I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it provide a salutary reminder for those who have forgotten their true roots and the real meaning of Christmas.
Their faithful Friend and Servant, B.D.A.D.
Chapter 1: Christmas Eve, Wapping
Ebenezer Jones was the meanest, mealiest mouthed rugby correspondent in the world.
A tighter fisted wordsmith never had been. It was Christmas Eve, and Ebenezer was where he had spent the last ten Christmas Eves, in his cold, miserable office in the Docklands of London.
The office has long since been deserted, fellow journalists having departed many hours ago to get home to wives and loved ones. Only poor old Johnny D. Cratchit, faithful clerk to Ebenezer, was left in the office.
“Mr Jones?” squeaked poor Johnny
“What is it, Cratchit?” snapped Ebenezer “I pay you to type, not to speak.”
“Yes Mr Jones, but I’ve finished typing up your article.”
“Article? Article? Which article? My tirade against Welsh regional rugby?”
“No Mr Jones, I finished that one earlier.”
“My sycophantic grovelling article about the Aviva Premiership?”
“No Mr Jones, that was finished yesterday.”
“Which article then, damn you, which article?” Ebenezer demanded.
“Your profile on Clive Woodward – you know, the one where you say you want his babies.”
“It’s Sir Clive, Cratchit, Sir Clive……….”
For a very short moment, Ebenezer looked as though he was almost happy.
“Yes Sir, of course sir…….Um…”
“What is it Cratchit?”
“I pay you to work , Cratchit, not to go home…………Oh, bah humbug, be off with you, you villainous layabout. But don’t expect a Christmas bonus from me!”
Johnny D Cratchit got up to leave, and as he passed through the door shouted, “Thank you, Mr Jones. God Bless you Mr Jones.”
Moments later he re-emerged with Tiny Tim on his shoulder.
“Yes, what is it Cratchit?”
“It’s Tiny Tim, sir, he was waiting for me outside. He has something he wants to say to you Mr Jones.”
Johnny D Cratchit prompted Tiny Tim.
“Have a Merry Welsh Christmas Mr Jones,” whispered Tiny Tim, in between coughing up half his lung, “God Bless you and your family.”
“F**k off home, you little scrote” replied Ebenezer. “I don’t believe in Welsh Christmases. I don’t have a family, and the only God I need is now coaching the Lions! Be off with you both!”
But by this stage his words were lost as Johnny D. Cratchit side stepped through the doorway and was gone. Bang! There’s no beating pace.
Chapter 2: The First of the Three Spirits
It was 11.30pm and Ebenezer Jones had finally made it home to his penthouse suite in Twickenham, South-West London. He poured himself a small bowl of lumpy gruel and settled down in front of his 62 inch plasma screen TV, putting on his favourite DVD, ‘Laurence Dallaglio: Balls and Mauls’, a complimentary copy given to Ebenezer by the great man himself. Within five minutes Ebenezer had begun to drift off to sleep. He was awoken with a start by a voice booming from his TV.
“Filth, utter filth. Ebenezer, I cannot believe you are watching this filth.”
Ebenezer looked at his screen.
“Jesus Christ, it’s Carwyn James! On my screen!” yelped Ebenezer, “I thought you were dead!?”
“I am not Carwyn James,” intoned Carwyn James from Ebenezer’s TV, “I am the Ghost of Wales Past. And I am not dead, just resting between internationals before the Dragon awakens once more.
“I have come back to remind you, Ebenezer, of the past that you have so readily forgotten…A past when you were happy to call yourself a Welshman…Come with me, Ebenezer, come with me.”
The Ghost of Wales Past beckoned Ebenezer towards the TV screen. There was a flash of light, and suddenly Ebenezer found himself in a small room with a radio on the table and a young boy sat at the table, staring intently at the radio.
“Who is that boy?” asked Ebenezer.
“That is you Ebenezer, how you were before you are now.”
“God, I had a moustache even back then….What am I doing, Ghost of Wales Past?”
“You are listening to the radio, you stupid boy, what does it look like?” admonished the Ghost of Wales Past.
