Auntie Doris’s Twelve Days of Christmas. #12: Twelve Drummers Drumming.



Our Michael knows a couple of Drummers, what with him imagining that he is a big pop star and all. He used to have that Hugh Whitaker out of the Housemartins in his pop group. But that didn’t last long. He never stays in a pop group for long doesn’t Hugh. Now he’s been replaced with that Simon Porter, or is it Piper, I don’t know, they are both funny names for ruddy drummers anyway. Mind you, drummers often do have funny names. Look at that Ringo Starr out of the Beatles. What kind of a name is that? If you ask me the Beatles went downhill once they signed him up. They should have stuck with that Georgie Best. He knew his way around a drum kit, that lad. Shame he didn’t know how to look after his ruddy liver. A bit like Charlie Watts out of the Rolling Stones. He was another one who put his ruddy liver at risk. I mean, we all like a sherry or two at Christmas time, but some of these rock and rollers take it a bit too far. Our Michael once drank so much sherry at a pop concert that he was actually sick. Through his nose. The filthy so and so. I’m glad I wasn’t the one that had to wash his shirt for him. Sherry vomit stains are the devil’s own job to get out. Twelve ruddy days of Christmas? And what do you end out with. A house full of birds and strangers. I wouldn’t thank anyone for presenting me with twelve drummers making all the racket that drummers make. And if that Phil Collins thought he was inviting himself around for a Christmas drink, he would have another think coming. “Phil Collins! What the flaming Nora are you doing here? I would say. “Well” he might reply. “Dave Grohl told me you were having twelve drummers around for Christmas, and so I thought it would be alright” I’d have him then. Quick as a flash I’d say – “Oh and if Dave Grohl told you to stick your neck on a railway track, I suppose you would think that would be alright too, would you?” And then, whilst he was puzzling that one out I would say. “Only it couldn’t be, because you haven’t got a ruddy neck, have you!” Still, I would invite him in with the others, and then give them all a baked potato each. One of those Piping hot Maris Pipers from yesterday each. What’s that? I’ve only got eleven Pipers Piping, but I’ve got twelve drummers to feed? It’s OK – Phil Collins doesn’t want one – he’s no Jacket required! Uncle Raymond’s final Christmas Cracker Cackle of the Season: “She was only the poultry cook’s daughter, but she knew how to gobble the goose.

Auntie Doris’s Twelve Days of Christmas. #11: Eleven Pipers Piping.



Some ruddy idiot got all mixed up.. i don’t know if it was the person who drew the pictures or my ruddy useless nephew when he gave me the titles to write about. I have my suspicions of course, the average illustrator is an intelligent person and my nephew is not.

Apparently, some variations of the song give the eleventh day gift as “Eleven Porters Portering” but the people who sing that are the sort of people who have no idea who plays drums in our Michael’s band, Pocketful O’Nowt. Anyway, there wouldn’t be much in the house to porter by day eleven apart from birds, lords and ladies, and ruddy milkmaids. I wouldn’t let that Simon Porter near my gold rings. He looks shady to me. His eyes are too close together. Anyway, it’s not Porters, it’s ruddy Pipers. And I don’t suppose we are referring to eleven piping hot Maris Piper potatoes, done in their jackets either. Which is a bit of a shame, as one of them would go down nice with melted butter and maybe a bit of cheese on it. But no. We mean ruddy bagpipers making a racket all day and all night. Actually, my Raymond had a bit of a thing about the Dagenham Girl Pipers, and if eleven of them had turned up at our house over the Christmas period, he would probably have shown Pan’s People and Legs and Co the door and sat in front of them, adjusting himself and grunting, whilst they played Flower of Scotland. He would have had to watch himself though. Watching them all blowing and fingering their pipes, I can imagine him giving himself a ruddy stroke. The filthy so and so. He always did have an unhealthy interest in female marching bands did my Raymond. He used to like it when they marched on the spot lifting their knees high with each step, in time to the music. He often got carried away when he saw that sort of thing. He used to make a nuisance of himself at majorette displays to the point where I dreaded going to summer fairs with him. He said that he was only shouting encouragement, but it was the way he did it, the gestures he made, and the facial expressions he used

to pull. One time, at the Withernsea Show, he stood on his chair to get a better view of the lass with the upright xylophone, and I had to pull him off and give him a slap before he calmed down. So don’t even think about sending me any Pipers this Christmas. They would do nothing for me, and you would only be encouraging my Raymond to make a spectacle of himself. Uncle Raymond’s Christmas Cracker Cackle of the Day. “She was only the balti house owners daughter, but she liked a dollop of yoghurt in her tikka masala”