By LM Maggio
Originally published by The Haven
Ebenezer Scrooge bursts through the door of The Crown Tavern with an energy and swagger that belies his 177 years.
Charles Dickens brought the literary legend to life in 1843, but it was Scrooge’s dead business partner, Jacob Marley, who accidentally granted him eternal life, as Scrooge explains below.
The holiday hunk, though, doesn’t mind immortality — even after a century, Ebenezer Scrooge is decidedly winning. His roguish countenance is the official face of Yuletide, while his spectral entourage of Past, Present and Yet To Come has proved to be the world’s most iconic squad to date.
Recently, I had the pleasure of discovering what this humbug turned hottie humanitarian has been getting into since he first burst on the London scene.
***
Scrooge enters the pub having traded in his iconic Victorian dressing gown and nightcap for a Balenciaga three-piece and McQueen graffiti logo-print baseball cap. Restrained mutton chops line his rugged face, subtly meeting salt-and-pepper locks styled into a polite ponytail.
After graciously chatting up his fans at the bar, Scrooge seats himself across from me.
The spirit of Yuletide sparkles in his eyes as we begin our conversation:
Photo by Matthias Kinsella on Unsplash
GUARDIAN: Ebenezer, many thanks for meeting The Guardian here at the historic Crown.
Cheers. Are the bevvies free?
GUARDIAN: Complimentary drinks, of course. Now, since that fateful Christmas Eve, you’ve become philanthropist, Insta-influencer, and were awarded the Queen’s Award for Voluntary Service. How has Jacob Marley’s lesson effected such tremendous change? And do you still live in the past, the present, and the future?
Right-oh. I’m totally a jolly good bloke now. And I can’t get enough of my fellow man.
I’d like a hot toddy, please.
GUARDIAN: (After ordering a round, we continue.) Please elaborate?
Erm, Jacob and those ghosts scared me right shitless. And not just in a bloody “existential crisis” sort of way, but in a “Bollocks, spirits are real?” and “Blast, I’ve been buried alive!” gruesome sort.
But with intensive therapy for PTSD I eventually overcame the trauma of the haunting and then tackled the blimey existential crisis.
Oh, hot scoop though — Jacob’s pissed! Apparently, he wasn’t counting on granting me immortality with his whole “time-traveling ghosts” scheme!
But, aye, I became a right better bloke after the hauntings.
GUARDIAN: Define “better bloke?”
Mainly money stuff.
On account of Jacob’s histrionics, I had some socialist vision of me just giving all my quid away — “mankind being my business” and all that rubbish. But, bugger, my credit score went botched and I fell pretty skint. Plus, being charitable didn’t make me feel any better about bloody humanity.
So now I now lend with a fair market interest rate, and I stopped evicting orphanages and tenants and such. I realized that’s a fair dodgy thing to do, but more importantly, it’s bad for business. Lost a right lot of customers that way, so I switched my business model. Likely more what Jacob ‘ad in mind.
GUARDIAN: (At Scrooge’s insistence, we order another round.) Now, what about love? Did you ever reconnect with Belle? What about family?
No dice with Belle. Or the love thing. Them slappers’ just after my quid!
But family — Nephew Fred and Clara! Blimey, they’re cracking. Well, they were cracking… before they ‘ad the nippers. Things went to shite after that. They used to throw right posh Christmas parties every year, but now with all the aggression in that flat, even the Ghost of Christmas Present keeps ghosting on those blasted parties last minute.
And, Tiny Tim is brilliant! He popped off to the States to play American football at uni. He’s a punter.
Another hot toddy, eh? Let’s get Fezziwigged!
GUARDIAN: None for me, thanks. How do you “get in the spirit” during Yuletide these days?
Welp, I’m right chuffed because The Ghost of Christmas Present materializes in my front room every year. Man, that bloke is off his trolley! We pretty much go on the piss all night together every Christmas Eve. Though I wonder if he should be off saving another lost soul. But, bugger, if he’s paying, then I’m game.
GUARDIAN: Now tell me, Ben — (Scrooge shouts over my shoulder to a female patron whom he thinks is a waitress).
A toddy for this hottie over here, love!
Mate, I could Bob her Cratchit, if you catch my drift.
Photo by Todd Trapani on Pexels
GUARDIAN: Ben, erm, for the record, that mad night of hauntings did transform you? Perhaps you can share a proper example?
Aye, aye. On account of the hauntings, I now focus my brand on “Giving During Yuletide” — blasted charity and goodwill and all that rubbish. But — bah — recently I’ve been donating more to Patreon projects that I suspect will fail and animal charities.
Sweet Fanny Adams, it still counts as charity. I’m giving quid away!
Perhaps one more toddy.
GUARDIAN: But maybe — (Scrooge shouts toward the entire pub.)
Scroogey needs a hottie up in here! Any takers?
GUARDIAN: (Patrons give us indignant looks.) Erm - I imagine that such donations still count as opening your heart to others. Perhaps you just —
Dunno — even though I give pounds sterling to them, humans are right cheesing me off again.
I still generally dislike people.
Is that proper to say?
They’re loud and petty and…
Wankers.
Humans are wankers, savvy?
GUARDIAN: Mate!! I think Jacob was trying to get you to —
Oi! Speaking of Jacob — he pops in on Christmas Eve last year, and he’s like, “Scrrrrrrrrroooooge!”
And I’m like, “Marley?”
And he’s like “Blimey, Ben, I’m totally vibing your curmudgeon shtick now! I’ve realized that humans are…”
But then he starts fading out and moaning and rattling his chains and being right dramatic.
I asked him, “Jacob, how now? What do you mean?” but he disappears before he could answer.
Bah hum-fuck!
That git’s a confusing arsehole.
But I’d wager he was going to say “Humans are…wankers.”
GUARDIAN: YOU DON’T KNOW THAT!! I AM CERTAIN JACOB WAS —
Crikey! I’ve got to pop off — got a photo shoot in Knightsbridge with David Beckham for the Daily Mirror. Marketing our new collab called “Feed the Bloody Children…” … “Needy Nippers?” Dunno — something about poor street urchins who are hungry or some such, but who should, honestly, just sod off.
***
Abruptly, Scrooge stands up unsteadily, ending our formal interview. Pointing at me, he says. “God bless you, knobhead!”
He spins toward the rest of the pub, opening his arms wide. After ensuring that he has the crowd’s attention, he shouts:
“God bless us, everyone!”
“Except Belle. Screw her.”
Ebenezer Scrooge falls arse over tit, bladdered.