Worst flight of my life, thank God it’s over, they say. The look’s the same every damn one of these nights. That pale cracker skin all greened up around the edges. More zombie than usual. Dead flesh crumpled into sick-spattered suits. I done told em, I said, “Don’t you build no airport there Mr.Mayor, that’s where the kids go for the kite-flyin’”. He thought I meant to stand in the way of his precious progress with my negro sentimentality, dumb bastard. Still, makes an old man happy to know he’s right, that’s why I got my job here cleaning. Every day them pilots cross ‘emselves and talk of that slipstream. Every day these men in suits got that zombie look in their eye. Aint no voodoo, Jack, just plain old common sense.
            The trembling figure walked by the janitor, pausing to steady himself on a plastic palm. Kristov Zerf had come from the other side of the planet, Lane-Serbia, on a mission of self-discovery. A culture clash handily allegorised as he vomited his sauerbraten all over the discarded McDonalds packaging lining the base of the plastic palm. The great land of opportunity had spat its furious jealousy out upon him and he stood, soaked. As he straightened up, brushed himself down, he thought about what lay ahead of him, outside those restless glass doors. He wanted it to be exactly how he imagined it; filled to the brim with angry ignorant sociopaths, just like the ones in the movie posters on his bedroom wall.
            The air was cold as it hit him, just like home. There was something new in it though. Something… the smell of… stale beer. Yes, to a bar, to an American bar I shall go, pardner!

 
    “Hey, check out carrot-top.”
    “Yeah, he looks like a fuckin’ faggot.”
    “Hey carrot-top! You’re a fuckin’ faggot!”
    “Howdy.” Answered Kristov, waving as he walked past a couple of teenaged girls. ‘Like apple-pie’, he thought.
            The bar wasn’t exactly jumping. Crowds of three of four people loitered in shadows, sucking on dark bottles and occasionally braying like wild dogs. Not yet settled in his English, Kristov decided he’d have a drink before he went and made friends with someone. The barman eyed him suspiciously,
    “Hey! You some kinda foreigner?”
    “Howdy, yes, from Lane-Serbia!”
    “Sounds faggy.”
    “Yes… vodka please.”
            The barman chuckled slightly under his breath at his own dry cool wit as he poured out the vodka. He could always tell a foreigner. This guy comes in here wearing a suit, a shitty one at that, and thinks he’s some kind of big shot. Well fuck him, he should go back where he came from. I love America because she signifies my Momma and I hate you because the knowledge of things beyond this bar threatens my masculinity.
    “Here you go, faggot. Vodka straight from umbongo-bongoland, just like your Mama used to make.”
    “Thankyou.”
            It was then, sipping on the American vodka that tasted suspiciously like petrol, that Kristov Zerf first saw Jimmy Lee, and the lights did him no favours. At first he thought someone had left out a rotting animal or a sack of hamburger meat, but then it began supping on a whiskey. Kristov started walking down the bar towards it, getting close enough to see the ragged half-afro of black hair clinging to a scalp of knotted scar-tissue. Close enough to note the strange lumps that protruded from under his football jersey and the pipes that pulsed, moving fluids around his stick-like limbs.
    “Howdy pardner. Mind if I have a drink here?”
    “Whatever.” His voice was a gruff whisper, oddly mellifluous, like a chainsaw being revved many miles away, in the middle of a gale, “What should I call you, buddy?”
    “My name is Kristov Zerf. I come from Lane-Serbia. We drink vodka there too.”
    “Sounds like a nice place.” He lifted the whiskey to his lips again, his hand a clawlike mess of twisted flesh and skin. “So, Zerf, what’s your business? You here selling something or what?”
    “Back home I fix the cars. President gave me a medal once after I fixed his car. President give out medals for lots of things. I think he full of bullshit.”
    “Hahaharrrblrblrlbr…” His laughter occasioned bubbling foam to drip from a blister-sore in his throat. Zerf laughed along with it. It said a lot for American healthcare that this man could still be alive, which was a real surprise after the propagandist tales back in socialist Lane-Serbia. He supposed this man must be one of the rich capitalist dogs he’d been told of… he didn’t look like one though, “May I ask you what you do, Mister?”
    “You mean you don’t know, Zerf?”
    There was a moment of silence as the scarred head turned awkwardly towards Zerf. As their eyes met he found himself staring into the only undamaged part of the stranger’s body, a pair of baby-blue eyes beneath perfect, arching eyebrows. It grabbed him a moment with an uncanny memory, half-remembered, something of childhood, then he shouted in that broken voice across the bar,
    “Hey, Joey! This guy doesn’t know who I am!”
    “That makes two of us, Jimmy. You aint been big in years, you lousy wash-up!”
    “Fuck you Joey… as per usual!”
     He turned back to Zerf, those glassy eyes turning for a moment confidential. They reminded him of sitting upon his grandfather’s knee, and of long naps before the crackling television glow. The voice trailed out like wet steam,
    “I’m Jimmy Lee, kid.”
            It was then it came floating back; the jangling theme-tune, the pearly-white smile, the puppets slapping each other about in the background. He had watched the show as a child back in Lane-Serbia. It was the number one rated kids show, perhaps the only one allowed past the censors almost wholly uncut. Many of his most important childhood lessons had been learned off this mass of flesh, but… well, he used to be a little more… skin-covered…
    “Yes, I remember you very well, Mr. Jimmy Lee. Mr Christmas Single Man!”
    “Yeah, Christmas Single Man…”
    “With mulberry corner, and the curious caterpillar who went into the mystical caverns!”
    “Yeah, yeah, that guy…”
    “And with the, how’s it go… It’s Christmas time, so eat me up, give me those presents don’t be a schmuck…”
    “NO! NO! ARGHBBLURGHARGHKKGGHH!!”
            The whiskey smashed against the wall and the chair bounced off the pool table as The Christmas Single Man thrashed around screaming. He writhed in agony, pulling lumps of flesh out of where his ears used to be, then lunged out of the bar into the night.
    “Look what you’ve done now, you dumb ginger bastard,” The barman cleaning a glass, the rag in his hand turning with slow annoyance, “You’re going to have to go after him. I’m not getting involved again.”

