Dear Charlie bzzzzzzzzzzzz
Today I realised that I am a c***. It happened as I was making my usual delivery of presents to the orphans of St Barnardos. Well I was dressed in my Santa suit, my close to the cheek dyed fuzz looking as horribly sombre as ever, my sly ratty eyes peeping this way and that, that horrible mullet which I’ve never been able to carry off but which I persisted with, hoping that it gives me an edge which I think I used to have in the 1980s when I killed a man on my show, scraggling over my neck, unsightly as ever.
The bags under my eyes were worse than usual since I had spent most of yesterday in a vile, drunken stupor telephoning my ex-wife to remind her how much she owed me (in cash and character) while devouring turkey and goose. God my breath stunk– like wolfbane.
As soon as I stepped into the hospice I was overtaken by a delirium tremens. It was as if my heart had just stopped working. I had this same problem in 1972, the year that I sold my soul to the devil, but had managed to bury it under a subterfuge of egomania and self-aggrandisement in the intervening years. But I always knew that it was there, creeping away in the background, like a child locked in a cabinet.
And now, as I prepared to dole out the first present to the little orphans of Barnardos, it struck me a blow so terrible that all of my facade shattered infront of my eyes instantly. And the child looked to me, stared deeply into my soul, which was full of misery, and said– “Please Mr Edmonds, what’s wrong?” I could only reply, “I am a c*** son, I am a c***.”