Titschmarsh takes us through a classic Christmas.
I am Titschmarsh. Some say a God, some say a gardener. I am the beginning, the middle, and the end of the universe; I am the creator, the destroyer, the sun and the moon. I eat concrete and shit granite. I am the overlord of this detritus.
Let me take you through my Christmas, foul stinking pallid followers of the stench. Waking from a sleep in which I am faced down, breathing curses into the silent maw, I scream myself out of bed, using the air from my mouth, like a hovercraft. Breakfast in the Yuletide consists of the punctured lung I stole from a hospital bin, seven mothballs and a flagon of tea, siphoned from my bloated vats. I consume all, while leaning at the open front door, yelling through gritted teeth, seething at the sky.
A keen gardener, I am out there in seconds, tearing into the nettles like a hungry bear hunting for salmon, ripping the stinging leaves from their comforting roots, my mouth an impure, swollen spectacle, blinking at the sun as it condemns the Christmas land, and my own thrilling actions. Christmas is about arousal, from the soil to the balls. After my sexual romp through the woodlands, I end with a fist right in the exact centre of my scrotum, the pain sends me into a calm, relaxing reverie.
Time to cook Xmas dinner! This is composed of an antique clock broiled in its own passage of time, followed by stuffing made from chimney soot, and a solid cube of dense meat from a minotaur’s arse. Real good with a woody, balsar ale, that one. Watching television, only one thing hits home. Videos of me pretending to strangle myself, for fourteen hours until I pass out from the ale and wake up in an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by dismissive pigeons.
Go fuck yourself for Christmas.