“What am I listening to so intently?” asked Ebenezer, straining forward, and then he caught it, the crackling intonations of the sports results on BBC Radio Wales. The announcers voice rang out:
“South Wales Police 3, Glamorgan Wanderers 3.”
“My God,” cried Ebenezer, “It’s the old Merit Table! Oh, how I loved that merit table.”
“Newport RFC 7, Penarth 0.”
“I remember that game, I remember that game! My god, I was happy then, Ghost of Wales Past! I was so happy. What has happened to me since those happy, heady days of my youth?”
“You have sold out,” replied the Ghost of Wales Past, “Sold out to the English media, to Planet Rugby, to Rupert Murdoch. You have forgotten your past, Ebenezer, forgotten where your ‘tache came from.”
“No!” cried Ebenezer, “You have to help me Ghost of Wales Past, you have to help me remember my past. I don’t want to be a sell out.”
But the Ghost of Wales Past had gone, and Ebenezer was left alone in the room with the boy with the strange moustache. Ebenezer fell on his knees as all around him faded to black and began to cry, just like a little girl, before eventually passing out.
Chapter 3: The Second of the Three Spirits
“Blimey, Sir Clive, that was a worrisome dream. Thankfully I’m now back safe and sound in my bed in South West London.”
“Don’t be too sure, Ebenezer” thundered a deep North Monmouthshire voice from the corner of the room. “I am the ghost of Wales Present and if the Ghost of Wales Past scared you then what I’ve got to show you is going to turn your tache white.”
A lumbering ghost from Gwent with a child frighteningly large head then stepped out of the shadows and the room began to spin. Ebenezer became quite dizzy and began to regret that nightcap of Lucozade Sport he’d shared with Sir Clive before bedtime. The room spun faster and faster until Ebenezer quite lost his grasp on reality and all he could see were Black and Amber stripes streaking past his eyes. Gradually that grotesque vision melted away and Ebenezer found himself standing on a concrete terrace at a sorry rugby ground.
“Remember this place, Ebenezer?” said the Ghost of Wales Present.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”
“It’s Rodney Parade, you great pillock. I admit not the most memorable place. Personally I can’t stand it but that’s by the by. The fact is Ebenezer you used to spend great amounts of time here enjoying yourself with your moustachioed, overweight friends watching rugby and talking bollocks. In short you used to come here and be Welsh. Now look at you. You support England against Wales. Criticise Wales and praise England when any Welshman should criticise absolutely everything including Wales but save up a special bit of bile for the English. And frankly that tache has become a bit of a disgrace.”
“But England’s so much nicer. They occasionally win things. And the players are all very tall and good looking.”
“Bloody hell!” replied the Ghost of Wales Present. “You really have lost the plot haven’t you? Tall, good looking, win things? Since when has that been something a Welshman wants? I give up. I’m taking you back to Twickenham.”
With that the Ghost of Wales Present smacked Ebenezer over the head with a love spoon and knocked him out. Ebenezer awoke back in his bedroom in Twickenham with a throbbing headache and the Ghost of Wales Present looming over him.
“I’m going to leave you now, Ebenezer, but you shall have one more visitor this night. An apparition more terrifying than any you can possibly imagine.”
The Ghost of Wales Present then vanished in a puff of red, black and white smoke leaving Ebenezer nursing a sore head and an uncontrollable fear that he was about to be visited by a creature that was half-Wallaby half-Kiwi bird and was intent on rogering him to death.
Chapter 4: The Third of the Three Spirits
Ebenezer lay huddled up in bed, fearing to move lest a new apparition appear before him. The temperature in the room had dropped by twenty degrees, and frost was forming on the edge of Ebenezer’s moustache. Worse than that, his bladder had kicked into overdrive, and he had to take a slash. He held on for as long as he could until it all became too much before, committing himself to dash off to the en-suite sink in his room. Just as he was about to move he was met by the most terrifying apparition of the night, a death like figure towering above him, scythe in one hand, skull in the other.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” screamed Ebenezer, all thoughts of his bladder long gone.
“Mate, I am the Ghost of Wales Future,” drawled a whiney nasal Australian voice. “I have come to show you what your future holds if you continue to write that tedious crap for the English broadsheets. Grab your coat, we’re going for a ride.”
