled it open a crack. Inside, Bob could see a tramp wearing a ragged, torn and mud-covered suit, and a top hat that appeared to have a family of rats nesting in it. The man was standing astride a toilet and relieving himself, though not in the traditional way. He was so drunk he'd forgotten to undo his trousers, so he just stood, with one hand against the side of the cubicle to support himself, while a damp patch spread around his groin. Finishing up, he grunted then left, walking right through Bob. Bob let out a shriek.
'We are the shadows now,' the ghost explained. 'No-one can see, hear or touch us.'
'So how could you touch and open the door?' Colin asked.
'Ghost stories are often full of such inconsitencies, Colin the Crab.'
'Why are we here anyway?' Colin continued. 'This is just a toilet. I thought we were going to someone's house.'
'We are, look!'
At that moment a the figures of a woman and a handful of children emerged from the shadows at the back of the cubicle, and the head of a girl popped up out of the toilet bowl.
'What are they doing here?' said Bob.
'Blob Scratchitt and his family live here,' the ghost explained. 'This toilet - this public toilet - is their home. It's all they can afford.'
'That's terrible!' said Colin. 'But if they're so poor, why do they all look so corpulent?'
'An exclusive diet of lard. Now watch and listen, both of you!'
The young girl whose head was sticking up out of the toilet bowl spoke.
'Where's father and Titanic Tim, mother? I'm hungry!'
'Now now Martha, before you eat you're going to wash all that poo out of your hair. I don't want your father to see you in that state. Not at Christmas, of all times of the year!'
Martha ducked back into the toilet and her mother gave the chain a hard tug. 'That's better,' she said, as Martha's soaking head popped back up.
'Oh mother, I have an idea!' said a boy. 'Why doesn't Martha hide! We can pretend she's not coming this year!'
'Oh that's a splendid idea Peter,' said Mother. 'That'll really upset your father on Christmas Day. He might even start crying!'
'Or die of sadness!' said Martha.
'Quick,' said Peter. 'I can hear him coming!'
Mother pushed Martha's head back into the toilet and closed the lid. At that moment Blob Scratchitt squeezed into the cubicle with the wheelbarrow containing Titanic Tim.
'Hello Dears,' said Mother. 'Did you both have a wonderful time at the shops?'
'Well, yes and no,' said Blob. 'Help me get Titanic Tim out of this will you Peter?'
In the confined space of the cubicle, Peter supported the boy as Blob up-ended the wheelbarrow. Tim spilled out onto the floor, his arms and legs sticking up into the air. Now there was almost no room to move.
'So what happened?' Mother asked.
'We tried to get a turkey, but since we're so poor and have no money, it was a bit difficult. In the end all the butcher would offer me was a manky left over gizzard from three Christmasses ago, but in exchange he wanted one of Tim's legs, so I said no.'
'Never mind my Dear,' said Mother. 'I'm sure we'll be just fine with whatever you got from the lard factory.'
'That's the other problem,' said Blob. 'Times are hard for lard. Apparently it's been linked to obesity and heart attacks and the Lord only knows what else. Lard isn't selling as much as it used to, so there was no Christmas lard bonus this year.'
'So we have nothing?' said mother, tears welling up in her eyes. 'Nothing to eat on Christmas Day?'
'I didn't say that, did I?' said Blob, a mischevious grin appearing on his face. 'I offered to give the factory a good clean, which is why I'm so late. In return Mr Scrungebucket said I could keep all the lard scrapings I could find. Some of it is a bit old and crumbly, but there's plenty to go around!'
'Hurrah!' said all the children in unison.
'Mary, Joseph and Phil Collins!' exclaimed mother, clapping her hands as Blob took out handfuls of white, yellow and brown scum from his pockets and trouser turn ups.
'Get stuck into that lot!' said Blob, before his smile transformed into a frown. He looked around the cubicle, counting the children with an extended finger. 'Why, where's our Martha?' he said.
'Oh, she's not coming,' mother replied.
'Not coming? Not coming on Christmas Day?' said Blob.
