…this portrait of undead human decomposition, not peculiar to Christmas but most frequently encountered about that time.
(Enters public house on St. Stephen's Day, obviously shattered with alcohol. Lowers self into seat with great care, grips table to arrest devastating shake in hands. Calls for glass of malt. Spills water all over table. Swallows drink with great clatter of teeth against glass. Shakily lights cigarette. Exhales. Begins to look around. Fixes on adjacent acquaintance. Begins peroration.)
'Bedam but you know, people talk a lot about drink, Whiskey and all the rest of it. There's always a story, the whiskey was bad, the stomach was out of order and so on. Do you know what I'm going to tell you…?
(Pauses impressively. The eye-pupils, almost dissolved in their watery lake, rove about with sickly inquiry. Accepts silence as evidence of intense interest.)
"Do you know what it is?"
(Changes cigarette from normal inter-digital position, holds it aloft vertical; taps it solemnly with index finger of free hand.)
"Do you see that? That thing there? Cigarettes. Them lads. Do you know what I'm going to tell you…?"
(Is suddenly overcome by paroxysm of coughing; roots benightedly for handkerchief as tears of pure alcohol course down the ruby cheeks, Recovers.)
"Them fellas there. Them fellas has me destroyed…"
(Collapses into fresh paroxysm Emerges again):
'I wouldn't mind that at all (indicates glass). I know what I have there. There's eatin' an' drinkin' in that. Damn the harm that done annywan, bar been taken to excess. But this…"
(Again points to cigarette, looks of sorrow and horror mingling on 'face'.)
"Them lads has me destroyed."