...Sounds of "Silent Night" played (very badly) on the kazoo, waft in from the sidewalk. The door bursts open and the Skiffler is thrown in by some angry charity Santas. "Stop scaring away our custom".
Picks himself up, dusts himself down, with as much dignity as a man with sawdust all over his face can, and lurches to the bar.
"A small glass of Aristotle's Revenge, as it's Xmas, please barkeep, and perhaps a mince pie". Climbs on the stool at the third attempt and watches the antics of the other patrons with an indulgent eye before going to sleep with his head on the bar.
Wakes up with a jerk (no, not you, 'Spaw) and fixes barkeep with a bleary eye. "I've had a bad day". He announces. "I was goin' to write a great novel. I ordered a word processor. They sent me a food processor instead. I lost three fingers trying to write the first sentence....and the crime in my part of town is dreadful. I got fed up of having my car stolen or vandalised so I bought a horse. Went out next morning and found the damn thing up on bricks."
Nods off again despite shower of beermats being thrown at his head.
RtS