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Well, folks, Christmas is upon us, so that means peace on earth and goodwill to all.

Or it would be, but Eva Green.

The Scrooge to whom I'm her lover slash butler slash slave, but mostly slave.

She says I'm too busy to have a life.

So I'm currently mixing her cocktails, a lethal mix of gin, vodka, napalm, petrol,

ricin and Agent Orange, which she considers one of her five a day. In a cement mixer with a lead

pipe leading to her lovely mouth while she sleeps, as there's nothing more dangerous than a sober

either. All while I wear my butler's uniform, which she insists is just a bow-tie

and nothing else, as in her words, she likes to watch my little tushy wiggle as I mop up her

festive sick, and my man-trumpet whibble, which she calls Tiny Tim.

That's my life, folks, serving her majesty's needs. And if I'm really lucky, she deigns to let me curl up in a box at the bottom of her diamond-encrusted, four-poster Olympic-sized bed slash bar slash distillery, with automatic shoe dispensers on either side. As I make whimpering sounds like a puppy, as she occasionally feeds

me little biscuity treats. Well, actually, I just catch the crumbs as they fall from her

lovely mouth. Ah, it's a hard life.

Oh, why is that doorbell ringing fortuitously in this blatant rip-off of the Charles Dickens classic?

Oh, it's hard to see who it is, owing to all the smoke.

Why? It's Jacob Marley.

Yeah, man, Irie, Irie. No woman, no cry, you hear me.

What?

Iry, I, V. Y, I, V. Yeah, man. In Kingston, town.

Oh, for fuck's sake. Why? For reasons no one can fathom, but I suspect laziness.

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