 
            It was an hour before Zerf finally found him. He was hunched under an abandoned railway tunnel, sobbing out bloody tears. Not quite knowing what to do, Zerf sat himself down next to him, placing his overcoat over the quivering shoulders, wiping the blood away with a handkerchief.
    “I’m sorry Mr Lee, I didn’t know that I was upsetting you.”
    “It’s okay, kid. You could never have known. They never showed it outside of Japan anyway…”
    “What didn’t they show?”
            The sobbing began again for a minute or two. It sounded like the stop-starting of an engine with a flat battery. Eventually he managed to get it started and under the soupy green twilight he began the tale of The Playing Out of Show 194…

 
            I was big, king big, big kahuna big, top-of-the-world big, I owned it, I ruled it, I had it every night, kapow, zing, zaz, the wow factor, everyone knew it, and loved it, and loved me, I was Christmas Single Man!
     Flying round the world,
     Bringing joy to boys and little, uh, girls!
The only problem was that the same world was now getting smaller. People were asking questions, and not good ones. You have to remember that this wasn’t the fifties anymore… the popularisation of the Big Bang theory, man landing on the moon… people were beginning to wonder. I mean, I know it wasn’t all a cultural problem, it was partly me…
     Dancing through that snow-white powder
     You laugh, and I will hold you, uh, harder!
But how else was I supposed to handle it. I was getting letters everyday from wide-eyed, smart alecky little kids. Do they have Christmas on the moon? What about on all the other planets with intelligent life on them? Couldn’t you ask Santa for the blueprints to his sleigh, it’s unpatriotic to keep us behind in the space-race Mr Lee… Argh! And it wouldn’t be too bad if it wasn’t for the collapse of the ratings.
     Christmas comes but once a year
     The only time for fun and, uh, cheer!
Apparently nobody wanted to watch Christmas Single Man in August anymore. When did I become… that, anyway? I was always the all-round entertainer, but do a few kids shows, release a few Christmas singles… Well, I’m not saying I’m not grateful for the cash, but it was pure desperation that led me to it.
            A hundred and ninety-three shows and we were down to as many viewers… ratings suicide. So what do we do? Why, time to make a special, time to call in the big guns…

 
            It was all going well, we’d had real elves flown in all the way from Iceland (one of which turned out to be a very young Bjork, by the way), the Russian Bearkateers had performed a wonderful ice-dance for us and then Todger and Gnut had just launched into their legendary “Whose is this turd, here on the floor?” sketch. I was back stage, soaking it in, having a whale of a time as usual, when Berny comes up to me.
    “Hey Jimmy, just thought I’d updaycha. We’re not going for the usual black-suit-blue-screen set up for the final number.”
    “What d’you mean? But that’s my patented Christmas Single style!”
    “Exactly, Jimmy, exactly… that’s why we’re going to update it. Give the kids what they want to see. I’m telling you Jimmy, you’ll be bigger than ever!”
            I mumbled agreement, little or no idea what was going to come of it. Still, the number was a good two ad breaks off so I decided to head back to the dressing room to snort up a little Christmas cheer with Sandy, Santa’s little helper…

