How Leo got into the real Christmas spirit... in his own way

THE STORY of A Christmas Carol is a well-known – and well-loved – morality tale. But what happened next to the reformed Scrooge? At long last, the sequel has been discovered – and it goes something like this…

Marley was still dead. To be fair, it was St Stephen’s Day and Longitude was six months away. Scrooge kicked his way merrily through the leaf mulch in the park and reflected back on the extraordinary events that had overtaken his life. Just two days before, he had been a meanspirited, tight-fisted Taoiseach.

But that was before he’d been visited by three terrifying apparitions who had shown him the error of his miserly ways. Now, his heart was warm with Christmas cheer and his belly was full of turkey and avocado smash. He smiled as he remembered now how fearful he had been when the first spirit had appeared in his office, claiming he’d just wanted to use the executive jacks.

‘I’m the Ghost of Taoisigh Past,’ he’d explained in his haunting, stuttering Dublin accent. ‘Is anyone eating them sangwidges?’ Of course nobody was eating those sandwiches, which had been provided by the catering staff – a bunch of lowly ingrates who had cheekily suggested that they were probably due a few days off for Christmas, especially since the Dáil wouldn’t be sitting, as the TDs enjoyed some more of their 150 days of annual leave.

Now, Scrooge chuckled as he remembered their shiny faces – it was amazing how working timeand-a-half on zero-hours contracts in hot kitchens with no air conditioning could affect the complexion – when he’d unexpectedly given them the rest of the week off. But that wasn’t after the visit from the strange, shabby spirit with the ancient anorak and the Up The Dubs scarf. That was later.

If the first ghost had shaken Scrooge – the memory of the awful apparition shovelling those triangles of horrific white bread into his Dealz plastic bag before demanding a lend of €20 for his taxi home would remain with him well into the new year – the second visitation had horrified him even more. ‘I am the ghost of Christmas Brexit,’ the shadowy figure had announced as her horribly blurred manifestation appeared on the screen of his laptop, ‘and I’ve come to warn you that unless you change your terms, the future will be very bleak indeed.’

As the awful figure moaned on about tariffs and backstops, Scrooge’s downtrodden underling, Micheál ‘Bob’ Martin, had entered his office.

I’d like to go home to Cork now,’ he’d asked, even though there was still a great deal of confidence to supply before midnight.

Scrooge had admonished his ungrateful supporter and reminded him of how lucky he was to be in a job that didn’t require him offering real opposition. ‘But what about Tiny Tim?’ Bob has pleaded with his smirking overlord. ‘The leader of the Labour party has enough to worry about without you fretting over him too,’ consoled Scrooge. ‘Now be off with you, for I have much more signing off on astronomically expensive children’s hospitals to do before midnight.’

But no sooner had Bob Martin scurried out of the room than a third ghostly vision began to materialise in Scrooge’s office. ‘Coveney,’ said Scrooge, ‘I do wish you’d knock. And don’t even start with that Ghost of Taoisigh future guff. We had that stand-off two years ago and I won, remember? The people like me because I’m relatable, and a little bit hot.’

But as the strange figure gained form, Scrooge realised to his horror that his latest visitor was not Simon Coveney, his underwhelming lieutenant. It was something altogether more sinister, more threatening – and more terrifying. ‘I am the Ghost of Taoisigh Future, thank you very much for having me in your apparition,’ said the jolly, dimpled little figure, as he increased VAT on Scrooge’s hair gel by 3%. ‘Now let’s have some figgy pudding and talk about where in your office I’m going to keep my Star Wars bobble-heads when I take over.’ It was adorable, the way this spectre said ‘figgy pudding’, but Scrooge was chilled to his very stylish boots. Could this demonic apparition really be the future? Could the voters turn so emphatically away from Scrooge and his miserly hipster ways and embrace this smiling, rosy-cheeked nerd-do-well?

SUDDENLY, it was as though a great weight had been lifted from Scrooge’s hunched – though perfectly toned – shoulders. He ran from his office, knocking the ghastly spectre over as he went.

‘Thank you very much for knocking me down,’ the cheerful sprite shouted after him, but Scrooge was already out of earshot. He ran all the way to Bob Martin’s tiny office where he embraced his incredulous underling and told him to take the rest of the year off. ‘I was anyway,’ said the confused confidence supplier, ‘I only came in here to hand out some of my home-baked quinoa brittle to the staff.’ ‘Brittle be damned,’ cheered Scrooge. ‘What day is it?’ ‘Why, it’s Christmas Day!’ said Bob, because Cork is 36 hours ahead or likes to think it is. ‘Then Tiny Tim will have a turkey!’ said Scrooge, as he set off to find the leader of the Labour Party in order to share his glad tidings.

And soon, all of Leinster House was glowing with good cheer, as Scrooge’s Christmas message of generosity and love echoed through its corridors. And all the homeless people sleeping in doorways on Kildare Street could hear their happiness, and smiled into their sleeping bags, as they thought, ‘God bless us, every one! And could you spare five euro for a hostel.’

Yes, it has been quite a festive Christmas after that, Scrooge thought happily as he jogged off the excess of the previous day. And now that he had seen the future, he was more determined than ever to avoid it. He would be a good, generous Taoiseach from now on, and he would always put the people first. He was deep into the park now, in an area he didn’t remember seeing before. A sense of unease began to rise within him as he rounded the bend and suddenly saw a crumbling old house in front of him. He knew he should just jog on, but something drew him to the shabby front door. Surely there couldn’t be anyone living here?

He knocked on the door with dread and as he did, he could have sworn the knocker – a miniature brassy old man with a beard and a balaclava – tried to warn him away. ‘I am not now, nor have I ever been, in this house,’ he heard it whisper. ‘Enter at your peril. I didn’t interrupt you.’

But even as Scrooge turned to go, the door was flung open. A terrifying witch stood in the hallway. ‘If you’re here for Stephen’s Day drinks, you’re half an hour early,’ the hideous crone barked. ‘And if you get mud on my carpets, I’ll reef you out of it. I’m only on the average industrial wage and I can’t afford to get them cleaned.’

And as Scrooge sheepishly followed the terrifying vision into the gloomy house, he realised sadly that all the ghosts in the world couldn’t change his present predicament. And that Christmas was truly over.