Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Father Christmas’s Fake Beard
The Blackbury Pie
Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh!
A Very Short Ice Age
The Computer Who Wrote to Father Christmas
Good King Wences-lost
The Weatherchick
Judgement Day for Father Christmas
The Abominable Snow-baby
The Twelve Gifts of Christmas
Father Christmas Goes to Work at the Zoo
Read More
About the Author
Also by Terry Pratchett
Copyright
About the Book
Have you ever wanted Christmas to be different?
Turkey and carols, presents and crackers – they all start to feel a bit … samey.
How about a huge exploding mince pie, a pet abominable snowman, or a very helpful partridge in a pear tree? What if Father Christmas went to work at a zoo, or caused chaos in a toy store, or was even arrested for burglary?
Dive into the fantastically funny world of Sir Terry Pratchett for a festive treat like no other. These eleven stories will have you laughing, gasping and crying (with laughter) – you’ll never see Christmas in the same way again.
Includes the favourite Terry Pratchett story ‘Father Christmas Goes to Work at the Zoo’ with brand-new illustrations.
This book is dedicated to Terry’s readers across the globe who waited patiently until December 25th each year to unwrap the latest Pratchett.
There may be no more novels, but oh what a legacy.
Happy Hogswatch, One and All!
Rob Wilkins
The Chalk Valley, June 2017
This is the story of the Blackbury Pie, the thirty-three cooks, and the Christmas spirit of Horace Clinker, Mayor of Blackbury. I don’t know whether they still bake a special Blackbury Pie when Christmas comes to that odd little town, since Horace Clinker has long since passed away, and the grandsons of the thirty-three cooks are now in business there, but this is how they all came together to bake the first – and biggest – Blackbury Pie.
It was early December, 1871. Albert Sock was just closing his pastry shop when a small boy came up to him.
‘A message from the mayor, Mr Sock,’ he said.
Sock took it and read:
Of course, Sock knew he had to go. With his cookery book under his arm, he tramped through the narrow streets, his nose glowing in the cold.
He liked Horace Clinker – everyone in Blackbury did – but he was the sort of man who has Ideas. And they were the sort of Ideas that led to trouble of one sort or another, like the scheme for the underground railway that made the High Street cave in, or the new-fangled electrics that blew up the town hall.
It said a lot for Mr Clinker that the people of Blackbury still liked him – but he was always ready to give anyone a shilling, and knew everyone’s name and their children’s names, and was the best mayor the town had ever had.
When Sock reached the mayor’s parlour he found Clinker standing by the fire. There were thirty-two other people in the room – all the cooks, butchers and grocers in the town. Everyone shook hands, then Horace sat them down with a glass of port each to keep out the cold. Most sat on the floor.
‘I’m never one for beating about the bush,’ he said. ‘I want you to bake a special Blackbury Pie.’ He paused. ‘Don’t interrupt,’ he said, before they had a chance to. ‘You see, a lot of people in this town are very poor and will have a very hungry Christmas indeed. We can’t have that, not in Blackbury. So what I want you to do is make a pie that is big enough to give every man and woman and child in the town a large slice – with gravy.’
‘Impossible!’ cried Sock.
‘No, not my way. I’ll give you each five guineas a week to bake it. There must be beef in it, and pork, and veal, and mutton, and spuds, and carrots and apples and currants and mincemeat and peas and parsnips and turnips and cherries and nuts and chicken and turkey and duck and pheasant, and I can’t think of anything more,’ he said in one breath.
And so it was. Next morning the thirty-three cooks held a meeting, and some started building a big bonfire in a field outside the town, while others began to mix pastry in the public swimming bath, which had been emptied for the winter. They didn’t use a rolling pin, of course – they used the town’s steamroller.
‘What about a pie dish?’ said Sock; so workmen switched off the gas to one of the smaller gas storage tanks, then cut it off at ground level and towed the enormous empty tank over into the field. Using a crane and scaffolding, they lowered the pastry into it, while one hundred and twenty stokers got the fire going.
The mayor stood on a specially constructed platform and directed operations through a megaphone. He was really enjoying himself.
By this time the news of the great pie had spread, and people were flocking to the field outside Blackbury from all over Gritshire. Many brought tents, and sat round the big baking fire making toast – or lending a hand to the thirty-three cooks.
Meanwhile the lorries kept coming up loaded with pie filling, fifty cement mixers were making gravy, and in the middle of it all the great pie sat and cooked.
‘I’m a bit worried, sir,’ said Albert Sock, the chief cook, climbing up to the mayor’s lookout post. ‘You see, we aren’t allowing the pie to breathe.’ He told the mayor that the pie should have holes in the crust – otherwise the pie would blow up, just like a boiler.
‘Just like a boiler, eh? Well, we’ll just have to hope it doesn’t,’ said Clinker.
‘And another thing, sir, you’re filling it much too full. It’s reaching danger point, sir. I shudder to think of the strain on the crust.’
‘What could I do? Look at all those people – they’ve come from East Slate, Wookley’s Corner, Wambleford, Goombridge and Cumbley Street, Euston, just for a piece of our Christmas pie. I’ve got to put more in it – I don’t want anyone to go hungry.’