 
    “Is my tie straight?”
            The figure of Jimmy Lee appeared, shoved before the audience. Runners waved signs with “applaud wildly” written on them, but they seemed to have little effect. The figure stood alone, surrounded by silent eyes. A small, not-undaunted cough and he spoke into the microphone,
    “Okay, ladies and gents, boys and girls at home. You know what it’s time for… that’s right! A new song from me, Christmas Single Man!”
    Deathly silence.
    “Now, I hope you’re not too disappointed all you fans out there in TV land, but this year we’ve decided to make my song just that little bit more special. So, we called up Santa and he sent us his best elves who, with a little pixie dust, and a lotta-lotta love, have cooked up this special treat for us all tonight!”
            As Jimmy Lee turned around, his hand pointing in the direction of the parting curtains, he was as surprised as anyone at what was wheeled out. Through drifting swirls of dry ice vapour came a huge bronze pig. On its face was painted a huge, sparkly-toothed smile and atop its head was the traditional red-white Christmas cap. It rolled forward to a hyperbolic fanfare and pulled up before Jimmy, the elves who’d wheeled it in scattering, only to return with a step ladder that they placed beside the immense pig.
    “Well, I erm… yes, isn’t it amazing boys and girls! A huge Christmas pig to help me sing the song.”
    His earpiece crackled in his ear, the voice of the director muttering, “Get in! You sing it from inside!”
    “Now boys and girls, I’m just going to clamber up here…” As he reached the top he saw how the pig was hollow, and there was just room enough for him to lie down in there, “and now I’ll climb inside this Christmas pig and sing you you’re wonderful new Christmas song.”
            The audience watched as the back of the pig closed up over Christmas Single Man and its snout was turned to face out at them. Behind it the curtains opened up again and it was revealed that the smoke wasn’t dry ice, but actual smoke. It was rising up from a blazing inferno, a huge Christmas fireplace, with stockings hung above it the size of houses and whole trees in it instead of logs. Around the fire danced all the puppets and the Bearkateers and a circle of elves dressed all in green. Then the circle broke off and the elves all donned cowboy hats and lassoes. The ringle-tingle of a country music Christmas song began to blare out from the speakers and the elves danced in time, laughing and miming riding horses and throwing their ropes around the pig. With the pig firmly hog-tied they danced away, only to be replaced by burly men dressed as reindeer that took up the ropes and began pulling the pig back, into the fireplace.
            The flames began licking the underside of the pig and the bronze began to glow a Christmassy golden. The molten light started at the base of the belly and slowly filled the entire pig. As the pig shone, radiant and bright, the voice came booming from within it. It was more soulful than any song Jimmy Lee had ever previously attempted and the crowd went wild. The sound echoed around the studio, played extra-loud out of the pig’s snout via an auto-tuner, masking anything that could possibly be taken for the screams of man boiling alive in a liquid-bronze coffin,

 
It’s Christmas time, so eat me up,
Give me those presents, don’t be a schmuck,
Cos when those Christmas Bells start to ring,
You know you gotta sing, sing, sing.

 
Elves dance in a circle, mimicking the growls of bears in deep-bass doo-wop. Cowboys ride in on pigs and fire candy-cane pistols into the air.

 
One day a pig said “Hey there man,
I’d like to thank you for this food if I can,
So at Christmas time, toss me in the pan,
And I can serve my master as a plate of, uh, ham!

 
The audience gets on its feet, madly jiving and dancing and screaming. The elves circle the pig, breaking off occasionally to perform flying somersaults over the pigs. The cowboys form up with the choir and Nazi-salute in time to the music.

 
Yeah, It’s Christmas time, so eat me up,
Give me those presents, don’t be a schmuck,
Cos when those Christmas Bells start to ring,
You know you gotta sing, sing, sing!

 
Power-suited women rush the stage wearing giant plastic “Christmas Single Man” heads of all races and colours. The heads shoot fireworks from ears and nostrils. The elves dance in the glittering sparks, collecting the blood dripping from the pigs belly into red and green buckets.

 
You know that Christmas time is sometimes hard,
Aint even got enough for a Christmas, uh, Card,
But Christmas time’s for shopping, so I’ll pay with lard
As the bag of pork scratchings at the local bar!

 
An urchin is carried onto the stage on an operating table. The cowboys throw him into a golden wheelchair whilst elves tie him up in tinsel. The buckets of blood are thrown into his face, the blood magically replaced by deep-red festive streamers. The audience launch small change at the boy from reindeer-antler catapults.

 
Yeah, It’s Christmas time, so eat me up,
Give me those presents, don’t be a schmuck,
Cos when those Christmas Bells start to ring,
You know you gotta sing, sing, uh, sing!

 
The boy splits open, coating the audience in glitter and gore; from within bursts Father Christmas and the crowd erupts. Simultaneously a giant fork is lowered into the bronze pig’s back; the handle of the fork is revealed as a cross and a crucified Jesus waves out at the crowd. The elves, bears, puppets, cowboys, giant-man-head women and choir-singers perform ritual humiliations before the dual deities and the pig’s mouth opens, spewing fire and roaring,

 
Merry Christmas Everybody!

 
Explosions! Explosions! Explosions!

 
And the credits rolled. And the adverts began…


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