A Crackhead Christmas:

By Fatman


After spending three years at Boundary Lane manor for the homeless and insane albert map decided it was time to move on. Retrospectively, it had been the worst three years of his life having had to put up with a mad jock threatening a Spanish goony bird, a lunatic alcoholic bench bum smashing windows and losing keys, and mice.

Add to this the local brat squad smashing bits off his car and booting the door every Friday night, he had finally come to the end of his tether and made plans to up sticks and move to a small hamlet just outside the “City of vulture” Liverpool.

After a short waiting period he was offered a one-bed apartment in the Meadow row complex in crackheadfields. Having settled in he was soon getting acquainted with the neighbours, who where only too happy to engage him in polite conversion like “Can you lend us a pound to get to Murdershaw” or “Nice bike. I’m keeping my eye on it, just in case someone tries to nick it.”

There was always plenty of cheerful and happy people to observe and Albert always remembered the sight of one of his neighbours banging on his door in just his underpants, holding a budgie cage in his hand. As Albert passed him he said “alright kid wife’s thrown me out bitch!”

The young residents at the end of the block always enjoyed a friendly gathering every Friday and Albert often wondered what that funny aroma was when he passed them on the balcony as they staggered in and out of their flat making strange noises. They had a strange ritual that accompanied their merry making of finishing off by smashing almost every window in their flat at the end of the evening or early morning. Albert thought it was a bit of a wicker man thing because it always coincided with the burning of several cars as a sacrifice to the Mong god.

As Christmas approached, sometime in the middle of November, the decks went up and the block was lit up with the same effervescence as the car park, just weeks before. It was a time of goodwill to fellow men and peace on earth and the sight of twenty youths playing football with some WPC’s, head down by the lake, was reminiscent of the Christmas spirit.

Christmas was here and Albert trudged wearily through the snow and dog shit on his way to Sparky Lane for dinner. Walking passed Crackheadfields shopping centre Albert could hear a strange banging noise, the closer he got the louder the noise. He sheepishly tried to blot out the sight of the man banging an iron bar against the steel shutters of the newsagents windows and nervously scuttled passed. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead as he reached the exit and was accompanied by a huge fart of relief.

Two dogs Sparky Lane, so called because most residents have at least two dogs. The millennium green being the main dumping ground for all these canines. Walking along the lane Albert passed some old nobhead with his dogs vaguely recognising each other the old git made a nodding gesture and said “alright mate”, Albert looked at the dogs, one was dragging its arse along the ground, while the other was squeezing its head, producing a huge yuletide log. “You gonna clean that up mate?” Albert said. The Old man looked vexed and replied “ Fuck off kid, that’s a present for a young mong.” Albert moved on swiftly. The snow was falling heavy and the local Muppet children were making snowmen. As Albert passed them the mongs threw a snowball at his head but Albert was too fast for them and dodged out its way, the snowball whizzed passed his head. After failing to hit their target they started shouting abuse at him. Albert continued his journey until he reached the gate of number four. He peered into the garden at the huge snowman built by his daft niece. As his passed the snowman he knocked its head off muttering 'bollocks' under his breath and opened the door breaking wind as he entered.