A single white snowflake, one of countless thousands yet intricate and unique in its form, floated slowly, side to side, down among the rooftops of a bitterly cold London. It landed upon a dirty, thin window pane, becoming one with the seamless and picturesque winter landscape. A robin stood upon the windowsill as it looked round in expectation, before fluffing its feathers and chirping its tuneful song. A storey below, a small gathering of carol singers knocked at the old wooden door in front of them and started singing 'Deck the Halls'. They crescendoed to the verse "Tis' the season to be jolly," before it was abruptly punctuated with a loud bang.

"Piss off somewhere else!" yelled Withnail vehemently, taking his fist back off the glass and replacing it fast back into the dark matted recesses of his unkempt hair. His mouth was framed in an open scowl, his bloodshot eyes were sunken glazed and to top it off his head pounded like a horse's arse in the Grand National.

"Oh God! Why does it have to be so insufferably cold? This is ridiculous. Those fuckers on the street are warmer out there than us being in this dismal ice cube of a flat," he moaned, and proceeded to stare at Marwood as if it was his fault. Marwood in turn peered back from beneath the numerous moth bitten covers layering the ancient stained sofa.

"The thermostat's broken," he uttered weakly, exhausted at the effort to speak. "Withnail, why did you wake me up? What time is it?"

"Does it even fucking matter? Time doesn't apply to you. The only time that does is pub opening and closing time." He paced around with an occasional stumble, stemming from the malaise of the eternal bender. He stopped only to emphasise his point."Those inconsiderate bastards! Don't they realise that some people may wish to frequent them from time to time? It's pathetic! What are we going to do about it?"

Marwood sighed as he massaged his eyelids with his fingers, determined to keep them open. Although half awake, he knew all too well what Withnail was on about. Their routine had been interrupted by the event of Christmas and everything was closed. He also knew that he had been woken up for no reason other than to fulfil Withnail's mercurial need to rant and rave to an audience in his alcohol induced insomnia. There was no point trying to reason logic with him when he was like this. But he was going to try anyway.

"I don't know, but the pub is only shut for one day. I'm sure we can find something to fill the time till then." Marwood rubbed his hands together and wiggled his toes in an effort to wake them, as he let slip his view on the matter. "Everyone is having a joyous and merry time on Christmas and here we are freezing, empty and destitute. Look, I can't feel my feet anymore; they're chilled to the bone."

Withnail scoffed in disgust. "Put some socks on. And since when have you ever been interested in Christmas? We barely have enough money as it is, let alone enough to spend on wallowing in the indulgences and whims of pompous relations. Nothing good can come of it, let me tell you. Yes, we'll just have to sleep it out and arrive at the pub bright, early and smiling on Boxing Day. There's no other alternative for it."

Normally Marwood could deal with it but tonight he felt the rare need to thrust the proverbial knife further into Withnail's open wound. Fuck what black mood it would put him in. It would serve him fucking right, waking him up in this manner like he could do whatever he pleased all of the time. "Maybe we would have had some money if you hadn't refused that job from your agent..." He couldn't help a grin from ear to ear, amused at the thought of Withnail dressed up as an elf in a shopping centre somewhere, attempting to entertain children. Withnail shot him a look that could have burned through stone, but Marwood continued speaking before he could start that line of argument again. "What do you mean nothing good can come of it anyhow? Why can't we celebrate it? Even Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim enjoyed a merry Christmas."

Withnail snorted indignantly and pulled the cigarette away from his mouth. "Pah! Tiny Tim? What piss-poor rubbish! He was probably faking it for a chance of a free meal. The clever little sod."

Marwood didn't need three spirits to tell him what Withnail's future was to be. The past: pissed; the present: pissed; and the future: pissed and passed out. He shook his head, frowning, and continued to rile him further, adamant for an answer to Withnail's aversion.

"Don't be so miserable. Open your heart to it, it is the time to give and receive after all. In all the time I've known you, I've never even received a Christmas card."

