Fictional Reality – A Christmas Carol
Only Fools and Horses was dead: to begin with. That must be perfectly understood or
nothing wonderful can come from this story.
David Jason himself had told the cast there’d never be another episode, and his word was
as good as anything he chose to act upon. Tired and now irritated with the part, he’d
shelved Del-Boy for good. His latter day parts were now his idols, he was as frosty as
Frost and his ‘Quest’ was that Del-boy would never see the light of day again. Only Fools
and Horses was as dead as a door-nail.
Ever mindful though, despite playing the part a mere handful of times in as many years,
David was reminded of it constantly, wherever he went. And though he’d grown a beard,
full and grey, and was fully buttoned and scarfed up against the winters cold, still came
the cries as he walked now, along the Woolworth road on Christmas Eve.
“Oi, Del-boy!” came yet another playful voice, “where’s Rodney?”
David continued his walk, ignoring the man across the road, another poor fool. One more
unfortunate loser who simply couldn’t let go of the past. He redoubled his steps, getting
away as quickly as possible without looking back, he wanted to be alone with his own
thoughts. He had a new series coming up, a fresh interest. He wanted to focus on that. He
needed no distractions.
“Del-Boy!” Came another cry, this time the voice was in front of him.
David closed his eyes and cursed. “Bah, scumbag!” he uttered under his breath, preparing
to give full vent to his feelings this time. But as he looked up he checked himself. There
before him, silhouetted against the lamplight in the cold winters evening was John
Sullivan. A physically cold yet inwardly warm John Sullivan, smiling and thrusting out a
friendly arm in salutation.
David extended his own arm, though the offer was limp in comparison. Even so, John
almost snatched it off one swoop, shaking it with vehemence and gusto with both of his.
“Great to see you!” he said, still shaking away with fervour, “fancy bumping into you
David. Merry Christmas.”
David nodded and smiled feebly, hardly meeting his gaze. “Working on anything John?”
he offered tamely.
John mentioned a few things he had in the pipeline but played them down somewhat.
Whether they were bad ideas or not wasn’t clear. Besides, David didn’t look particularly
bothered one way or the other anyway - checking and rechecking his watch he was clearly
keen to get away.
“At this festive occasion,” said John, smiling excitedly as he thought of something, “I’ve
started to put together another Christmas episode of Only…”
“Stop!” David shouted abruptly, raising his hands in indignant protest, “Before you go on
any further, just stop.” He looked at John, raising his finger, “No more Del Boy!” he
hissed, “I told you before.”
“But the people still want to see it,” argued John, “it’s as much a part of Christmas as….”
“Getting pissed?” David snapped. “Sorry,” he continued after a pause, “but it’s all in the
past.” He looked directly at John now, “It’s over!” he added firmly.
“But the supporting cast?” John pleaded, “they rely on Christmas Fools and Horses.”
“What am I, a charity case?” interrupted David, “Are there no pantomimes they could be
doing?”
“Plenty of pantomimes,” said John, rather abashed, “I wish I could say there were not.”
“And the OFAH convention?” demanded David, raising his eye-brows, “Still in
operation?”
“Both very busy David.”
David was more genial now, smiling even. “Oh, I was afraid, from what you first said,”
he went on, “that there was something that had stopped them in their useful operation.”
“But many don’t like panto David,” pleaded John, once again, “and some would rather
die.”
“Well what has that got to do with me?” said David disdainfully, losing patience, “Or
anyone else for that matter? If they would rather die then let them do it. Decrease the
surplus actors union.” He looked up, his humour lightening for a moment, “get a bit more
‘equity’ for Equity, eh?”
David laughed dryly at his own humour. John looked at him sadly and shook his head.
“Take my card anyway,” he said resignedly, “and give me a call if you change your
mind.”
Without pausing further to offer the compliments of the season other than the briefest of
nods, John bent his head against the chill wind and continued on his way.