The children couldn't hold back their laughter, then mother joined in.
'You scallywags!' said Blob. 'Where is she?'
'Here!' said Peter, opening the toilet lid. His laughter stopped. 'Oh,' he said. 'She appears to have suffocated.'
'As long as she's here, that's the main thing,' said Blob.
'And if she's dead, that means there's more lard for the rest of us!' said Peter.
'And we could cook her!' said Titanic Tim.
'Well if it isn't our very own Christmas miracle!' mother cried. 'The sweet baby Jesus Barry Manilow has done it again!'
'Hurrah!' the children cried once more.
'God bless us, everyone!' said Titanic Tim.
At that point a hobo squeezed into the cubicle, dropped his trousers, and plopped himself down on the toilet. A nasty squelching sound filled the room.
'I don't understand, spirit,' said Colin. 'Why are you showing us this?'
'It's simple really. Because, Colin, it shows that there are people in this world that are infinitely worse off than you are, yet they manage to keep the Christmas fire burning in their hearts.'
'Why does the boy, Titanic Tim, have crutches?'
'Being the youngest Scratchitt, Tim grew up in this place unable to move. So he has never learned to walk, and with all the lard he's consumed he's too fat to even stand without support.'
'Tell us spirit, will Titanic Tim live?' said Bob.
'I see a vacant toilet seat,' replied the Ghost, 'and a pair of crutches without an owner, carefully preserved. Also, the walls are dripping with semi-digested lard and flaps of purple blotchy skin. If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, the child will die. Probably as the result of an explosion.'
'But spirit, why doesn't Blob simply get another job?' Colin suggested.
'A fair point,' the ghost replied. 'Because although he is kind, and keeps Christmas in his heart and soul like all good men do, he is also a bit of a stupid git. All his friends have highly paid bank jobs in the City.'
'Bloody idiot,' said Bob.
'Money does not make the man, nor the underwater creature,' said the ghost, leading Bob back outside. 'And now I must leave you, Bob and Colin! There is more work for me to do this Christmas Eve!'
With that, the spirit let rip a violent bottom burp and lifted off into the night sky.
'Sprit, don't go yet!' Bob cried. 'I don't understand! What are we supposed to do? Save Titanic Tim?'
But it was too late. The ghost had disappeared into the night sky.
Bob and Colin found themselves in deserted Crapper's Row. The snow was getting heavier now, and being whipped up by a brisk icy wind. From somewhere came the faint toll of a cold iron bell. Then out of the shadows came another, darker shadow, somehow blacker than the blackness that surrounded it. As it approached, it revealed itself to be a cloaked, hooded figure. It glided across the snow, letting out little farts as it did, before coming to a rest in front of them.
'Are y - you the Ghost of Fishmas Yet To C - Come?' Colin asked, peering into the black hole where he'd expected to see the ghost's face.
Without speaking, the figure gave a slow, deliberate nod in response. A wisp of frosty breath spiralled out from inside his hood.
'Then take us where you must, spirit.'
The ghost led them back into Blob Scratchitt's home. Inside everyone was crammed around the bowl, on top of which was a mound of small presents wrapped with what appeared to be used toilet paper.
'Spirit, where is Titanic Tim?' Bob asked. The ghost extended a bony finger towards the Scratchitts.
One of the children, a young girl, was opening her present. When she'd finished, she placed it on the toilet and gave a sad smile.
'A lump of lard. Thank you father, it's just what I've always wanted,' she said.
Then Peter spoke in sombre tones. 'It's just not the same without Titanic Tim, is it?'
Wiping a tear from his eye, Blob spoke. 'Now everyone, we must remember that this is still a special time of the year, and Titanic Tim wouldn't want us to be sad. Wherever else he is at this moment, he's still here, in all of our hearts.'
'And all over the walls and ceiling, father,' said the girl.
Blob began to blub. 'Oh my Titanic Tim!' he cried.
