A Christmas Gaylord

A tale from St. James family legend to warm the cockles of your cholesterol-clogged heart this Christmas.


Ebenezer Gaylord was widely acknowledged as the biggest shit in Victorian London: his favourite way to relax at Christmas time was to gather together all the homeless children in the city, bind them together with manacles, and then pitch them headfirst into the foggy Thames. As their screams for mercy petered out into the gargled pleas of infantile death he would guffaw himself so hoarse that his urine-sodden breeches would simply dissolve, revealing his awful genitalia and causing women in big hats to faint. He really was a turd.

But one particularly genocidal Christmas Eve, so the story goes, he was lounging in his whore-lined mansion when a strange visitation literally came upon him. He immediately wondered if he had become the unwilling centrepiece of history’s first bukkake, but his visitor turned out to be another type of ectoplasm altogether – the Ghost of Christmas Past. Terrified - yet another pair of breeches were, by this point, beyond hope – Ebenezer sat in rigid fear as a series of scenes from his boyhood swam before him: a damagingly tight handjob from his mentally ill nursemaid...the sight of his kindly schoolmaster’s impressive anus...his aunt calmly locking the door one Easter and hacking everyone to death with a spoon. As quick as these visitations had appeared, however, they vanished again, leaving Ebenezer alone in a cold room with just his thoughts and a pair of breeches that were quite honestly past a joke. His ordeal wasn’t over, though, because over the next hour two more apparitions of the spirit world visited him – the Ghost of Christmas Present (which was, inexplicably, the Victorian version of X Factor playing on and on and on and on into an unbearable eternity) and the Ghost of Christmas Future, where Ebenezer learned that by continuing down his current route of cruelty and heartlessness he would one day become head of the European Central Bank and his great-great-great grandson would be the leading portrayer of psychologically-unstable fathers in late-70s Hollywood. Once the ghosts had gone, Ebenezer vowed never to turn from his current path and, if anything, to actually become more despicable. With great self-satisfaction and not a little relief, he changed out of his breeches and retired to his bedchamber.

History does not record what happened next, but rumours suggest he eventually became Jack the Ripper. Every year my family gather together on Christmas Eve and regale friends with this old, proud tale of our ancestor Ebenezer Gaylord, after which we sit in cold, empty silence and secretly wish each other dead. It is our favourite tradition.

Merry Christmas.

Land of the Rising Gaylord

As you must have realised by now, the only thing more important to me than my (permanently estranged) children is my dignity. Over the years I’ve acted like an absolute Prince despite the almost constant torrent of sexual and scatological public catastrophe. You probably won’t be surprised to learn, however, that recent events have forced me to completely abandon these guiding principles and crash headlong into the murky depths of global humiliation.

One afternoon a couple of weeks ago, as I was taking my usual bath in the garden, the phone rang. I picked it up and stammered my name. The voice on the other end was eerily robotic, sounded very distant, and was sometimes drowned out by a noise in the background that sounded a lot like horses being murdered, but even this tenuous human contact was enough to reduce me to tears. Between gulps and blubbering I got the gist that the caller was from Japan, and that I had been selected by their leading TV network to take part in a hugely popular celebrity gameshow. All I had to do was get myself to Tokyo and I could collect 5,000 yen – a day! I figured that 5,000 of anything can only ever be good – except maybe 5,000 charges of sexual assault – so I heartily agreed to take part.

Arriving in Tokyo two days later, I was struck by how much the city resembled all the documentaries I’d watched: everywhere I looked all I could see was neon gibberish, tittering schoolgirls, and plates of rancid fish.. Before I could even buy any used panties from a vending machine, however, I was greeted by a runner from the network who kindly, if a little forcefully, led me away.

Arriving at the studio the next day, I noticed that I was in truly excellent company. The brightest lights of British TV had been handpicked to take part. Richard Bacon had already married a small woman in a kimono, and I was delighted to see my old chums Jeremy Kyle and John Leslie (John pretended not to recognise me, but I could tell by the way he slapped me hard in the mouth that he knew exactly who I was). Even Anne Widdecombe was there - to give proceedings an air of political gravitas, I assumed.

It was at this point that things began to unravel alarmingly. I’d barely had time to snatch my fee from the tiny hands of the producer when I was ushered into a locker room and forced to undress. Completely naked, I was led through a shallow trough of sheep dip and onto the dazzling, noisy studio floor.

The sight that greeted me resembled a perverted panorama of man’s most unspeakable fantasies. In the centre of what I can only describe as a masturbatory circus was Anne Widdecombe, naked as the day she was born, spinning around at an alarming speed on a demented merry-go-round of lust. A frantic Richard Madeley, his face gaunt with horror and tears, grabbed me and told me that he’d been there for weeks. Struggling to comprehend what was happening, I looked above me and the true nature of the gameshow become sickeningly apparent: there, in 10ft high lettering, were the words ‘Super Britain Onanistic Celebrity Ejaculation Fame Pageant’. The Japanese had clearly gone absolutely mad.

Despite my distinguished career in mucky films, I am a little camera shy these days and found it impossible to rise to the occasion. For what seemed like days, one hideous English celebrity monster after another was paraded in front of us: Ruth Badger, Kerry Katona, Judy Finnegan (Madeley seemed to crack under the weight of sheer humiliation at this point and had to be tasered to calm him down), Susan Boyle, even Sister Wendy. Not once could I muster the necessary performance.

