Invasion of the Christmas Puddings

by Jeremy Strong

  Mrs Christmas came bustling out of Christmas House. ‘I’ve made you some sandwiches. Are you loaded yet?’

  ‘All done and ready to rocket.’ Father Christmas gazed lovingly at his new machine. He was looking forward to this. ‘Have you done my sandwiches?’

  ‘Are you deaf? What did I just tell you? What kind of brainless noodle do you think I am?’

  ‘If I’m deaf it’s because you shout all the time,’ Father Christmas told her, ‘and if you ask me that makes you the biggest brainless noodle in Brainless Noodle-Land.’

  ‘Well, I’m not asking you!’ grunted Mrs Christmas. ‘I’d rather ask a peanut!’

  Father Christmas clapped a hand to his head in mock horror. ‘I’ve got a wife who asks peanuts for advice. You should be on television. They’d call you THE WOMAN WHO TALKS TO PEANUTS.’

  Mrs Christmas pursed her lips. Her eyebrows came crashing together in a furious frown. She stamped up to her husband, lifted her chin and glowered at him. There was a moment of frosty staring and then they burst out laughing.

  ‘I talk to peanuts!’ chuckled Mrs Christmas, doubling up and slapping her knees. She gently tugged her husband’s flowing beard. ‘Hello, little peanut. How are you today?’ The pair hugged each other hard to stop themselves falling over from too much laughter. Even the reindeer were giving them strange looks.

  At last they stopped. Father Christmas climbed into the rocket-sleigh and strapped himself in. He gazed down fondly at his wife, gave her a wave, pressed a big red button and –

  VRRRRRRRROOOOOOSSH!!

  The rocket-sleigh shot into the sky. The launch blast tumbled Mrs Christmas into the snow. She lay on her back, legs in the air, while her ball of wool rolled away and half her cardigan unravelled.

  ‘Take good care, jellybean,’ Mrs Christmas shouted at the sky as she sat up. ‘Come back safely. Now then, where did my needles – ow! I’m sitting on them.’

  Far above, the rocket-sleigh was behaving perfectly and Father Christmas tried out some intricate manoeuvres. ‘Jingle bells, Batman smells,’ he sang cheerfully as he flew along. ‘What a fantastic view! I love it up here. These stars must be the best Christmas lights anywhere. They are so… oh! What’s going on?’

  A shiver ran down his spine as Father Christmas watched a strange shadow passing among the stars, blotting them out one by one. At the same time thousands of dark, round objects began to whizz past the spacecraft. They travelled at such speed Father Christmas couldn’t make out what they were. It was all rather eerie and he was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. Maybe it had something to do with the smell.

  ‘Hmmm, very odd,’ he muttered, sniffing the air. ‘It smells just like Christmas puddings, and outer space isn’t supposed to smell of anything.’ He shuddered. ‘How peculiar,’ he murmured. Then he saw it, coming straight for him – a giant ball of blue flame. It seemed as big as a planet and beneath the flaming exterior it was awesome, sinister and very, VERY DARK. It was – the DEATH PUDDING!

  Doo-doo-doo-doo-DOOOOM!

  Father Christmas flung the rocket-sleigh into a handbrake turn and accelerated hard but it was useless. The Death Pudding had caught the little sleigh in its extra-sticky Sticky Matter traction beam and was relentlessly reeling in the rocket.

  A gaping mouth appeared among the flames on the surface of the Death Pudding as the rocket was sucked inside. As the mouth began to close back down Father Christmas, peering fearfully from his sleigh, saw what he had most feared all his life – his big, bad brother!

  In his final moments before the mouth shut forever Father Christmas frantically sent out a despairing radio message to his wife.

  Dylan was in a bad mood because that morning he had forgotten his packed lunch for school. His father had told him, as he did every morning, to put it in his school bag.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Dylan had muttered. Why did Dad have to say the same thing every day? It was one long checklist. Have you got this, Dylan? Have you got that? Have you got your bag, Dylan? Have you got your brain?

  HAVE YOU GOT A LIFE, DAD?!!

  That’s what Dylan felt like saying. But he didn’t, because Dad was all he had, and when Dylan got cross with Dad he often felt even crosser with himself. Dad was only doing his best, just as he had done since Mum had died. Dad looked after him on his own now, and he didn’t do things the way Mum did. He couldn’t draw and paint like Mum and he made DREADFUL DISASTER sandwiches – BUT – Dylan loved his dad for trying.

