by Simon Evans
Ken Lee sat in his favourite armchair; it was Christmas Day so he wore a purple paper crown on his old, grey head. At his feet sat his three daughters – Glenda, Rita and his youngest, prettiest daughter, Carol.
“Right you lot, I’m off to bed soon as I’m quite pissed. Whoever gives the best speech about how great I am and how much you love me will be given the last present – the doll’s house made of whale bone.”
So Glenda, the eldest, waxed lyrical about how she adored and admired her wise old Dad. Ken Lee nodded with satisfaction whilst scooping handfuls of peanuts into his stubble surrounded mouth. Rita then recited a poem about how her love for her father couldn’t be contained and how it grew every day. Then it was Carol’s turn, pretty little Carol with her dimples and daisies in her fair hair.
“And you Carol? How much do you love your old Dad?”
“I’m not doing this Dad. You know I love you and I find this emotionally competitive Christmas ritual quite unseemly.”
“You what?!” spurted Ken with indignation, showering his daughters with masticated peanuts.
“I refuse to be part of this paternal love auction. You know my love as I know yours. I won’t do this.”
Ken snorted and his eyes twitched. He stood up, slowly revealing the enormity of his five foot five stature complete with obese belly.
“Then you shall get the fuck out of my house right this minute. You shall eat no more goose at my table you ungrateful slut.”
So it was that Carol found herself in the driveway of her fathers’ home, lashed with unseasonal snow, while her sisters looked out of the cosy living room – smugness personified.
She rang her boyfriend – Paris Skilton – who came to collect her in his Golf GTI.
“I’ll look after you Carol. I know he’s your Dad but I think he’s made a mistake kicking you out. Come and live with me and my Nan. We’ll have a new beginning.”
Over the rest of the Christmas period Ken Lee did, indeed, begin to feel that he had made a mistake. Glenda and Rita kept getting under his feet and spent way too long in the bathroom. They ate all his biscuits and never took the bins out. Glenda took the remote controls and Rita started sitting in his armchair. They had moved in and taken over.
By New Year’s Eve he could take no more. He took his dog for a walk in the park in the pouring rain.
Ken Lee stood by the swings and looked up at the gathering clouds.
“Go on then! Rain on me you twats! See if I care. Those bitches are driving me mad. My home doesn’t feel like home. I’m a stupid, bloody knob. Oh shit. Oh bollocks.”
He was soggy and wretched and so was his dog, who barked and barked at the bashful moon.
Ken’s neighbour, Gordon, was sorting his recycling when he saw Ken stumbling and blubbering in the cold, driving rain.
“You alright Ken?”
“No, Gordon, my eldest daughters are taking the piss and my favourite daughter has gone. And it’s all my fault.”
“You poor old sod. I’ll give those girls a talking to they won’t forget in a hurry. They shouldn’t turf you out. It ain’t right. I’ll just go and get my glasses and then I’ll be over. I can’t see a thing without my specs these days.”
So Gordon confronted the girls, who were watching TV and eating Ken’s Ferrero Rochers.
He stood with his hands on his hips and gave them a good ticking off. The two sisters rolled their eyes then whispered to each other while Gordon continued to berate them for treating their dear old Dad so shabbily. He was wagging his finger and enjoying his speech and didn’t notice Rita sneak behind him. She hit him on the back of the head with a cushion. Gordon’s glasses flew off and Glenda stamped on them until they were crushed.
“Oh you bitches!” cried Gordon.
The girls cackled with laughter as Gordon stumbled out of the house, into the rain, sobbing and staggering through the darkness.
Ken stood at the back door, rolling a fag with shaky hands.
“What have I created!? Those evil she devils. They make my balls cringe with shame and regret and no small amount of fear.”
At that moment the front door burst open to reveal Paris Skilton and a cowering Carol. They were back to get some of Carol’s stuff. They hadn’t had enough time to pick up as much as an old sock when Gordon’s son – Eric – stormed in to avenge the blinding of his father.
“How dare you fuck up my Dad’s glasses” cried Eric as he plunged an apple corer into Carol’s heart, in a tragic case of mistaken identity.
“Oh no!” cried Ken as he cradled his dying, but still pretty, youngest daughter.
“I’m dying father. I’ve been cored and scored but I forgive you my lord. I bear no grudge. I just came back for my fudge. I’m dying now. Bye.”
Ken wailed and clutched his daughter to his flabby chest.
“No, no, no, no, no and oh shitting hell. What a terrible Christmas.”
Ken slumped dead of grief over the corpse of his favourite daughter.