With that, the windows of the penthouse flew open, and Ebenezer found himself flying through the air next to the Ghost. The ground below him began to blur as they sped up. He recognised the Severn Bridge as they flew overhead, until finally he saw a desolate wasteland below him.
“My God, cried Ebenezer, what has happened below? What terrible industrial accident has befallen this God forsaken land?”
“Mate,” replied the Ghost of Wales Future “That’s Newport town centre. It hasn’t changed at all in the last thirty years. It’s not that I want to show you, it’s this.”
Ebenezer and the Ghost of Wales Future swooped down over the outskirts of Cardiff. As they drew ever closer to the centre of the city Ebenezer began to hear tuneless murmuring echoing over the houses. It was a familiar sound yet felt strangely out of place and discordant. The murmuring grew and grew until the soulless reverberations were making Ebenezer’s St George flag cufflinks vibrate.
“We’ve reached our destination, Ebenezer. Cast your eyes over what the future holds for Wales,” announced the Ghost of Wales Future and with a wide sweep of his scythe pointed directly down below.
They were over the Millennium Stadium where there was a game of rugby in progress. Except neither of the sides was wearing the red shirt of Wales. One team was kitted out in white, the other in green. Suddenly the appalling murmuring became distinct:
“Swing low, sweet chariot…..”
“For Jonny’s sake,” cried Ebenezer.
“What has happened? I know that I’ve written some things that I didn’t really mean. Some nasty things about Wales and some lovely things about England. But I don’t understand what’s happening. And what’s it to do with me anyway?”
“The Poms now play all their fixtures at the Millennium Stadium,” replied the Ghost. “They’d never lost there. Wales had run out of money since all the crowds had stopped coming. So the Poms bought the whole place up. They’ve replaced the statue of that fellow Edwards in the shopping centre with one of Gareth Chilcott. St David’s Day’s been banned. Although to be fair that’s been quite a popular development. It’s illegal to own a red shirt. Tiny Tim’s started coaching Cardiff. And all the rugby clubs have to play in the English divisions.”
“Ah well I’ve always said that they should be playing in the English divisions.”
“The English West Country Fifth Division, Ebenezer. That’s where you’ll now find all the clubs including your own Black and Ambers. And it’s all your bloody fault, you big galah. The people in Wales kept on reading that nonsense you peddle, lost their pride, and stopped bothering to turn up to games because they weren’t going to be as good as they used to be or weren’t going to be as good as the games are in England. You’ve single handedly destroyed any hope there was in Wales.”
“Oh Lord, what have I done?” cried Ebenezer.
“And please stop this terrible singing. It’s making my yurs bleed.”
“Ah, Ebenezer. That’s more like it, mate. Only a Welshman could have bleeding yurs. I think you may just have saved yourself.”
The Ghost of Wales Future then raised his scythe and brought it crashing down on a screaming Ebenezer Jones.
Chapter 5 – The End of it
Ebenezer eventually opened his eyes, tentatively touching his neck, fearing that his head had been separated from his body. With great relief he realised that he was back in the familiar surroundings of his Twickenham bedroom with his head firmly intact. But something was different. Where once there had been an autographed baseball cap on the bureau there was now a Grogg of Dai Watkins. A vase of freshly blooming daffodils stood proudly on the mantelpiece. A Welsh flag towel was draped over the back of his armchair. Ebenezer looked down at himself in surprise. Where before there had been only pristine white flesh there was now an assortment of tattoos ranging from the mundane three feathers to a graphic and anatomically quite remarkable three-dimensional representation of a fire breathing dragon.
A broad grin broke out below Ebenezer’s now luxuriant black moustache. He strode to the window and flung it open. A young lad was walking below.
“What day is this?”
“Why it’s Christmas Day, Mr Jones!”
“And you are a young Englishman are you not? A lover of rugger, a fan of Wilko and Johnno, an admirer of Sir Clive?”
“Indeed I am, Mr Jones!”
“Well stay there a second, boy, I have something for you.”
And as the young urchin looked optimistically upwards in the hope of a RWC trinket or two, Ebenezer, our Ebenezer, relieved himself onto the pavement below while singing Calon Lan.
God Bless Us One and All.