The scene faded until Bob and Colin could see nothing but whiteness, and they felt themselves falling. Soon they landed with a thump in the deep snow, in a barren, unkempt cemetary. The ghost stood before them, pointing at a gravestone.
'What is this about, spirit?' Colin pleaded. 'Speak to us!'
The ghost stood motionless. His cold, skeletal index finger remained extended. Colin moved towards the stone, and slapped off the snow which obscured its carving. It read 'Here lies Barry Burpflap, may he rest in pieces.'
'I don't understand,' said Bob. 'Who is this person?'
The ghost took a piece of paper out of his pocket and examined it. Bob was sure he heard a sigh, then the ghost turned and pointed at another gravestone. Again Colin approached it and cleared the snow that covered it. As it turned out, the 'stone' was actually a misshapen lump of frozen lard. Someone had etched some words into it with a stick.
'In memory of Titanic Tim,' Colin read aloud.
Bob turned to the ghost. 'Haven't we already established that Titanic Tim has died?'
The ghosts shoulders dropped and its head shook from side to side.
'Why are you showing us these things?' Bob continued. 'I'm not sure what we're supposed to do about any of this. The Ghost of Christmas Present said it was to put Christmas back into our hearts, but why all this Titanic Tim stuff?'
Suddenly the ghost spoke, in a high-pitched lispy voice. 'Look, will you stop asking me these bloody stupid questions,' he said. The words 'stop' and 'stupid' left a fine, frosty spray of spit hanging in the air.
The ghost removed his hood to reveal the irritated face of an old man. 'How the bloody hell am I supposed to know?' he continued. 'I go to the boss, he gives me a list of people to scare and places to go. I go, I scare, I point. Ok? I go back to the boss, he says "Good job Keith, here's some ectoplasm for your troubles." That's all I know, okay?'
'Could you stop saying words beginning with "s" please?' said Bob, wiping his face.
'Now, it's bloody cold, I'm done with you and I've got other people to see so remember what I showed you, Ebenezer Scrungebucket. Goodnight!' finished the ghost. He returned to his piece of paper. 'Scrungebucket, Scrungebucket,' he muttered. 'What a bloody stupid name.'
'I'm not Ebenezer Scrungebucket,' said Bob. 'I'm Bob. Bob The Fish.'
'And I'm Colin. Colin the Crab,' said Colin.
'Eh?' said the ghost. 'Oh great. Why does this always happen to me? Scrungebucket is supposed to be here. No doubt that useless hairy giant has messed things up again. Every bloody year the same.'
'What were you supposed to show us then?' Colin asked.
'I don't know, you're not even on my list. Look, just try to enjoy Fishmas for Oliver's sake.'
'Ok spirit. So you're off to get Ebenezer Scrungebucket now?' Bob asked.
'I'll have to. It's quite a serious case, and probably nothing like yours. What's it to do with you anyway?'
'Oh, nothing.'
Using his bionic eyes, Bob quickly examined the address on the ghost's list and committed it to memory. Then the scene faded once more.
'Colin! Colin!' Bob cried. He'd swam across to Colin's bed and was shaking him awake.
'Aaaargh!' Colin screamed. 'No! Get off!'
Bob dropped Colin back onto his bed. 'What's the matter old chum?' he asked.
'You were trying to kill me!' said Colin. 'You've really gone bonkers this time!'
'No I wasn't!' said Bob. 'I was just waking you up. It's Christmas Day!'
'You like Christmas again?' Colin asked.
'Yes, old chum!'
'I do too!' Colin added.
Then, in unison they both shouted 'I had the most amazing dream!'
Bob and Colin stared at one another in disbelief.
'So it wasn't a dream,' said Colin. 'It all happened!'
'Yes, it did.' said Bob. 'And I've seen the light! Everything makes sense now Colin. Come on, we've got a Christmas Day adventure to go on!'
Some time later, Ebenezer Scrungebucket woke to the sound of Christmas bells. He jumped out of his bed and threw open the windows. Spotting a young boy down in the snow outside his house, he called out.
'You, boy!' he said. 'What day is it?'
