T'was The Saturday Before Christmas...

... and all of West London were in Shephards Bush... a tale of Christmas cheer, or not

Craven Cottage

A Chelsea pensioner celebrates

West London\'s finest

"Good morrow to you, Mr Avercrombie." Dame Windermere proffered as she wafted into his emporium from the driving snow on the King's Road. "I trust the goose has been hung and basted?"

"Indeed your lady," the portly shopkeeper replied "precisely to your exacting specifications. A fine bird from foot to beak, a finer beast has never floated upon the Serpentine. Why, the Queen and Prince Albert will not be feasting on anything as fine as this bird come Christmas morn I'll wager."

Yes, moods were light and carefree on this winters day in this somehow out-moded Dickensian scene. For Christmas had truly arrived in Grozny, SW6; for here the guns had finally fallen silent. Peace reigned.

After months of fighting a miracle happened. The troops climbed from their trenches and foxholes and stood together in no mans land (just off Wood lane, Shepherd's Bush). They passed stories, told jokes, shared packets of cigarettes and showed pictures of their sweethearts. One of them even found a football, and there they played in what just days before had been a place of misery and despair.

Christmas had come early to these Chechen freedom fighters for they were going home.

Meanwhile, in a castle in Scotland in a dimly lit cavernous dining room, a group of men sat smoking cigars around a long oaken table. They charged their glasses and raised them in a toast to evil. "So, number 4 has your plan for developing prime riverfront property failed?" one said.

"Led the fudders have their day, I will have mine" said the shadowy figure at the head of the table. "Liddle do dey know dat dey step ever closer to der press-a-piss. Bwa-ha, bwa-ha-ha, bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha"

"Bwa-hahahahahhahahahahahaha" they all joined in. Menacingly.

Sp3ktor