Christmas - Feck!

What’s the definition of a good Christmas? No, this isn’t a joke, it’s a horror story.
The Big Day had passed off well: a bit of a jog, a couple of hours in the pub, glass or two of champers watching the Queen read from her autocue; Christmas dinner, and a bit of telly. I even got a couple of fairly usable presents. By 8.30, everyone at my host’s house was either playing on the wii, breaking their toys or had passed out. I had stopped eating on just about the right side of gluttony and alcohol had lost its appeal.
Left to my own devices, I found a 1945 production of Agatha Christie’s: "And Then There Were None". It began life as a stage play entitled: "Ten Little Niggers"; I know this because I played Blore, a pompous, overweight inept detective – good casting, I fear you may conclude – in the 1968 Mourne Grange Preparatory School production.
The film ended and I went upstairs for the night. For reasons more complex than a Woody Allen plot, I found that there was no room at the inn. I considered my options and decided to cycle back to my flat where I would be guaranteed a good night’s sleep. Boy was I ever wrong?
The five mile bike ride was invigorating; the temperature was well below zero and there was little traffic. Moonlight lit my way – which was just as well as I’d forgotten to turn my lights on.
Dickey, my temporary flatmate, visiting from Cyprus, was still out. I assumed that he had either been offered a bed elsewhere or had collapsed in a ditch on the way home, and so I left my bedroom door open.
I was in bed and asleep within minutes only to be pulled from a rare, deep slumber by noise coming from downstairs. I looked at my watch; it was 2.45am. A man - who I rapidly established as Dickey - appeared to be engaged in a dialogue with the front door whilst slamming it violently.
‘Are you going to lock or aren’t you?’ he asked. A pause, followed by another slam.
‘Right, I’m going to give you…one…last…chance!’ Another slam. ‘Suit your bloody self, then!’
If only I’d closed my bedroom door. How was I going to reveal my presence without getting involved in a 3am drinking session? I conducted a quick mental audit of the available booze in the flat: three bottles of wine and a bottle of brandy – not good.
In the event, there was no need. Dickey’s erratic attempt to conquer the north face of the staircase arrested outside my bedroom. For a moment I thought I was going to get away with it, but then he was in my room, main light on, swaying like a felled oak.
‘Woops, sorry mate’ he said and staggered off to his own bed, singing tunelessly. After an hour of unmelodious humming and whistling, there was peace. And then the snoring began. A couple of hours later, I could see a pattern emerging: the snoring would build to a vibrating nasal crescendo to be followed by a stertorous boom in the form of a Father Jack-like string of swearwords. This was repeated for several hours, until I abandoned all hope of sleep. Then suddenly I remembered that the Melbourne test match on telly; I made myself a cup of tea and sat down, expecting England to be all out for 6.
Instead, I watched a procession of Aussie batsmen trudge despondently back to the pavilion, collectively dismissed for less than a hundred.
Now, that’s what I call a good Christmas, I reflected, as I celebrated by vacuuming the flat at 7.30am by way of payback. To no avail; the snoring continues…Feck…Arse…Girls!