Christmas Day dawned, and the Bishop of Blackbury stood on top of the pie to conduct a special carol service in the field.
Then twenty lorries arrived, laden with presents and crackers, all paid for by the mayor. By now the field was crowded, and everyone was queuing up with plates.
Albert Sock tapped the crust. The pie was rumbling dangerously.
Rrrrrrrumble …
Rrrrrrumble …
Rrrrumble …
‘Run for your lives!’ Albert cried. ‘The pie’s going to explode!’
The cooks started running, and soon everyone followed their example. They hid behind trees and rocks, and watched the pie rock back and forth in its dish.
Then –
And it was gone.
‘My poor pie!’ moaned the mayor. ‘What can we give all these people to eat? And now it’s raining too.’
‘Best-tasting rain ever,’ said Sock. ‘It’s warm gravy.’ A lump of pie landed on his plate.
Pie rained over Gritshire, and everyone rushed around laying out plates on the ground. Perhaps because it was Christmas, the pie always seemed to land just where people wanted it to! It was still coming down on Boxing Day, just in time to be warmed up and none the worse for its trip into the sky – although a large flock of wild geese were nearly shot down by flying crust.
Horace Clinker and Albert Sock walked home at the end of Boxing Day in silence.
Then: ‘What about next year?’ asked Albert.
‘Smaller, I think. A giant Christmas mince pie, perhaps, with fruit and nuts,’ said the mayor. He scratched his head and beamed at Albert. ‘But we have other holidays first,’ he said. ‘What about … a giant pa
ncake for Pancake Day?’
‘And a massive chocolate egg for Easter!’ said Albert.
What a lot of cooking and eating there would be!
The town of Blackbury isn’t just famous for huge pies and scary snowmen. New Year’s Day used to be a big occasion in Blackbury because of the great game of Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh, which was played there on that day every year. It was a most amusing game – a cross between rugby, hopscotch, shove ha’penny and vandalism. It has been played in Blackbury since it was invented in 1340.
Traditionally, it was played between the little old market town of Blackbury, nestling on the wooded slopes of the Um valley, and the nearby town of Umbridge. And it was never ever played by anyone else – because the rules were so complicated that no one outside the two towns had ever been able to understand them.
For example, the game of Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh has:
– seventeen goals
– a pitch with twenty-three sides (except if there was a new moon at the time of the match, when it had 109)
And points were scored in all sorts of ways, such as:
– smartness of the players
– which team had the man with the knobbliest knees
– particularly impressive fouls
The best Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh player of all time was Amos Strong’i’t’arm, who was a blacksmith and seven feet tall. And the best game was the one played by him in 1870. This is how it happened:
One December morning Amos was sitting on his anvil chewing iron bars and spitting out nails, and idly looking out at the people passing by. Who should he see but Miss Fancy Ramble, daughter of the Mayor of Umbridge. She must have been very beautiful, because Amos fell in love with her at once.
‘Dang me,’ was all he said, as he absent-mindedly bent an iron bar in half.
Amos, being the best Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh player in Blackbury, could have married any girl in the town. But Fancy was the daughter of an Umbridge man, the Mayor of Umbridge himself, and Umbridge and Blackbury were archenemies.
Especially around the time of the annual match.
Amos hurried home, dressed up in his Sunday suit, greased down his hair and rode off to ask Fancy’s father if he could court her. That was how they did things in those days.
But Mr Ramble himself was amazed when Amos turned up. ‘Ee, lad,’ he said, ‘if I was to let our Fancy go a-walking with you, the townsfolk would throw me in the river. Blackbury beat us in the last six matches, you know. Still, let’s ask Fancy.’
Of course, Fancy had seen Amos in Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh matches and thought what a handsome fellow he was. So she just blushed and said nothing, while Amos stood there twisting his cap and trying hard to think of something to say.
‘Of course,’ said old Ramble, who was a crafty man,fn1 ‘if Blackbury was to lose the match next week I might feel that there’d be no harm in you courting Fancy …’
Amos was shocked. ‘Do you mean you want me to cheat?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s a bit much,’ added Fancy.
‘Well, now,’ said old Ramble, ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to suggest that, but if you was to have a bad leg or get the cramps, Blackbury wouldn’t win, would it?’
The day drew near, and teams were picked for the annual match. Amos was befuddled. Old Ramble had refused to even let him see Fancy again until after the match, and he didn’t know what to do.
There was a slight sprinkling of snow on the ground on New Year’s Day, but a big crowd had turned out to watch.
Amos was playing Widdershins – a special Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh position, rather like a centre forward in football. The referee tossed the ball into the middle and off they went!
It was soon obvious that Amos wasn’t at his best. In the first ten minutes Umbridge scored two Prods, three Trumbles and a Diddle.fn2
Actually Amos was not trying to play badly, but he was feeling so miserable he couldn’t even score a Prod, let alone a Diddle (a Diddle is worth three and a half times as much as a Prod). By half time Umbridge was leading by twenty-three Trumbles, and the second half started out as badly as the first.