  Now Dylan was at school and he had forgotten his horrible sandwiches. Dad would be upset and tell him it was a waste of good food. Dylan would like to tell Dad that a sandwich made of lettuce and chocolate spread was not exactly ‘good food’, not even when Dad added ketchup as an extra treat.

  Dylan moodily eyed the drawing of a Christmas pudding he was doing for the class project. It didn’t look much like a Christmas pudding. It looked a lot more like a fiery explosion, which was not surprising because Dylan had also drawn two enemy aircraft flying overhead, dropping bombs on the pudding and blowing it to kingdom come. That’s how much he hated Christmas pudding.

  His thoughts were broken by knocking on the classroom door. Everyone turned to stare. Visitors to the classroom were rare and nearly always welcome. However, Dylan was not very impressed with this one.

  ‘It’s your dad!’ Amy told him, in case Dylan couldn’t recognize his own father.

  It was the first time Miss Comet had met Dylan’s dad, Rufus. He looked flustered as he explained his mission. ‘Dylan forgot his lunch.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Miss Comet, and the children sniggered. Dylan’s disaster sandwiches were a legend in class.

  ‘Bad luck, Dylan,’ murmured Lewis. ‘You’ve got poo-sandwiches after all.’

  The class giggled again. Dylan hoped his father hadn’t heard Lewis because, even if Lewis was right, it wasn’t nice to say.

  ‘He left them in the kitchen,’ Rufus mumbled, not taking his eyes off Miss Comet.

  ‘We all get a bit forgetful from time to time,’ said Miss Comet, with her lovely smile. ‘Do you make Dylan’s sandwiches for him?’ Dylan’s father nodded and Miss Comet continued. ‘It’s good for the children to have some variety in their lunch. I think Dylan gets a bit bored with lettuce and chocolate spread. Perhaps you could…’ Miss Comet faltered and blushed. ‘Of course, it’s not any of my business.’

  ‘No,’ blurted Rufus. ‘It’s fine, really. Variety? You mean I could change things a bit?’

  ‘Exactly,’ laughed Miss Comet.

  ‘I could put the chocolate spread on top of the lettuce, instead of the lettuce on top of the chocolate spread?’

  Dylan groaned and buried his head in his hands. Miss Comet swallowed a chuckle. ‘It’s not quite what I had in mind. I meant you could change the fillings. Perhaps you could try cheese and tomato, or maybe chicken and mayonnaise.’

  Rufus’s eyes lit up. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself.’

  ‘You’ve had other things on your mind,’ Miss Comet suggested. ‘Looking after a boy of nine all on your own isn’t easy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he’s a lovely boy,’ Miss Comet went on.

  Dylan buried his beetroot face even deeper.

  ‘Come and see what he’s doing. Dylan, show your father your Christmas pudding picture. There’s no need to hide it like that. Sit up and let us see. Oh! Oh my! Dylan’s Christmas pudding seems to be under attack.’

  Rufus cleared his throat. ‘Dylan doesn’t like Christmas pudding. It runs in the family. None of us do. Did. Do.’ He was flustered again.

  ‘No, I can see that.’ Miss Comet went on to tell Rufus about their project. ‘We’re going to start taste-testing the puddings this afternoon. At least most of us are. Dylan and a few others will do something else.’ She leaned towards Rufus and whispered, ‘Can’t say I blame them. Christmas puddings are not one of my favourites either.’

  ‘Really?’ Rufus smiled for the first time.


  ‘You should do that more often,’ said Miss Comet.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Smile.’

  ‘Oh!’ The smile vanished and Rufus retreated to the door. ‘Best get back to work.’

  ‘And the same goes for us,’ nodded Miss Comet. ‘Don’t forget now – chicken and mayonnaise. I shall be checking.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rufus, managing a small grin. ‘I’d better watch my step. I wouldn’t want to get into trouble with teacher.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Miss Comet answered, and they gazed at each other for a long time before Dylan’s father finally shut the door. He peered back at Miss Comet through the glass for a moment and then vanished.

  Dylan let out a sigh. What was that all about? Dad had been so edgy. Freya was grinning at him from across the table. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘What now?’