David watched after him, albeit briefly, then glanced at the card. He sneered, laughed
scornfully and thrust it hastily it into his coat pocket. “Someone else stuck in the past,” he
muttered to himself, shaking his head. He continued his walk home, “I’ll retire to
Bedlam!”
By the time David finally arrived home he was in a foul mood, three more salutations for
‘Del-boy’ had been given as he walked the rest of the way. In his haste to be indoors he
struggled in bad temper with the front door key and the latch, becoming even more
impatient as he did so. The more he struggled, the more the door refused to give.
“A door saved my life once,” came a voice suddenly.
David was startled, the voice was familiar. He recoiled from the door and looked around.
Who’d said that? He glanced around perplexed and watchful but there was nobody there.
Now in more of a panic to get in he added the weight of his shoulder against the door. It
gave way suddenly, yielding as easily as it had been resistant before. He stumbled inside
and, shaking slightly, locked and bolted the doors behind him as quickly as his trembling
fingers would allow him to. He saw a face reflected in the windowpane, a withered pace
with a sickly smile. He turned in an instant to challenge any newcomer but the room was
clearly empty. He breathed in deeply, regained his composure slightly and walked as
calmly as he could into the lounge room. There, stood before him, was an unexpected
sight indeed!
“All right Del-boy?” said Grandad.
David stared, transfixed at the figure of Grandad. So long since he’d seen him! So easily
recognisable now, exactly as he had remembered him! The disgusting, all-purpose
pyjama-tops notwithstanding, there were equal good measures of general neglect and
bone-idle can’t-be-bothered-ness about his dress – all combining to produce that truly
wonderful effect of overall shabbiness. The hat, a permanent fixture even indoors; the
purposeless and stained ‘a la Albert Steptoe’ neckerchief (only Grandad’s was far
shabbier); the grubby, buttonless cardigan, tied together with bits of string. Smiling
inanely through the entire shambles was Grandad himself.
If he were not startled enough already, a glance to his right was even more disconcerting.
Standing next to Grandad, smiling that daft, half-expectant smile of his was none less that
Uncle Albert: Typically ‘un’resplendent in his tacky Navy slacks, his beard though as
bushy and white as ever. David looked from one to the other in turn, trying to fathom
some semblance of sense from the situation.
His confusion amused them both but Albert especially. He laughed his laugh, “her-her,” it
came, his bald head wobbling like it does. “Her-her,” he laughed again.
David wanted to salute them in some way; he’d missed them both, but how? Should he
call them by their real names? They were dressed in character and he didn’t wish to
offend. Could you offend a ghost? he wondered. “But you’re dead!” he said simply, stuck
for anything better to say.
“We’re the spirit of Christmas Fools and Horses past,” said Grandad, “we live on as long
as people love and remember us.”
David nodded and smiled in acknowledgement but his look was uncomfortable.
“We’ve not been sent out of sentiment Del,” added Albert, “but you must rekindle your
belief in yourself.”
David turned away, shaking his head vehemently.
“P’raps he don’t believe in us,” said Grandad, “p’raps he don’t believe in ghosties and
ghoulies and things?”
“What a load of old cobblers!” snapped David.
“That’s more like it Del!” observed Albert, smiling knowingly as David turned and met
his glance.
“Come on, Del. Rise, and walk with us,” pleaded Grandad, kindly.
“Where?” asked David.
“To your salvation and reclamation,” said Grandad.
Just as David went to protest against being patronised the room shook violently, before he
could utter a word of question they’d passed straight through the walls and found
themselves standing in The Nag’s Head public house. Rodney, Del, Grandad and Reg
were playing cards at one of the tables.
“These are the shadows of things that have been, and have no consciousness of us,”
reassured Grandad, “So until Hank Marvin gives us a tug we’ll keep on worrying shall
we?” he added, smiling.
Del looked across to the table where Reg was dealing the cards.
“Rodney…Dad…Kimosabe!” The rest of the dialogue was drowned in the sound of
audience laughter. Del looked around but there was no one else there, the laughter was
coming from ‘nowhere’.