Up in the mayor’s box, young Fancy was feeling as miserable as Amos. After all, she thought, I can hardly marry him if he’s not the champion. It wouldn’t be seemly. I am the mayor’s daughter.
Then she had an idea.
Just as Umbridge were about to score their latest Diddle she jumped up and shouted: ‘Up with Blackbury! Come on, Amos!’
went Amos. He caught the ball in his teeth and scored eighteen Diddles in as many minutes, plus a very neat half-Diddle that bounced off the crossbar into the net. Up and down the field he went like a blur, scoring points all the time.
The Blackbury supporters, who had been sitting morosely listening to the jeers from the Umbridge fan club, were jumping up and down and cheering hysterically.
The game ended with Blackbury well in the lead, and Amos was carried shoulder high from the ground.
‘Amos!’ shouted Fancy, and dashed towards him. She planted a big kiss on his muddy face and said: ‘I don’t care what Father said. I’m glad you won!’
So the Mayor of Umbridge really had no alternative but to be decent about it. He offered Amos a cigar and said: ‘Well, er, I’m glad you had the gumption to go ahead and win, lad. That’s what I’d like to see in a son-in-law.’
Amos and Fancy were married in August, and both the Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh teams turned up. They even gave the happy couple a guard of honour as they came out of the church, with all the knobbliest knees proudly on show.
And the next New Year’s Day match ended in a draw after being played for seven hours. So everyone was satisfied.
I’m sorry I can’t say any more about exactly how the game is played. Prod-Ye-A’Diddle Oh has not been played since 1901, and all that remains of a once-proud tradition is one Prodding boot and half a Diddle goalpost in Blackbury Museum.
Go and have a look next time you’re there.
On Day One of the Big Snow, Rasmussen had decided he would be an ‘Arctic dweller’. By noon, he had reached the deathly quiet main road, three quarters of a mile away – three quarters of a mile, it should be said, of snow nearly three metres deep.
Progress was rather slow. What he did was this: he stood on a large square of wood and pushed another square forward, stepped onto it, then tugged the first one after him using a length of string. Occasionally, the stick he was using to measure the depth of the snow hit a buried car, and he’d dig down in search of survivors or money.
A few more hops brought him to a man standing waist-deep in the snow, clutching a loaf of bread.
‘I wish I’d thought of that,’ said the man. ‘Could you pull me out?’
Rasmussen pushed some wood towards him, and after a lot of heaving the man climbed aboard. They looked at each other.
Rasmussen looked doubtful, but said, ‘If you jump onto my piece, maybe we can keep going together. I think the surface area is big enough to stop it sinking under our weight.’
Together they pulled and jumped until they had gone about a hundred metres.
‘Is this marine ply?’ said the passenger.
‘What’s marine ply? asked Rasmussen, as they jumped.
‘Well, marine ply is waterproof so it doesn’t spli—’
Only a conveniently buried Volkswagen stopped them sinking through the wreckage of the soggy board. Rasmussen’s passenger sighed, pulled the string off, attached one end to the loaf of bread and the other to his foot, and said, ‘I think we’ll have to crawl for it.’
And so they did.
When Rasmussen eventually got home, he could see that his neighbour had (with true British stoicism) dug out ten metres of snow from his drive. It might have added more snow to the huge pile in the road, but by golly his neighbour’s drive was clear.
On Day Two, the whole village had decided that, really, they’d done quite enough to battle the snow. No use digging out the car when the road is blocked, everyone said
, and the police say we should all stay at home anyway.
Rasmussen, the Arctic dweller, decided to spend the morning looking for his Brussels sprouts, which had got lost in the snow, and spent the afternoon in the garage making a commendable pair of snowshoes.fn1
The drifts were now pouring over the hedges. It was obvious to Rasmussen that they’d never disappear. He had seen that programme on the telly where it said the next Ice Age was due any time and would start with a heavy fall of snow. This must be it, thought Rasmussen.
He lay in bed that night wondering whether reindeer could be bought on a government grant (the people who run the country – the government – sometimes give money for essential things, such as food or clothes … and maybe reindeer). And whether it was difficult to build a sledge.
Next day it sleeted. Rasmussen endeavoured to rebuild his snowshoes – to remedy the defect that caused him to fall flat on his face every time he used them.
Then his neighbour appeared at the door, holding a shovel.
‘What’re you mending there?’ he enquired.
‘They’re snowshoes,’ said Rasmussen.
‘Left it a bit late, haven’t you?’
‘Oh no,’ said Rasmussen. ‘According to that programme on BBC Two, we’re due for an Ice Age. We get one about once every three hundred million years, you see.’
‘But it’s suddenly got warm! It’s pouring with rain and the snowplough has got as far as the pub.’ The neighbour pointed down the road.
Rasmussen went and had a look. Half the fields were green. Cars, dustbins and Brussel sprouts were appearing through the sinking snow. All across the village slightly embarrassed householders were digging out their driveways. The usual rumble of traffic came from the main road.
Father Christmas’s Fake Beard Page 1