Withnail glared, his eyes surprisingly sharp with anger, and his body trembled. Whether it was from the booze diluting through his system or he was in a furore of rage, Marwood couldn't tell. Both, most likely.

"You fucker, how very dare you. I know what you're insinuating. I know you all too well. Right then, if you want it so much then we will. If you're so easily amused by lights, and trinkets and baubles."

Marwood realised what he had done. He had taken it too far; this sounded like Withnail was going to do something, which was more likely to be far worse than hearing his tirades. "No, wait I didn't mean it—"

Withnail pointed a bony finger in front of his face "You think I can't do a happy Christmas? You think I'm too incompetent to organise a bit of tinsel?"

"I didn't say that. You're tired, I'm tired; please let's just go to bed," he pleaded desperately.

"No, you fucker. We'll have the best bloody Christmas anyone has ever seen." He paused before threatening with a sinister afterthought "And you will enjoy it!"

"Just sit down; calm down. I'm going to bed and I advise you do the same." Marwood rose and left, leaving Withnail by the window with his arms crossed and dragging on his cigarette furiously in the consuming darkness.

Marwood clambered into bed, coat, boots and all, and tried to get back to sleep. The door left open was letting in the flicker of candlelight and he could drowsily hear mutterings and grumblings dispersed with bouts of shouting and cursing. Haunting the place just like Marley's ghost, he thought as he stuck a cushion over his head to drown it out. After some time, he managed to doze off to sleep, just as echoes of triumphant laughter rang down the corridor.

Marwood woke up to billows of black smoke saturating the air around him.

"Oh, God!" he yelled as he threw off the covers and rushed into the drawing room, which seemed to be the source of it all. In between his coughing, eyes watering, he managed to see the instigator and exclaim to him loudly, "Withnail! What are you doing?"

"I am flambéing a roast, what does it look like I'm doing?" replied Withnail, sitting in a battered armchair by the fireplace, probing the roaring fire with a poker and sending sparks and soot everywhere.

"You fool, Withnail. The chimney's blocked up. Why aren't you doing it in the kitch—" He stopped and shuddered as he remembered the unrivalled horrors that lurked within that place. No one had attempted going in there for weeks. The kitchen was no longer a place to eat but a place to be eaten."—Where did you get the food from?"

"You remember that bird on the windowsill that kept squawking?"

Marwood froze and turned towards him sharply. "You're bloody joking."

Withnail paused briefly, doing his upmost best to stay upright. "Of course I bloody am. What do you think I am, an animal?" he snapped sharply, before redirecting his attention back to the cooking.

Whatever it had been, the thing had been burnt to buggery. It stank and bits of it had fallen in between the hearth and the grate. At least it was warmer in the flat now, but it still felt like a nightmare. It was a mess. Soot and snow was intermingled and trodden into the floor. Newspapers had been shredded and arranged in bunches that hung from the ceiling. There still seemed to be the same amount of rubbish about, although it seemed to have been arranged into piles or pushed out of the way. This is why I should never leave him on his own, thought Marwood desperately.

"Things may have got a bit out of hand. But look, look at the decorations." Withnail grinned as he flung around his arm. "That's the Christmas tree." He pointed specifically to it, before lighting a cigarette in the fire. "I was going to take a real one but I couldn't get it in through the door so that will have to do."

Marwood would never have guessed unless it had been pointed too. He even took the spectacles from his pocket and placed them upon his nose. The situation did not look any better with them on. The thing he had been directed to was a hoarded pile of unclean beer and wine bottles arranged in a pyramid shape by the bookshelf. It was topped off with the tour-de-force; a long forgotten but recently rediscovered, headless baby doll, carelessly left by the meretricious Danny and his friend Presuming Ed on one of their casual 'visits'.

Marwood gave his verdict. "You know that if the police bust in here and see this, they will have enough hard evidence to sentence us for every unsolved crime known to man."