“Do you remember this one Del-boy?” asked Grandad.
“Well of course I do,” said David, “Thicker than water...” he thought for a moment,
looking at Reg, “and I still say he looked nothing like me.”
“Nothing like you, you mean? Or Del-boy?’ probed Grandad, smiling again, “or both?”
“Oh, you know what I mean!” said David, waving him away.
“Just half hour specials in my day Del-boy. Sometime not even that. Remember this?”
David looked up and smiled as he beheld a youthful looking Rodney Trotter, talking to a
vicar. “Christmas Trees,” he said, grinning, “I’d forgotten all about this one.”
“I have become dismayed,” said the vicar, “even shocked by the attitude of youth, but
today you walked into this church and offered us this tree simply because you care. You
have rekindled my faith in the human race.” He smiled. “It’s not nicked is it?”
They all laughed as they watched on.
“I weren’t in all that many Christmas Specials Del-boy,” said Grandad, “Your Uncle’ll
take you through the others.”
“But you can stay for a bit though can’t you?” urged David hopefully. He made a grab at
Grandad’s lapel but his hand went straight through and clutched at nothing. Grandad
smiled.
“Please don’t go yet!’
Grandad smiled again and waved; his image began to fade slowly, he winked. He’d
almost disappeared completely. “I’m orf nah, see ya later.” he said. Then he was gone.
David looked at Albert, slightly dejected, “Soppy old sod.” He said.
“Do you miss him Del?”
“Yes, er no,” David faltered, “listen, this is stupid. And quit calling me Del. Look! Del
don’t exist. He’s made up. He’s a character.”
“If you say so Del.”
“Oh, give me strength someone will you. Spirit of bleedin’ Fools and Horses past!”
Albert ignored him. “This is the first one I was in, look.”
David turned reluctantly; he was in for another surprise. He looked around in
astonishment. Now he found himself surrounded by sea, and all of a sudden lost his
balance. He held his hand out instinctively to steady himself. He was on board The Inga.
“Robin Hood, Robin Hood, wiv his band o’ men….”
David looked over at his alter ego singing and smiled in spite of himself.
“Something of a favourite this one,” said Albert, looking up, “among the fans I mean.”
“Yes, it had something,” admitted David, “it was our first feature length.”
“Wasn’t so easy smuggling them diamonds.”
“No,” agreed David, laughing as he remembered something, “certainly not as easy as
apple tart, eh?”
Albert smiled, nodded and indicated behind David’s shoulder. The routine was becoming
more familiar to him now; he turned round slowly and, as he’d expected, found himself
somewhere else. What he hadn’t expected was what he saw, a whole array of Del-boys
before his eyes, spinning in a kaleidoscope of sound and as vision.
There was Del talking to the Duke of Maylebury; “…like the Mona Lisa, with the
energetic smile, you don’t know whether she’s smiling or sucking a sweet.” The vicar
from Trigger’s Cousin Lisa’s Wedding, “Has it received a whack of any kind?”
Interspersed were other conversations with other characters: He saw an upset Rodney in a
nightclub, “I’m gonna find a little bloke and have a fight.” Boycie explaining how Del got
black-balled when joining the masons, “Put it this way Derek, have you ever seen the
bottom of a rabbit hutch?” In the middle of them all was Tony from the Nag’s head,
singing his rendition of Old Shep.
“Old Shep!” laughed David. “Hey, shouldn’t Grandad have been here for that one?”
“Grandad?” questioned Albert, “I thought he was just a character?”
David shook his head but was still smiling. “Yes, all right,” he said, “and I see yours has
lost none of it’s craftiness!’
“This was my favourite Del.” Albert broke into a full military salute, as if he was
honouring royalty, “I think it’s everyone’s classic.”
