Frunting and bollics, readers! We may all be about to go broke (well, you may, at any rate) but let’s not forget the true meaning of Christmas, by which I mean coining it hand over fist at the expense of the miserable British shopper and lining up fodder for the debt collectors in April. So down your mulled meths and join with me in a Pumsey Christingle. All together now:

O Tesco town of Inverness
How still we see thee lie!
The bogof booze is off the shelves
The fags well hidden lie
No beer is in the offering
But in this world of sin
Where Tennent’s are evicted, still
The Jocks find their way in! 


Silent night! Lonely night!
Woolies’ aisles, what a sight!
Fittings flogged, from tills to lavs
Shelves stripped bare by flocks of chavs
Sleep in slovenly peace!
Sleep in slovenly peace! 


Justin King of Leamington Spa,
Bearing gifts he travels so far
Lexus Hybrid, Gases Skyward,
Follow the Sainsbury's tsar.
O Star of orange, star of night,
Star Park Royal world web site
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to thy dayglo Light 


In the bleak mid winter
Two thousand and eight
Bondy’s ginger’s greying
Terry’s teeth they grate
Markup’s tills are empty
Rosey’s cheeks won’t glow
How they miss the margins
Long ago! 


Swing Dong merrily on high
String up the city bankers!
Hoist them verily where I
Can hear them choke, the cankers
Gloria! Their larceny still rancours!
Gloria! Their larceny still rancours! 


Aldi in no danger, no brands in its shed
The little discounter, chock full toe to head
Paul Foley’s the bright guy, looked down where he lay
At little Lord Terry and his tertiary way