Withnail giggled inanely. Marwood began to wonder if there had been any pills left in the baby and how many had since been ingested by Withnail. He turned away from the ghastly sculpture as he felt the weight of Withnail's arm resting upon his shoulder. He also heard the clinking sound of two full bottles being knocked together

"Here we are. Some port I absconded on our last sojourn to the relatives. Found them again, hidden in the depths of the wardrobe. Why don't you clean up once in a while? We might find some more."

Marwood gladly took it. No sense in staying sober any longer, he thought, I will regret it otherwise. Oh well, needs must. "Time for good cheer," he toasted, taking the first large swig.

Four hours later, the bottled tree had doubled in size and they were on their last packet of cigarettes between them. The chills and paranoia had begun to sneak back in and the atmosphere was uneasy. Church bells could be heard ringing in the distance. They both sat collapsed under a dingy blanket as Marwood rubbed his hands together for warmth.

Withnail necked the last dregs of his bottle before mumbling, as he placed a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, "I feel as if I'm lying in the bottom of a grave. This is all your fault. Next time you think about Christmas, you can stick it up your arse and keep it to yourself. Sentimental waste of time. The only festivities I want to involve myself in next holiday are the ones with corks sticking out of them."

Marwood had lost his patience entirely. "For fucks sake, With—"

There was a bang on the door downstairs that reverberated round the flat, shaking the thin floorboards.

"—Who's that?"

"How the fuck should I know?" grunted Withnail, pulling the entire blanket around himself for security, oddly looking like the nun that God had given up on.

Marwood stood up to find out, only to be grappled by his side and pulled down by Withnail's skinny hands with surprising force.

"No, don't!" Withnail whispered, uneasiness and hysteria coinciding in his voice, "You know the types of people who come round here—"

"Withnail, you can't possibly think it's the landlord out there?"

"I should hope not." He paused, trying frantically to remember. "No. He said he was off down the country, remember? Said he wanted the rest of the money when he came back."

"New neighbours downstairs?"

"No, this house is as empty as RADA on signing-on day."

Footsteps could be heard booming as the person mounted the stairs. Wheezing breath and the tinkling sound of tiny bells echoed through the hallways.

"You don't think... Balls, we forgot about Father Christmas!"

Marwood almost choked on his own words in disbelief. "What are you talking about? You don't mean to say you believe in him?!"

"I believe in anybody who is planning to trespass and murder me. I assumed he wouldn't hold a grudge by me keeping the sherry, I mean he is driving all night for fucks sake. Go and put your bottle out by the door. With any luck, he'll take it as an offering and leave."

There was a powerful thud at the door, followed by a creak as it inched open on its uneven hinges.

"Wh-Who's there?" Marwood cried with as much collected composure as he could muster, "What do you want?"

"Ah, my boys!"

A fat, red faced man with white hair stood, occupying most of the doorway. His hands contained neatly wrapped packages "I came to the right house after all! I had my worries as there seems to be a tree blocking up your front door."

"Uncle Monty! What are you doing here?" exclaimed Withnail, fuming with rancour.

"Why? With thoughts and greetings in the Christmas season, my dear fellow! I'm here to welcome you both back into my burdened heart once more. I know we had our ups and downs after that grievous time in the country, but I have forgiven you boys in time. 'tis the season as they say. Now, I won't take no for an answer, I must invite you back to the warm house which is, alas, as hollow and empty in merry spirit as the space is between stars. I have some exquisite garlands, stockings, chestnuts roasting and the pleasant scent of roasting goose that should fill the nostrils with much fervour." He took a step forwards towards the uncertain pair; his arms outstretched, passing out the gifts Here you are; refreshing mulled wine and hot rum punch," he smiled at Withnail, "and many wreaths of mistletoe." He smiled towards Marwood. "Now come along you two, the day is young and I am not as young as I used to be."

Withnail cracked open a bottle and laughed "We wish you a Merry Christmas Uncle! God bless us every one."