The sound of an explosion got David’s attention. “It’s the coach-busters!” said Mickey
Pearce. Everybody’s talking at me played as all the jolly boys skylarked at the fair. And
there was Mrs Creswell look! Scowling with her arms folded, then Rodney kicking the
football; “…Ruud Gullet, nowhere.” The Great Raymondo doing a disappearing act,
“You could do a lot worse than that!” he was told. “Chuck him on the back-seat?” said
the indignant Boycie, “He’s the driver!” “I have not got a disease!” pleaded the desperate
Denzil as the bell clanged and chimed out. “Unclean! Unclean!” it said. And Trigger was
there too, of course he was. Wandering back and forth with his dolphin under his arm
then looking for a motel as they wouldn’t know he didn’t have a car; Mike shaking hands
with Eddie Chambers, and then washing his hands again; An assertive though mistaken
Rodney, ‘running something by’ Steven. Landing himself in hot water ‘for sure’.
David laughed at the memories. “It didn’t get any better than this Unc,” he said with
conviction, “which I think was half the trouble. How could we hope to keep it up to that
standard?”
Albert smiled but didn’t answer.
“Well,” said David, shrugging his shoulders casually, “we were all very busy by then I
s’pose, and once the series themselves were over it was never really quite the same.” He
thought for a moment. “Perhaps we should have left it there?”
There was nothing for David to see now; the shadows of what had been were gone.
Unconsciously, he fiddled with his fingers, still deep in his own thoughts. “At least,” he
said at last, “we should have left it after the last Trilogy. After they got the money from
the watch. We shouldn’t have brought them back after that. It should have been the end.”
He nodded to himself in his own agreement but becoming conscious that he’d received no
reply, turned to inquire for one. There was nobody there. “That’s the spirit ‘spirit’s’,” he
laughed aloud, “you just leave me here with my own thoughts.” He smiled. “Gits!” he
added. He looked around him, searching hopefully for a response. He looked behind him,
then skywards; a final glance all around him once again. He was alone, no response was
coming.
The longer he remained alone with his thoughts the more David was inclined to believe it
was all an elaborate joke. “This has to be a wind-up,” he said aloud for his own benefit,
“anything else would be plain ridiculous. What next?” he speculated in jest, “Trigger as
the ghost of Christmas present?” He laughed at his own suggestion, “Is it gonna be you
Trig?” he offered as a challenge, though there was clearly no-one there, “at least there
might be a chance of getting called Dave!”
“You are advised,” came a voice suddenly, “that what you have seen and are about to
witness is neither astrology nor fortune telling.”
David wheeled around but could see nothing. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“What you are about to see are the shadows of this Christmas,” said the voice, “there will
be materialisation as well my gift of paranormal perception.”
“I know you,” said David, “you’re the woman who played Elsie Partridge.”
“You would do well to listen to advice you have already received,” warned the voice, “I
will repeat again. We are the spirits of Only Fools and Horses. Our characters live in the
spirit of those who believe in us still. Do you believe in us or not?”
“I do, I do,” stammered David, “I must.”
“Then tell me who I am.”
“You’re Elsie Partridge.”
As David said the words a ray of bent-sinister light shone across the room, highlighting
the dust in its sheen. The light grew sharper and stronger, visibly paining David’s eyes.
He squinted to see better. Gradually the light faded and there before him stood Elsie
Partridge, just as he’d remembered her.
“You’re mother has been watching over you,” she said kindly, “she has seen If They
Could See Us Now, she knows you tried your best. But never mind.”
“Exactly! Yet another reason for burying the show,” explained David, “it’s been nothing
but slated since we brought it back.”
Elsie was carrying a large wicker basket, the type that could be used for shopping. She
reached in and produced a large scroll of paper.
“There are some that have complained I’ll grant you.” She ceded, “One opinion here of
‘Dire’,” she indicated a comment on the scroll, “and here, ‘the show contrived and
Rodney has a posh accent’. Another asks vehemently for it to be put to rest. One further
asking why we still have to face Only Fools and Horses every Christmas.”
“Well there you are then!” said David.
Elsie took a purposeful step closer to him, eyeing him heavily and demanding attention.
