Reginald Scratchesit

I'm reminded today of that old gag...."What do you think of Dickens?"...."I don't know, I've never been to one."
I've never been one to waste the opportunity for a cheap chortle so I could just leave it at that - but it IS relevant. You see, I think I have turned into a Dickensian character.
Like many of Chaz's (Boz's?) characters, particularly those in A Christmas Carol, my lot this festive season has been, on the face of it, not been a happy one. There was the disastrous start which was Christmas Eve. I then woke on Christmas Day with a form of cholera which has confined me to my bed for long stretches and is only now just beginning to subside.
A lack of funds, a dying dog and a looming divorce had already led Mrs Pither and I to decide Christmas would be cancelled this year. As a result, there are no decorations up at The Towers, there is no tree, no presents, no turkey, no port, no plum pudding.........fuck all!
Now, as if to proverbially put the Aids-riddled fairy well and truly atop my woodworm-ravaged Christmas tree, Mrs Pither has gone back to work and will be heading off from there to her mother's in the frozen north - for five days! That leaves me and the chaps alone in Tinselless Town, probably on New Year's Eve as well, with almost nothing. Picture us huddled around the light of just one, dim candle for warmth with just three eggs and a pack of bacon a week past its sell-by date to sustain us.

Now, all of the above would, you might think, make me akin to a character in an EastEnders Christmas special, or someone in one of Leonard Cohen's cheery ditties, but no. You see, like so many of Dickens's heroes, I am in fact quite contented.

I am not starving to death. I am not dying of thirst. In fact, I am not dying in any way, other than the way in which we are all dying as the years roll by. My home is not being bombed and I do not risk being shot if I step outside. I am not cold. I am not exhausted. I am not languishing in some hellhole jail and I am not scared, totally alone or without hope. The truth of the matter is that the things I AM pale into insignificance alongside the things I AM NOT.

Bob Cratchit was of a similar mind. The poor bastard got only one day off a year, his youngest was a cripple, he lived in a shithole, his missus had a face like a smacked arse, he earned about fourpence every six years and the biggest feast he could rustle up amounted to a bag of nuts, three brussel sprouts, an old potato and a mug of Vimto................but he was happy! His happiness was down not to clinical insanity and a complete inability to realise how crappy life was but to his ability to realise just how lucky he was in comparison to some.

This sanctimonious load of holier-than-thou, saccharin-laden cobblers is being brought to you courtesy of encounters I have had over the last few days with several people - some in the flesh, some on the wireless, some on the Devil's Lantern.

Excuse the heavy irony here, but I've had it up to just above there with people complaining. If they've not been bleating on about how unhappy they are, how no-one loves them or how alone they feel in the world, they have been twining about how life is unfair and how they wanted to kill themselves because Sainsbury's had run out of family-sized chocolate logs!! FUCK OFF!! If I'd wanted to hear something bleating in my ear continually I'd have spent Christmas on a sheep farm! GET A FUCKING GRIP AND......AND.....AND.....WELL.......JUST CHEER UP, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!!

"My girlfriend has left me, Reg."
"Good! She was a mad old trout. Think positive - now you can walk about the house in just your pants as much as you like."

"I feel lonely today, Reg."
"There's a reason for that. Everyone hates you! Why not just talk to the voices in your head?"

"I hardly got any presents."
"Here's one.....THWACK!!!"

"I feel really depressed, Reg."
"And by depressing me you are achieving what exactly?"

I realise some might accuse me of hypocrisy, Pither not being widely known as a little ray of sunshine. In my defence, I would say that my ire and, on occasions, my despondency, are always aimed at other people or things. I never say "pity poor me" or "I want your sympathy and love" because I am patently aware that no-one gives a shit! Primarily, however, I don't bleat about my lot because I CAN COPE! There IS always someone worse off than you (it's me!!)

So, here's to Dickens's newest creation.............Reginald Scratchesit. God bless us, each and every one!
(Self pity can go to Grantham).


(Master Scratchit may apparently have some awful spinal condition or have had a broomhandle shoved all the way up his arse but he is still happy as he shares a warming jug of Scruttocks Old Dirigible with the village child molester.)

P.S. Talking about creatures which never bemoan their lot, my Padfoot is doing remarkably well. He has, in fact, had a splendid Christmas! Friends have been bringing round the left-overs from their Christmas meals on a regular basis and so he has been tucking into turkey, beef, gammon and pork, among other things. He really is looking good, especially now the hair is growing back from his operation. Also, he is eating so well he has actually started to put weight back on!
He is so happy he has, once again, taken to play-fighting with his brother and sisters, gripping his dad's arm in his jaw when he gets excited and trundling around the house after both myself and Mrs P in case there are any more goodies to be had. Even his legs seem to have regained a lot of strength and he now hops in and out of the house with apparent ease. Hell, he can even jump onto the settee to sleep at night. He is doing very, very well.



We both know the cancer in his chest is likely to be inoperable, but it looks like he has a while left yet and, far from continuing to deteriorate, he is staging something of a fight back, however fleeting it might be. Hurrah!