The Christmas Cake

December 24th, 2024

I’ve recently rediscovered the great monthly poetry event ‘Poetry at Books and Beans’ which is, very aptly named, an evening of poetry held monthly at Aberdeen’s Books and Beans coffee shop. Ten years ago I was a regular at these events, launching my ‘Travel with my Rants’ pamphlet there (supported by Aberdeen beat poet Mark Pithie who has also become a regular again) and I even took over hosting duties for around two months. Anyway, in the intervening years, I wrote this little poem from the point of view of a Christmas cake. You know the type, meticulously planned for the whole of November, lovingly baked and soaked in Brandy just as the tree goes up, left to mature throughout Advent and, ultimately, largely ignored until Epiphany.

The Christmas Cake

It’s December the first, it’s the start of the verse
at the moment I’m flour, eggs and sugar.
Add dried fruit and almonds, then cranberry jam
And I’m ready to bung in the cooker.
I’ve a measure or three of fine VSOP
to get once-a-year tipplers tipsy
and an hour or so later, the cake decorator
gets my icing all well-whisked and whippy.

In some paradox, I’m then chucked in a box
not to be opened ‘til Christmas.
I’ve no best before date and there’s no need to wait –
all the year round I’m delicious!
But it’s over a fortnight ‘til next I see daylight
when somebody opens the lid.
There must be a visitor! The mayor or the minister?
Oh no, it’s a snotty-nosed kid!

He grins and he sniggers and soon his fat fingers
are dipped in me, testing, appraising.
His hygiene’s obscene and it’s turning me green –
well, at least what he’s left of my glazing.
But for all that he’s candid, he’s soon caught red-handed
And sent up to bed with no supper
and me I’m recovered and chucked in the cupboard –
once again I am tupperware-scuppered.

I can see, clear as light, that on Hogmanay night
they’ll be begging their guests to devour me.
But some kind of cretin claims eating is cheating
and drinks, quaffs and boozes profoundly.
At ten to midnight, he’ll put down his snakebite
And say he quite fancies some cake.
But that merry old swine will just sing Auld Lang Syne
and put the slice back on the plate.

At the end of December, all bakers remember
that although your intentions were good.
Your big Christmas cake’s an ambitious mistake
amongst all that other rich food.
So here’s my expressive and deep festive message
from the depths of the old biscuit tin:
‘Have a fabulous Christmas, enjoy your spiced biscuits’
and a ‘Happy New Year’ from the bin.