“How very sad that true loyalty should earn respect only when it suits and encourages
your own personal whim and fancy!” She shook her head sadly, “This,” she indicated the
scroll again with a delicate brush of her hand, “is a comprehensive list of sentiment.” she
continued. “Only when taken in its entirety is a full picture painted.”
The casual observer would have been surprised at David attempts to act surprised and
modest; most would have thought him a better actor than that. He squirmed nervously but
said nothing.
“….’Getting better and better’…” continued Elsie, reading again from the scroll, “writes
one. ‘SUPERB’, says another, ‘A saving grace!’, ‘Back to it’s best’, ‘what a treat’,
‘brilliant’, ‘another classic’. I could go on!” She looked up and stared deep into David’s
eyes once again. “Just one more,” she went on, “and this speaks for many, ‘Christmas
wouldn’t be Christmas without Only Fools….I truly wish people would stop moaning
about it’.”
“There’s some gooduns then are there?” David queried, innocently. On being ignored he
continued, “It’s a question of rating as well you know. They’re well down on what they
used to be.”
“And just how many tuned into the first airing of series two?” replied Elsie curtly, “When
you fought so vehemently for its future. When there was terrestrial television only; even
then only a third as many watched the show as did last Christmas! Yet you chose to use
the excuse of ratings for yourself now do you? How convenient!”
David said nothing and either couldn’t or wouldn’t look at Elsie at all, just staring intently
instead at the ground in front of him.
“Look up at your friends Del-boy,” said Elsie at last, “and see how they enjoy their
Christmas Day.”
David looked up; once again he was in The Nag’s Head. There were Christmas
decorations all around and a real tree in the corner under the television. Boycie and
Denzil were pulling a cracker. Off went the ‘snap’ and the recoiling Boycie knocked into
Mickey Pearce, who in turn careered into one of the tables, sending drinks flying. Half a
dozen bottles of wine were sent tumbling with one actually rolling down to the other end,
falling off and smashing on the floor. The hapless Mickey Pearce made a futile attempt to
catch it. Nobody minded particularly, Boycie broke into his laugh on the instant,
“Hahahahahaha.” it came as usual, spat out in that ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ style of delivery, his cigar
held at the ready, delicately placed between index and forefinger. “You know what
Mickey I reckon if you improved a bit you might have the savvy to be able to hold one.”
“What?” replied the clueless Mickey.
“A piss up in a brewery.”
They all laughed, even Mickey. Marlene laughed most of all, coming back in from the
kitchen with the Roast turkey. A golden brown turkey basted in gravy. It looked as good
as it smelt, which was quite a boast. The aroma of turkey, hot bacon rolled around sage
and onion stuffing. Cascades of steam pouring readily from the bird; it was evidently
piping hot.
“That looks absolutely superb,” said Boycie, “but shouldn’t we be waiting for Trigger?”
he asked respectfully.
“Oh, Trigger’s not coming,” said Marlene.
“Trigger not coming!” said Boycie, losing some of his high spirits, “not coming on
Christmas Day to watch Only Fools?”
“Here I am Boycie!” came Trigger’s jovial voice, his head popping up from the other side
of the bar, “We were just playing a little joke. Only I didn’t like to see your disappointed
face. It’s ugliness I can take, I’m used to that.”
“Well it’s certainly not disappointed now,” laughed Boycie, eying up Trigger’s shocking
blue jacket and checked shirt, “how many Boy Scout jumble sales did you have to hunt
round to come up with that combination?”
“Ah, I always save these for best Boycie. I wear them rarely so that when I do I make an
impression.”
“Yes,” agreed Boycie, “I remember Andy Warhole saying something very similar!”
“Trigger’s gets most of his ideas of style watching repeats of Man About the House on
UK Gold.” said Denzil.
“I know,” said Boycie, “Chrissy and Jo were very stylish girls weren’t they Trig?”
All five of them laughed together. In fact between eating and talking that’s all they did all
through lunch, such was the good company. The dinner was eaten jovially, the crackers
pulled and the wine drunk. Nobody counted how many glasses they’d had, or indeed how
many bottles for that matter. It wasn’t a day for counting it was a day for merriment and
company. And they were enjoying the best of it.
