Robert Duncan reflects on a year to remember…
You know those typewritten sheets of rhubarb you find in Christmas cards from people you at best hardly know, or at worst met at a seaside bed and breakfast somewhere. Round robins.
Are they just boring because you remember the people involved, or just boring in their own right (or write)? My theory is that they are boring mainly because the less someone does in a year, the more they’re likely to write about it. The old empty vessels syndrome.
Mind you it is super that young Eric has had his buck teeth fixed. And Simon’s rash is now under control. Or Doris now wears glasses. Or Arnold has run off with a barmaid after declaring his love to her publicly on a local radio phone-in. Actually that sounds quite interesting. Do we really have to wait a year to hear that Arnold has come home, his tail (or something) between his legs, and has announced it was all a mistake and she hadn’t enjoyed his accordion music after all. Oh well.
So here’s mine for 2015:
“January found us starting an avalanche in Zermatt. We couldn’t help laughing when Sam did his customary yodel in his newly attained deep teenage voice and they’re still looking for the picture postcard chalet we had rented. Was Cathy mad – she told him off enormously until she burst into helpless giggles and slapped her older son heartily on the back. The resulting noise nearly took care of the rest of Zermatt. The little town went very quiet after that. Even the reindeer weren’t talking to us!
Home again to wile away the tiring days of February by opening Valentine cards from everyone from Brad Pitt to Madonna, Idris Elba to Michelle Pfeiffer, and a touching declaration of love from Keira Knightley. As I sit here, pen poised, in December, I am beginning to wish she would leave me alone. Cathy says she can have you – serve her right. She can be very hurtful.
March – and we’re off for six glorious months in a time machine, so I will finish this round robin as soon as I return. Oh we’re back. That was quick. And if you don’t believe me, come round and meet our dinosaur Porky. Aptly named after what he did, somewhat embarrassingly, to a pig at a local farm we visited with an intention to buy.
Jamie’s violin is coming on a pace, so it was lovely to go to Les Miserables again and hear him leading the orchestra. Cathy watched the whole thing through a veil of tears until a rude (and probably jealous) woman in the next row told her to bloody well shut up. I wonder if she’s had those opera glasses removed yet…
April, and our home is abuzz with preparations for our family entry in the Eurovision Song Contest. Modesty prevents me from telling you that I actually wrote our song. Oh, I’ve told you. Well never mind. The middle eight nearly caused me to have a nervous breakdown – finding a suitable rhyme for ‘Fits like a glove, love’ made me lose sleep and swallow boxes of paracetamol without even opening them.
May arrived, and so did Eurovision – and I am still convinced we would have won if the organisers had told us the right city. We questioned whether Juneau in Alaska was correct but they insisted our song Ping went the String of my Thing had a real chance of success there. The Europeans don’t like us.
When June arrived we got a gigantic load of publicity from saying ‘Where does the time go?’ This staggeringly original line has now gone into the public parlance and we can hardly walk down the street without people running up for signed copies. One young girl even had it tattooed on her chest, and an older woman did the same but at least she had the decency to tuck the message under her belt for propriety if the occasion didn’t lend itself to such outlandish behaviour. Funds were short so I had half a haircut, thereby starting an instant fashion that had me fast tracked to the covers of Vogue, Men Only and Woman’s Weekly.
Exciting times and I’m not exaggerating when I say that we all thought July couldn’t better June for sheer delight. But, you’ve guessed it, something turned up to stop this round robin from being mind numbingly boring. This appeared totally out of the blue one Saturday night right after my birthday, when there was little else to do apart from writing to the Duke of Edinburgh to thank him for his kind words and the generous portion of Windsor Castle. There was a tap on the door (so we had it relocated to the bathroom) and Daffy Duck was standing there. Cathy sent him off for pancakes and the rest of the evening looked after itself. July had proved to be as superb as we had hoped.
It couldn’t last forever and in August disaster struck when Jamie’s first novel failed to reach the Sunday Times Top Ten Books list and Duncancartoons.com missed the Times hundred best companies because the turnover was £3 short. Well you can imagine what that did to the mood of the family. Cathy repaired to her bed, Sam retired to his room with a Star Wars movie and 27 slices of toast, and Jamie and I passed the time by re-enacting Othello. Sad times indeed.
September wasn’t much better. Cheered briefly by a visit to war torn Chinnor, a pleasant trip to Richard Branson’s island in the Caribbean (he wouldn’t leave us alone) and a game of Monopoly that lasted three weeks. Unhappy times.
October starts on a high. Jamie is accepted by Manchester United and (isn’t it always the way?) gets seventeen goals against Everton. “Don’t peak too early” I wisely told him, but he had the nerve to say shut up and bought me a Bentley Continental to say sorry. Kids!
November is best forgotten. Suffice to say the firework was safely removed and I’m walking again.
And here we are in December! Those bloody Norwegians have sent us their usual Christmas tree, so it’s time to remove the flap from the floor of Jamie’s room and make the great thing fit somehow. It looks good, but the local dogs are making a real mess of the base, and they don’t have the good grace to aim only for the waterproof presents. The Albert Hall has insisted on staging Sam’s one man show for a further three nights so I suppose I’ll have to drop him off at the stage door as usual. This year we are due to perform the family dance routine as a finale, but to tell you the truth I can’t be bothered. Who wants that? Apart from that queue of some two thousand people waiting in the snow, and singing my Eurovision hit?
I must put my pen down now. The family is eager for my rendition of Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol (the entire thing) before I carve the ostrich whilst singing Silent Night at full volume in my pleasing light baritone.
So Happy Christmas! And here’s to 2016!
I hope I’ll be able to report a less boring year next time.”
Round robins. Don’t you love ‘em?