  Freya shook her head. ‘Boys are so dumb,’ she answered and went on with her work, leaving Dylan none the wiser.

  The moment Father Christmas’s rocket-sleigh was inside the Death Pudding it was surrounded by dozens of well-armed elves. These were Bad Christmas’s ‘little helpers’, in other words, his army. However, they were strangely dressed for an army, with costumes that made them look

  like Boo-Boo – tartan jumpsuits and monkey masks. They were armed to the teeth with Sticky Matter Blatter-Splatters and trained to make an atrociously nasty mess.

  Our on-board scientific expert, Professor Plunk-Grumplett, explains:

  ‘Oh, do come on, this is so simple! The Blatter-Splatter fires a stream of Sticky Matter at high speed. The Sticky Matter sticks to just about anything it touches. (You remember of course that sticky matter is basically Christmas pudding mix.) Anything hit by Sticky Matter is instantly zombified. Now, stop pestering me with silly questions. I’m not a teacher. I’m a professor.’

  Father Christmas was pulled from his machine,

  tied up, tipped on to his side and then rolled like a barrel before his wicked brother.

  ‘Ho ho ho!’ chuckled Bad Christmas with icy irony. ‘Look what we have here! Greetings, dearest, darling brother. Long time no see!’

  ‘Long time don’t want to see – that would be more like it,’ grunted Father Christmas. ‘Still sucking Boo-Boo, I see.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ snarled Bad Christmas, stroking Boo-Boo. ‘You are in a mood, aren’t you? Doesn’t that make a change? Oh yes, indeed. How well I remember our childhood, so many years ago. You were always the horribly cheerful one. How everybody loved you!’

  Bad Christmas began to prance round the room, pulling faces and talking in a high, copycat voice. ‘Look at darling Chrissywissy, doesn’t he have such lovely podgy red cheeky-weekys? Don’t you think his giggle is like eeny-weeny-teeny silver bells!’

  Bad Christmas suddenly exploded, his voice dripping hatred. ‘You nauseate me, you fat, happy-pappy-dappy doo-dah! But there’s nobody to admire you here, little brother. There’s no Mummy or Daddy Christmas now, there’s just you and me, together again, at last! Plus, of course, Boo-Boo’s army.’ Bad Christmas held the little beanie to his face. ‘You’re Commander-in-Chief, aren’t you, Boo-Boo? Oh yes you are! Clever little monkey!’ His eyes flicked back to his brother.

  ‘Welcome to my Death Pudding. This fabulous, glorious instrument of doom will be the last thing you’ll ever see. What do you think of that?’

  ‘You’ve always been a crazy maniac,’ snorted Father Christmas. ‘You haven’t changed one bit. You weren’t shut away on The Other Side for no reason. You were put there because you were a threat to Christmas throughout the world.’

  Bad Christmas thundered across to his brother. ‘Oh, listen to Mr Goody-goody! You always were a pompous, self-righteous little toad.’ Bad Christmas put one foot on the tubby barrel of rope and began to roll his brother round and round. ‘Ha! But look at you now, all tied up and nowhere to go. You’d better face it, little brother, soon you will be nothing but Sticky Matter. I shall turn you into the gloopiest Christmas pudding ever, and it will give me such pleasure. But first I want you to see what is going to happen to all your little friends on Earth.’

  Father Christmas turned pale. He knew his big brother was evil and hated him, but he had not realized that Bad Christmas was, well, THAT bad.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Bad Christmas smiled. Now then, there are different types of smile. When Miss Comet smiles it is as if the sun has just come out from behind a cloud and the world is full of birdsong and blossom and everyone wants to dance, tra-la.

  When Bad Christmas smiles it is as if the sun has just been swallowed by a dense fog of gloom. Darkness and Misery stalk the land; flowers wilt, birds are silent and the only dance is a dismal trudge.

  ‘Do let me explain, little brother,’ said Bad Christmas. ‘In fact, let me give you AN EXAMPLE!’ Bad Christmas turned to his elves. ‘You! Bring me some pudding, and, you lot – bring me the polar bear.’ The way Bad Christmas’s voice changed was truly scary. It was equally full of scorn and cream. One moment it would soothe and caress and then it would lash out like a whip.