““I’ll give you one more toast,” said Denzil with feigned dignity, adjusting his orange
paper crown for extra effect, “to the man that has made Fools and Horses what it is today.
I give you all...” he continued raising his glass aloft, “Del-Boy! The making of the series.”
David smiled as he watched on.
“The making of the series?” said Marlene reddening. “I wish I had him here right now,
I’d certainly make something of that!”
“Marlene,” said Denzil, “Christmas Day!”
“Well it should be Christmas Day,” she went on, “that I’d drink the health of that selfish,
miserable, thoughtless and unfeeling article. You know he is Denzil, nobody knows it
better than you poor fellow. How many times has he been here with us for Christmas,
playing his part till it comes on, same as we all do?”
“Please,” was Denzil’s mild answer, “Christmas Day!”
“I’ll drink his health for your sake and the day’s,” said Marlene, “not his. Long life and a
merry Christmas to you David. Del-boy, whoever you are!”
They all drank the toast after Marlene but it was the first toast that had no heartiness in it.
Mickey Pearce drunk his last of all and even he didn’t care tuppence for it.
“Tell me,” asked David, “Are these the shadows that might be? Or are they the shadows
that must be?”
“Unless you change your own thoughts on such responsibilities I see these images
unaltered.”
David looked back to the table but just as before, the images had vanished.
Elsie shook her head. “Worse to come,” she went on as David looked up keenly, “I see a
vacant broom never used, a black and white hat never worn, a cigar never smoked and a
laugh never laughed. And someone’s harris,” she emphasised the word accordingly,
looking intently at him as she spoke, “never squeezed! And never wanting to be squeezed
either. These are the images I see. Unless something is done to change them.”
“But surely they’ll get other work,” started David, evidently back in the cold mattter-offact, merciless and unromantic land of acting reality once again, “John Challis is a
classical actor. And Roger won’t be short of a role surely?”
“When characters becomes stereotyped Del-boy,” she paused, “Or David,” she said the
name disdainfully, “if you prefer, they find it harder to find parts for themselves. You
have been successful in this only because you have had a wide array of characters in the
first place. It would be foolish, only fools and foolish may I say, to think otherwise!”
David nodded meekly in agreement. “Surely something can be done!”
“Are there no pantomimes? Are there no conventions?” said Elsie, coldly. “Or should
they just die and decrease the surplus actor’s union?”
Again David fell silent and stood crestfallen as he heard his own ill-considered words
repeated back to him.
“Will there be a ghost of Fools and Horses to come?” he said somewhat nervously.
“As you have been told before already David, we are spirits not ghosts. We live through
those that believe in us. As you too could do if you so chose. The shadows of what will be
are still but shadows and can be drawn upon still. They are yours to leave or change for
yourself if you so wish. Those you have seen shall not be shown to you a second time. So
no,” she went on, “you shall be visited by no more spirits. Not now, nor ever.”
“Well that’s a relief,” said David.
“You’d hardly think so, to look at you,” smiled Elsie, “I’d go as far to say you look
somewhat disappointed David.”
“Yeah, see the thing is Else, that er..” he paused, closing his eyes to find the right words,
“you see I’ve been thinking about it and, well...” he faltered again, “and by the way I’ve
reconsidered and I’d actually be very pleased if you called me...” he looked up to catch
her eye but she too had vanished, “...Del-boy!” he finished. The name echoed aloud after
he said it, “Del-boy.... Del-boy..... Del-boy...” It got quieter and quieter. Until at last
nothing was to be seen or heard at all.