'Why it's Christmas Day o' course, y' senile old twonk,' said the boy.
'What a remarkable boy!' said Scrungebucket. 'Do you know the Argos in the next street but one?'
'Of course I do,' said the boy. 'Me mum works there dun't she?'
'What an intelligent boy! Go there and buy me a skip load of shiny crap!'
'On Christmas Day?' said the boy, 'Don't be a dozy git. There's never anyfink in stock on a good day, never mind Christmas Day. Anyway, it's closed innit?'
'Break in then!' Scrungebucket suggested.
'Now yer making sense mate,' said the boy, and he started off.
'Wait!' shouted Scrungebucket. 'I want a huge turkey too!'
Scrungebucket stared up at the sky, his eyes glistening. 'Blob will be so surprised,' he said. 'Thank you spirits! I promise to keep Christmas in my heart, and to make amends for my nastiness. And Titanic Tim will live!'
Scrungebucket closed the windows and began to dance a merry jig around his bedroom. At that moment the door burst open and Bob The Fish shot in. Before his face could even register a look of confusion, Scrungebucket received the biggest fish slap Bob had ever dished out. The old man flew across the room and smashed through the windows. He was dead even before he hit the snow outside with a soft thud.
'Right, that's the first job done,' said Bob, wiping his fins as Colin scurried in after him, wearing a bright purple bobble hat and scarf.
'So you've decided to murder old people at Christmas,' he said. 'Instead of drowning kiddies. And you haven't gone bonkers.'
'You were there last night,' said Bob. 'Weren't you listening? Titanic Tim was going to explode if his father carried on working for this evil old miser.'
'He didn't look that evil to me,' said Colin. 'He was dancing around the room when we came in. He had a big smile on his face.'
'He'd probably just drowned a puppy in a bucket or something, to cheer himself up,' Bob suggested.
Bob sat at a desk and wrote out a fake suicide note, in which Scrungebucket left all his belongings, including the lard factory, to Blob.
'So what's the next thing we're doing on this so-called adventure?' said Colin, as they left Blob Scratchitt's new home. 'Use a kitten to hammer in a nail?'
'No, that's the end of our adventure. Now we go home and eat a slap up Christmas dinner!'
'That's more like it,' said Colin, rubbing his claws together.
Bob and Colin sat at home in front of a roaring fire. They had just finished a huge dinner and were each enjoying a generous glass of oyster whisky, while watching the obligatory Christmas Day James Pond film on TV. This year it was Fishfinger.
'Who do you think the best James Pond is, Bob?' said Colin, stifling a crabby burp.
'Has to be Prawn Connery,' said Bob, nodding towards the TV. 'And this film is probably the best of the lot.'
'The song's one of the best too,' said Colin. 'Who sings it?'
'Shirley Bass,' said Bob.
'I like the bit when they find that woman on the bed,' said Colin. 'Coated from head to toe in breadcrumbs.'
'I bet you do,' said Bob, grinning.
'You wouldn't think that would kill her though, would you?'
'It's when she gets cooked under that huge grill,' Bob answered, 'That's what finishes her off.'
Colin put a claw to his chin. 'Any other good James Pond fish puns Bob?' he asked.
'Goldenfisheye?'
'Hmmm,' said Colin. 'The Man With The Golden Fish? The Fish With The Golden Gun?'
'Perhaps we should stop doing that now,' Bob suggested.
'I'm stuffed,' said Colin, this time failing to stifle a crabby burp.
'Me too,' said Bob, patting his belly. 'That was the best Christmas dinner ever!'
'Urgh!' said Colin, pinching his nose with a claw. 'That's disgusting! You could cut the air with a knife! No more Brussels Sprouts for you this year Bob.'
'That wasn't me,' said Bob.
'Well it wasn't me either,' Colin replied, then his eyes glazed over and he smiled.
Bob laughed and raised his glass. 'Don't worry Ghosts of Fishmas,' he said. 'You have that one on us. Merry Fishmas old chum!'
'Oliver bless us, everyone!' said Colin.