What I Did At Christmas

Please give us a rundown of your Chrimbo high jinks, or lack thereof. I’ll go first.

I arose late on Christmas Eve, as has been my custom these past few years. After trimming my beard into something quite dashing and festive and showering, I made my way downstairs, in full expectancy that Juan Manuel Hernandez Campoy, my new Spanish chef, would be treating me to a spectacular fry up. Alas, it was not to be.

Simpkins stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to intercept me.
‘Dash it all, Simpkins,’ I said, quite irritated by this obstruction to my sausage, bacon and eggs, ‘You’re stood there like Gillian McKeith at a Burger King. What’s the matter?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said Simpkins, ‘but you have a visitor who strikes me as a little unsavoury. He’s waiting for you in the informal dining room. I thought it best to keep him away from the silver.’
‘Not the vicar, is it?’
‘No, sir. A foreign gentleman by the name of Plenjev. A Moravian, I think.’
‘The name doesn’t ring a bell. Show him through to the drawing room, will you – and tell Manuel it’s a fry up for me. And warn Manuel that I don’t require anything of a continental flourish on my brekkers, will you. If I smell garlic, it’ll mean his cards.’
‘Very good, sir.’

More than a little perturbed at this interruption, I made my way to the drawing room to await my mystery guest. His tale was to drastically change my plans for Yuletide. It turned out that thickee Simpkins had misidentified the country of origin of my guest. He was Bohemian, not Moravian. If I’d known that, I might more easily have put two and two together about why my guest was visiting me, this Christmas Eve.

He was a representative of the Princess Sally of Bohemia, an old college dalliance of mine. Great girl, Sally. A very inventive lady who had once left me needing the services of a Harley Street chiropractor after one particularly naughty night of fun. It seemed she was in urgent need of my aid regarding a newly found Bohemian artifact and resulting wrangles with the Czech government.

Now, I was very fond of Sally but I was in no mood to go haring off to Bohemia without any breakfast. I asked Panjev what the bally rush was.
‘Queen Sally begs your forgiveness, sir,’ he said, ‘but stresses that much is at stake, including her own life. I have a helicopter waiting in your grounds to take us to a private jet not far from here. We can be in Bohemia in a few hours.’

I sent for my travel cases to be packed and brought down. It took only a few hours and I arrived at the castle Flimjimjev, Bohemia. I had never visited Sally’s home before and was suitably impressed by the towering white spires and turrets.

Sally met me at the gate of the castle.
‘Oh, I’m so glad you came,’ she said, launching herself upon me and showering me with kisses, ‘I confess I have dreamed up countless ruses to get you here for romantic purposes. However, this is deadly serious and no ruse. Follow me, I’ve something to show you.’

Sally led me to a great vaulted hall in the depths of the castle. In the centre of the hall stood a podium supporting a glass antiquities case. Inside the case, on a velvet cushion sat what appeared to be a small, pale, wrinkled, leather pouch.
‘What is it, Sallster?’ I asked.
‘Saint Nicholas’s sack.’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s a less well known artifact from the crucifixion of Christ. Everyone’s heard about the Grail or the crown of thorns, or even the spear of Longinus, but not many know that one of the Romans, Shortius, cut Jesus’s scrotum off while he was dying on the cross for our sins. This is His scrotum.’ Sally crossed herself in a religious display that, given some of the undergraduate nights she had treated me to, was quite unexpected. It’s always the quiet ones.
‘So why is it Saint Nic’s sack?’ I enquired.
‘Well, Shortius took his prize back to Rome and dined out on it for many years. In Piacenza, there is even a tunic dating from that time emblazoned with the Latin I WENT TO SHORTIUS’S EMPORIUM AND SAW THE NUTSACK OF THE KING OF THE JEWS.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Eventually, Shortius was tracked down and hacked to death by a Greek Christian named Nicolae. He brought the sacred scrotum here, fleeing the Roman lawmen. Using the heavenly testicle holder as evidence, Nicolae converted Bohemia to Christianity and was widely regarded as a saintly man. Once, idly fondling the Lord’s ballbag under a pine tree at Michaelmas, Nicolae discovered he could produce wrapped, addressed gifts from inside the cavity of the relic.’
‘I say.’
‘Quite. He lived for many years and brought much joy to Bohemia, giving marvellous gifts to rich and poor alike at Christmas. He gave other priests from all around the world, as it was then known, hairs from the sacred scrotum. Any humble sack containing one of these hairs was also able to produce miraculous gifts from within. On his deathbed he bequeathed the original, and now hairless, holy nobblers to my ancestor King Blat, with the warning that they were never to leave this blessed country or else the entire miraculous franchise he had arranged would be defeated and end.’
‘So what’s the problem, old girl?’
‘We have been sent a compulsory purchase order from the Czech authorities. They want to put His Bits on display in their new museum. Their new museum is outside the ancient borders of the Kingdom of Bohemia.’

My mind nearly reeled at this new twist. If the Holy Goolie Sack ever left the country, those men that carried on Nicolae’s founding, men like Santa Claus, Father Christmas and Pere Noel, would have no presents to give anyone tomorrow!

‘No worries, Toots.’ I said.
‘You have a plan?’ Wide eyed with hope, Sally looked like she might be very grateful.
‘Of course. I’ll give Nicky Masonev a tinkle. He’s head of the Czech Antiquities Service and he owes me a favour from that time I stopped Fatty Bordello-Smythe from buggering him for dropping that catch when he was playing for the school thirds. Won’t take a jiffy, where’s your ‘phone?’

And Sally was very grateful. And I was back home in time for presents on Christmas morning.