  The elves scurried away and it wasn’t long before they returned, one with a small Christmas pudding and several others leading a chained and muzzled polar bear. The noble animal had been reduced to a starved and shambling wreck. The fear in its eyes would have melted anyone’s heart – anyone, that is, except Bad Christmas.

  Bad Christmas took the pudding to the bear. ‘There, no need to be alarmed. Look, I bring you some lovely food. Aren’t you hungry? Doesn’t it smell delicious? Oh yes! Do eat some. I know you haven’t been fed for days – you must be so awfully hungry. Have a nibble. Yes, feast away to your heart’s content.’

  The starving bear gulped down the poisonous pudding while Bad Christmas clapped his hands. ‘Look, Boo-Boo! No creature can resist our Christmas puddings. Now, do watch closely and observe what happens next.’

  The bear began to shake its head from side to side, as if thousands of bees were inside its ears and it was trying to shake them out. Suddenly it went rigid, standing on tiptoe. Its eyes bulged, a strange light flaring up in them before quickly fading away to nothing at all. The bear’s body went limp and it stood there, still and silent as a statue.

  ‘Take off the chains and muzzle,’ commanded Bad Christmas. He looked at the bear and said, ‘Mr Boo-Boo says come here.’ The bear shambled forward with oddly mechanical steps. ‘Boo-Boo says lift your right paw. Lift your left paw. Pick your nose. Pat your bottom.’

  With each command Bad Christmas gave a silly giggle as the bear obeyed. The bear’s mind was entirely under his control. Not only that, but Bad Christmas didn’t even have to speak the commands – he merely had to think them and the animal obeyed. It was terrifying that anyone could have such power, but Father Christmas had no idea how it would help his brother take over the world.

  ‘It’s simple, dear little-brained brother,’ explained Bad Christmas. ‘I have an endless supply of puddings. They have invaded Earth and are sitting innocently on every shop and supermarket shelf around the globe. Many have already been bought. On Christmas Day millions of people will be tucking into MY Christmas puddings, which are made with Sticky Matter, and then what happened to the polar bear will happen to them. Just the teeniest taste and they will be MY SLAVES! My puddings will turn everyone into zombies. Ho ho ho ho ho! Ho ho ho ho!’

  Sound FX: Screams of horror from a distant Earth, and heavy, doom-laden music. Dooooo-dee-doooooom! Booooo bee-booooom!

  Bad Christmas’s laughter echoed throughout the Death Pudding and his elves joined in with their own horrible ho-ho chorus.

  ‘STOP!’ Bad Christmas roared, glowering at everyone. Several elves fell over from the sheer force of his bellow, while others scuttled to the far edges of the room and shrank back against the walls. Bad Christmas stalked across to his brother.

  ‘DARLING brother,’ he purred. ‘Maybe you are wondering why I am doing this. Do let me enlighten you. All my life I have hated
you. You know why? Because you are loved by everyone you meet. Even when I was a toddler and you were a tiny baby if anyone saw you they went all cootchy-coo and isn’t he cute and – urrrrrgh!’

  Bad Christmas shuddered at the memory. ‘And when the time came for one of us to take over from Father, WHO was chosen? Surely it would be ME? The ELDEST? But, no. Everyone said I would scare the children. Imagine – little old me scaring the tiddly tiny-tots? Oh dear, can’t have that – oh no! AND THEY CHOSE YOU INSTEAD!

  ‘You take presents round year after year and they all love you so much. It makes me SICK! Do you think I got presents on The Other Side? Of course not. Did anyone remember me? No. Well, I am going to change all that. This year there will only be one person getting presents and that person is going to be ME! Everyone will bow before me and bring ME gifts. It will be the best Christmas ever.’

  ‘You can’t make people give you presents,’ said Father Christmas. ‘A present is something someone wants to give you. That’s the whole point.’

  ‘Oh, Boo-Boo, did you hear prissy-pants? Of course I can make them. I am going to turn everyone into a pudding-zombie and then they will do exactly what I say. And I shall start with the children. I have made some extra-special tiny puddings, covered in lovely crunchy chocolate. One tiny bite and they’ll be in my control forever. And here’s the best bit. Who do you think is going to give the children their special choccy Chrissy puds? Father Christmas himself! You are going to put one of my special puds in every child’s Christmas stocking. So if anyone ever discovers the deadly secret of the pudding, they’ll think it was YOU! Oh, Boo-Boo, isn’t that hilarious?!’