The sun has set on Christmas Eve
And zealous shoppers drift away.
Alan feels relieved to leave
An irritating working day.
  The spirit of the season starts
  His scrutiny of martial arts.

Jane, his aunt, has said he must
Attend her party after eight.
He'd really rather gather dust
Than meet a beastly festive fate.
  Her parties always start to wane
  When homemade wine locates the brain.

And headaches need a medic's hand
When un-melodic hunting songs
Are sung like cries that crossed the land
In feudal times where Jane belongs.
  Stifled threats are nearly made
  And pleading words are softly prayed.

He'd have to hear his uncle's tale
Of toil and turmoil soaked in fear
To keep his pain from going stale
And filter sounds in his good ear.
  If he could alter future days
  He'd paint blue skies with gloomy greys.

Alan's cousin Bob will boast
Of wealth he built with stunning tricks
And cunning stealth to flood the coast
With houses made of mud-like bricks.
  Rumours of his looming fall
  Will crumble like his strongest wall.

Alan wears a lifeless gaze
When Valerie begins to speak.
Her summaries of holidays
Make summertime seem dull and bleak.
  Her odyssey through drudgery
  Must be recounted publicly.

When faced with festive feasts he hides
At home alone in feeble light.
An old electric fire provides
The only warmth he needs tonight.
  His hall is decked with insect trails
  And pesticide from Christmas sales.

He knows if he became au fait
With high life where the rich go free,
And met Miss World in Saint-Tropez,
He'd keep his mild misanthropy.
  Tantrums thrown by trophy wives
  Are deadly when they come with knives.

He's not opposed to company
Or ill-disposed to idle chat
With those who'll only grudgingly
Concede the world's no longer flat.
  A policy of fallacy
  Embellishes reality.

He talks to friends who share his views,
Who strive to win immense defeats,
Who don't believe the evening news.
They see through lies and sly deceits.
  The farces we adore last
  Till the fact-based weather forecast.

He loves the woman in the shop
Who hates the feats achieved in sports.
She'd like to see the stars of pop
Be tried for music crimes in courts.
  Few will ever understand
  Her reasons for despising sand.

She tries to rock the boat and rile
When keenly seeking basic truths
With bitter letters leaking bile.
Her style evokes dyslexic youths.
  Irrational dislikes ignite
  An inner flame that's burning bright.

He's spending Christmas Day at home.
His family return to base.
The restless ones who love to roam
Reveal a smiling, sunburnt face.
  These widely-travelled rovers crave
  The gifts they'll get if they behave.

He'll gladly join the merry horde
To hear his father's long tirades
Against the glasses he'd afford
If he could sell his hearing aids.
  He's angered by designer frames.
  He'll pay for gnomes but not for names.

He loves to rant about events
That happened in the distant past,
Deaths of those who lacked the sense
To know that bullets travel fast.
  He rails against the photo shoots
  In futile wars and land disputes.

Alan's always glad to see
He's so alike his father now.
It's good to know they'll never flee
From any chance to start a row.
  His father's anti-pigeon views
  Have lit up more than one short fuse.