This year, I have taken over the Christmas Newsletter from The Diva.
Emboldened by the unicorns becoming the de facto power behind the throne in British politics, The Diva has come out of the closet as a Non-Existent, and refuses to have anything to do with it.
I blame her new-found friends: she is now bosom buddies with anyone who’s anyone in the Alternative Reality community, so as well as the Three Wise Men and Father Christmas, she’s become terrific mates with Jacob Rees-Mogg and David Davis’s unicorns. As a new member, she has to be über anti-reality, and I think she’s worried they’ll find out about all the things she’s said about Brexit.
She’s very cock-a-hoop about it all – thinks she’s very now, and marches round the house singing Gilets-Jaunes, Gilets-Jaunes to the tune of Jingle Bells at the top of her voice.
I think she hasn’t quite realised that her new friends’ owners are not revolutionary, they just like the idea of inflicting a bit of mayhem and misery over a glass of port from the comfort of their club.
It’s not all power and glory: occasionally she has tea with Theresa May’s unicorn, but she says it’s a pathetic creature – usually lame – and even the other unicorns don’t believe in it. She doesn’t want to be seen with it too often – apparently the Non-Existent Community is highly competitive: who has the most followers; who has the ear of which Prime Minister; and whether a prime minister trumps Trump. And, of course, their favourite topic: is Boris a true believer or is he just pretending.
At the moment, the top spot is occupied by Father Christmas, but in a few days he will be thrown out with the Christmas wrapping paper, and we’ll be back to unicorns again.
She thinks the jockeying for position over The Deal could end in bloodshed – the army has already been put on standby – but the Diva is such a drama queen that she thinks it will all be rather fun. The trouble with Divas is that they view every crisis as just another opportunity to show off their top C.
But nothing will budge her about writing her annual Christmas Round Robin: I have tried pointing out that just because she doesn’t exist, that doesn’t mean she can’t still write – it has never stopped her before, and it used to be all she lived for. But she just mutters darkly about having nothing to say.
I am afraid the problem is that she has got it firmly into her head that the only point of Christmas Round Robins is to boast about offspring, and now that offspring is not riding, there are no rosettes. ‘How can you get a decent brag going without rosettes,’ she wails. I point out that offspring is very happy studying economics and computer something-or-other in Portland, Oregon, but I am afraid The Diva has been in the Competitive-Parenting GB Team for far too long to be fobbed off with something as wishy-washy as academic progress or happiness .
And besides, she has no idea what economics is. Or computer thingamy- whatsits.
I’m with her there, but I try to look intelligent as I nod encouragingly.
I tried suggesting she could tell her friends about joining Weight Watchers and losing more than three stone, but she just complained that as no one can see her, they can’t tell the difference. Even worse, as I have done the same, I get all the compliments. No, it doesn’t go down well: I get an earful about her feeling invisible, and people treating her as if she doesn’t exist.
Well, you are, and you don’t – is what I would say, but she hasn’t had a bar of chocolate for months, and is very grumpy: she might be imaginary, but she can still pack one hell of a punch when roused.
Instead, I asked her how her friends the unicorns are getting on. I should have kept my mouth shut because they are losing ground fast: now The Deal is on the table and all the fantasies lying in a heap by the dog bowl, their supporters are leaving like ASOS customers.
I predict that her infatuation with all things invisible may be short-lived, now she realises that it’s hard work and costs money to make people believe in you – even Father Christmas, poster child for the Non-Existents, can’t keep hold of his followers for more than six or seven years and he brings them sack-loads of presents every year.
And talking of Father Christmas, I gather he has just weighed into the Brexit fray saying, ‘you might not like the Irish Border back-stop thing, but if you crash out without a deal, there’s no way I am delivering to Britain under WTO rules’.
I think he may have been nobbled by the People’s Vote.
Clever move: it could be the final straw for resistance to a second vote.
I would have expected The Diva to be pleased – she has been the Remoaner to end all Remoaners – but it has upset the unicorns mightily to be betrayed by one of their own.
A further blow to her love affair with non-existence, was discovering that Schrödinger’s cat had been dead all along – she’d been looking forward to asking him how it was done. Apparently, Boris trod on him when he was Foreign Secretary – well, he was busy putting his foot in absolutely everything else, so it was a shock but not a surprise.
But she is enjoying Christmas very much: she is very taken with the fact that angels are also part of the Alternative Reality Community, and has taken to singing Hark the Herald – with descant – in case any are knocking around the neighbourhood. Never mind the neighbourhood, they would hear her on the moon.
This angel thing is really quite worrying – It’s bad enough when she wants to run the country, but can you imagine if she were to get her hands on omnipotence.
My own news is the usual ‘I’ve finished the novel’, and the rather less usual ‘I’ve lost 3 stone’. This has brought some surprising changes to my life, mostly to do with my feet: I looked down one day and saw something very strange on the floor.
On closer inspection, it turned out to be my toes. I suppose they must have been there all along, but who knew? The full foot has yet to materialise, but I gather it’s only a matter of time.
My relationship with socks has also undergone a transformation, from, ‘do I really need to put them on’, given how hard it was without help – and the fire brigade was beginning to get very tetchy – to putting them on standing up and balancing on one leg.
I thought you’d be pretty impressed.
I won’t say more about all that, as The Diva has been writing her Fat Diva Diaries, and I wouldn’t want to tread on her toes.
Especially now she knows they are there.
I hope Father Christmas brought you everything on your list, and may your toes be ever twinkly.
A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all.