All was quiet, the only sound was a faint ticking. A steady and regular ticking of a rather
grand and superior looking grandfather clock stood proudly against the wall. It was a
large room and the clock looked perfectly in place there, it’s classical gold and silver
finished dial and heavy oaken frame blending favourably against the ornate parquet
flooring. Two beautifully veneered teak wardrobes straddled the sumptuous four poster
bed; you could smell the wood such was it’s dominance in the room. The bed itself was
draped in fine and delicate silk sheets; a frilled fitted vallance hung ornately around it and
over the top an appealingly snug and warm duvet. The bedclothes were in various shades
of light pastel in the best of most refined of tastes, a world away from the garish and
kitsch taste of Del Trotter.
The grandfather clock indicated seven o’clock in bold roman numerals and was just
winding itself up in preparation of announcing the fact when it’s much younger bedside
colleague beat it to it, singing So Here It Is Merry Christmas, as it’s digital display
clicked over to display seven o’clock itself. This was the announcement to the
undiscovered lump in the middle of the bed that it was time to get up. The lump moved
slightly, peered out from under the covers and squinted at the digital display.
“Seven o’clock,” said the lump, as it leapt out of bed and thus identified itself as David
Jason, “but what day?”
He ran over to the window, pulled up the heavy window sash and lent out. There was a
full frost on the ground and the sharp chill in the air still. Yet as he looked around keenly
David didn’t appear to feel the cold at all. A small boy was jogging along the road below,
heavily clothed against the elements with very new looking puffer jacket, football scarf
and matching beanie hat. He blew into his own hands for extra warmth as he skipped
along.
“Hey, you there!” shouted David, “You, boy!”
The youth looked up, rather indignantly at first but on seeing who it was his face
brightened, “Del-boy!” he said.
“Yes,” smiled David, “Del-boy here. Tell me,” he said, in some embarrassment, “what
day is it?”
“Well it’s Christmas Day of course, you per-lonker!” laughed the boy.
David laughed. “Christmas Day, excellent,” he muttered to himself, “then I haven’t
missed it. “Merry Christmas,” he shouted down to the boy, “don’t forget to watch Only
Fools and Horses this afternoon.”
“We’ll be watching,” said the boy, “Merry Christmas. And tell Rodney Merry Christmas
an’ all.”
“I’ll tell him,” said David, giving a thumbs-up as he closed the window, “now,” he said,
turning back into his bedroom, “what did I do with that business card?”
He rifled through his coat pockets and found what he was looking for. It was a bit
scrunched up but he smoothed it down carefully, reached for his phone and dialled the
number.
He waited patiently for a voice to answer.
“John,” he said at last, “It’s David....no, listen it’s Del-boy!”
“No, straight up. Now listen John I’m ringing to apologise for last night mate.”
“Really, well that’s good of you John, I don’t deserve it but thanks. Now listen John, do
you know the Nag’s Head in Peckham?”
“Yeah that’s the one. Can you meet me there at twelve?”
“Yeah, I know you’ve got family dinner John but it won’t take long. Go on, I’ll buy you a
good drink!”
He laughed, “Yes! That’s the spirit John you know it makes sense. Ha ha, see you there
then mate. Er, bonjour. ha ha ha.”
He replaced the handset and smiled to himself. “That’s the spirit John,” he said, quoting
himself. “That’s the spirit of Fools and Horses John, more like. Ha ha ha, lovely-jubbly!”
He rubbed his hands together in excitement and prepared to get himself dressed.
There were over twenty salutations of “Del-boy” on the David’s short trip to The Nag’s
Head, not that he was counting. He slipped into character amiably each time, telling them
that he was popping to The Nag’s Head for a swift half.
The festivities were already in full swing by the time he walked into the bar himself. They
were all dressed, as he’d seen them in his vision the evening before. Trigger was juggling
pickled eggs as Denzil and Boycie watched on in wonder, Mickey Pearce was opening
Marlene’s present, both laughed as he unfolded and showed around his gift, it was a book
- 101 great non-alcoholic cocktails. Boycie and Denzil were the first to notice him come
in and such was their genuine surprise that they simply stood there agog, stunned into
silence. Trigger must have sensed that something was afoot and lost concentration as he
became distracted. The first pickled egg landed harmlessly in Mickey Pearce’s hat on the
bar but the second flew perfectly into Boycie’s cognac, the contents splashing all over his
waistcoat. Now everyone looked up.
