Transcript
Narrator/Advertiser (0:00)
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Narrator/Commentator (0:35)
It's Christmas in Whitehall. As the December sun drops from the sky like an ill tied bauble off a tree, the bewitching hour is near. The civil servants who inhabit the great glass warrens of SW1 send each other Christmas cards signed in triplicate. Across the lighted ceilings are webbed tangled skeins of coloured paper replacing the usual tangled skeins of red tape. Mistletoe shrivels next to fluorescent tube merry pinstripers leap Frau Milch and Volleyvant their way through office parties and spend their lunch hours wandering the credit card caverns of Oxford Street. The spell is complete. Soon the VDU op will be released from her terminal trance before the dancing green digits daisy wheels will cease clacking, strip lights will abandon their buzzing, telephones will end their shrilling and the celestial finger will push the start button and snow will begin printing out from the heavens. It is the season of peace and goodwill to all menials.
Michael's Colleague/Friend (1:53)
Humbug.
Michael Downhill (1:55)
Pardon, sir?
Michael's Colleague/Friend (1:55)
I said humbug. Would you like a humbug?
Michael Downhill (1:57)
Oh, no, thanks. Trying to cut down on sweets and stuff. I'll be eating enough of those over the festive season.
Michael's Colleague/Friend (2:02)
Ah, the festive season. The time when all ruthless bureaucrats start crawling up chimneys instead of up senior backsides and prove they have a heart after all by lining it with cholesterol for a week. I can't stand Christmas.
Michael Downhill (2:15)
No, I like it. It's a time for the children.
Michael's Colleague/Friend (2:17)
A time for spending money on the children, you mean. Anyway, you haven't got any children.
Michael Downhill (2:21)
Yeah, I was one once. Anyway, I still enjoy Christmas. I always feel Christmas is like when you've got a pneumatic drill going outside your window. Suddenly there's that blissful moment when it stops and there's quiet. But you know that any second now it's going to start up again. That's how I think of Christmas really. A moment of silence before the pneumatic drill of life starts bashing away again.