“Gor blimey Boycie,” said the unmistaken joviality of Del-boy’s voice, “that’s the first
time the drinks have been on you!” And he laughed. He laughed the Del-boy laugh,
twisting his frame and pointing directly at him as he spoke.
It must have been because the laugh and amiability were so genuine that its effect was so
inspiring on the others. The atmosphere relaxed in an instant and there wasn’t a hint of
awkwardness. Marlene and Trigger ushered him over to join the party and each remaining
member of the cast rushed keenly to warmly greet the return of the prodigal son. Marlene
was goosed on the spot, much to the merriment of Boyce. Trigger embraced him openly
and Mickey and Denzil exchanged firm handshakes, slapping him heartily on the back in
the process. Nobody asked why he was there, nobody asked him how he knew they were
all there. What mattered was that he was there.
“I’ll swing for you lot, you’ll make me redundant!” came a voice suddenly, “you’re
writing it all yourselves!”
All eyes turned to another unexpected visitor! It was John Sullivan, stood smiling, half in
and half out of the doorway.
“Ah,” said Del-boy, gesturing to John with his arm, “If you were wondering what he’s
doing here, letting the cold; stood with that doppy great, cheesy-grin all over his face, it’s
probably because I told him you’d make room for a special guest.”
“Actually,” replied John, “I’ve brought a guest of my own.”
John stood to one side and there, in the doorway, stood Rodney Trotter in all his glory.
Nondescript ‘naff’ hair-don’t, camouflage jacket and all.
“Good grief, it’s Marley’s ghost!” said Denzil. “How are you Rod?”
Nobody noticed but Rodney and Del-boy were both startled by the reference to Marley’s
ghost. They looked at each other instinctively, and though it lasted no more than a second
they instantly understood.
“Nobody could have prepared me for my best ever Christmas present,” said John, putting
his arms around Del and Rodney, “a couple of phonecalls from these two inviting me
down here to see you lot.”
“That is,” continued Del, “if there’s enough grub to go around?”
But of course there was enough! Three extra places were prepared on the spot. Nobody
complained that four sprouts each was a shortfall, nor that the balls of stuffing were more
the size of Ping-Pong rather than tennis ball, or that two turkey legs and two wings were
not enough to go round; it would’ve been pure heresy to announce such a thing. And
when there wasn’t eating and drinking there were jokes and laughter and enough of that
to test the healthiest of appetites, particularly during the game of charades. Trigger’s
baffling attempt at The Krypton Factor started the tears, tears of laughter. Marlene’s
‘Moby Dick’ was as predictably disgusting as it was hilarious, while John Sullivan’s
offering of ‘Only Fools and Horses’ was guessed (a dead-heat by all), merely from his ‘its
a television programme’ mime. It was a close run thing but perhaps this created the
biggest hilarity of the lot!
“Seriously,” interjected John among the laughs, “how do we feel about another Christmas
special?” He looked hopefully to them all but to Del-boy in particular.
“Well I don’t know about you lot,” said Del, “but I reckon a new series would go down a
lot better than a one off.”
“A series!” said John, barely containing his excitement. “Well if the others agree...”
“Well of course we all agree!” confirmed Rodney, graciously speaking for all.
“There you are then John, you’d best get talking to them ghosts down at the BBC,” said
Del, “then you’d better get scribbling!” he continued, opening the umpteenth bottle of
champagne grand prix style, showering the contents all over him. “But first of all my old
son, you get can get some of this stuff down your neck. And you do that before you type
another ‘I’ John Sullivan!”
So yet more cheering! Yet more handshakes! Yet more laughs!
“Cheers and thank you all,” said John, raising his glass, “for making this such a happy
Christmas.”
“And God bless us everyone!” smirked Rodney.
“God bless us everyone!” mimicked Del, turning to him as he laughed, “shut up you tart!”
The laughter broke out afresh.