In the end the whole the cast was rescued by a human rights group and the production crew was sent to prison. My 50,000 Yen compensation from the Japanese government seemed like a magnificent windfall that more than made up for what had happened, until I realised it was barely £400, which in Tokyo doesn’t cover the taxi to the airport. Another chapter in my soon-to-be-banned autobiography was complete.

'The Wank Gland' by G. St. James

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Bastards out of my dead glands, mixing
Self-loathing and inappropriate desire, stirring
Dull balls with lusty pain.
Cointreau kept us warm, covering
My crimes in forgetful snow, feeding
An enormous wife with Kentucky Fried Chicken.
My ejaculation surprised her, coming over her duvet,
With a shower of sin: we stopped in the Asda,
And went to the beer aisle, to get some Hofmeister,
And drank Tia Maria, and vomited for an hour.
Mein Schwanz ist klein, ich hasse das deutsche Volk,
And when I was a child, staying at my randy Uncle’s,
My cousin, he took me out to the shed,
And I was frightened. He said, Gaylord,
Gaylord, hold this tight. And down he went.
In the garden shed, there he felt me up.
I read jazz mags, much of the night, and go mental in the winter.

Unreal shitty,
Under the brown fog of a massive shite,
A turd floated under London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought my guts had produced so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each big crap sloshed onto my feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Sister Mary kept the turds,
With her dead soul on the final stroke of cock.
There I saw Wes Craven, and stopped him crying: ‘Wes!
‘You must remember me, surely, for fuck’s sake!
‘That corpse we buried in your garden
‘Has it been found by the police yet? Will it result in another spell in bugger prison?
‘Or has the shite been cleaned out of my bed?
‘Oh not the Dog’s shit, that’s just normal,
‘Or he’ll dig the corpse up again!
‘You! hypocritical letch – I detest the French too! – I’ve shat myself again!’

Gaylord Into the Future

Question: what do Nostradamus, Gypsy Rose Lee, Mystic Meg and Russell Grant all have in common? Answer: they have all had quadruple heart bypass surgery. (Except the first three, who haven’t). What they also share is an uncanny ability to see into the future. With this chilling thought in mind, I wanted to offer the world my own predictions for the coming year and finally secure my rightful place in the pantheon of prophets. I guarantee that the following things will happen during the next 12 months:

1. Nick Clegg will open a new Daily Mail-sponsored detention centre on the Kent coast, but a documentary presented by Fern Britton exposes that rather than being a holding pen for immigrants being returned to Europe it is in fact a death camp where Vince Cable is overseeing the systematic extermination of all non-British people.

2. IKEA will open a shop the size of Bedford, in Bedford.

3. One of those African countries will simply cease to exist.

4. North Korea will come out of the closet and be declared the first homosexual nation state, or ‘homocracy’. The world rejoices, except for Iran who hates gays so much they nuke North Korea off the map.

5. A particularly withering put-down from Simon Cowell proves to be the straw that broke the camel’s back for Louis Walsh, who has a full-blown nervous breakdown live on The X Factor. Tipping the desk over and ripping off his piss-soaked trousers, he punches Danni Minogue so hard in the face that the bone in her nose shoots up into her brain, killing her instantly.

6. Barack Obama, in a desperate attempt to appeal to Southern voters, will personally secede from the Union and then declare war on himself.

7. Trevor McDonald will demonstrate how he can fist himself on a 'Tonight with Trevor McDonald' special.

8. On the day of the Royal wedding, the Sun will publish its first male page 3, featuring the gayest man they could find in Brighton dressed as Prince William with a caption that makes some weak pun on the 'Queen'. The fallout from this will include a mass walkout of mechanics and builders, and the whole of Essex will simply grind to a halt.

9. My old friend Michael Barrymore will triumphantly return to our screens after being publicly pardoned by the Queen for buggering a man to death in a swimming pool.

10. China will go absolutely mental.

11. I will experience a meteoric rise to fame, swiftly followed by a catastrophic and shameful fall from grace, a series of misunderstandings and misfortunes inevitably combining to drag me back into the blackness of relative anonymity.

12. Ant and Dec will divorce. It will be hard on all of us.

Miracle on Gaylord Street

Let me tell you something about Christmas you might not be aware of: over 90% of paedophiles, when surveyed by Heat magazine, claimed that Christmas was their favourite time of year. Despite these mind-bogglingly lusty figures, it is still a time of year that, notwithstanding my horrific run of luck where the festive season is concerned, stirs a glimmer of inter-generational warmth in my pig-valve-ridden heart. I don’t have any children myself (well, actually, I do, but they have legally disowned me and my only contact with them is some tatty, tear-stained photos I have pasted in my scrapbook of pain), so this Christmas I decided to make a rare positive contribution to the community and volunteer to hand out presents and serve Christmas dinner at a local orphanage. It hardly needs to be stated that it became yet another postcard of disgrace from my long holiday in the morally-dubious republic of Gaylordia.

Things started well enough. It was a bitterly cold night, snow lashing against my inexplicably exposed genitals (I developed frostbite in the days afterwards and my member was only saved after some terrifically intricate surgery performed by a man I met in an adult cinema), and by the time I got to the orphanage the thronged masses of doe-eyed children were begging to see what Santa had brought them. It soon became clear as I pushed the gifts into their grasping hands that what he had mainly brought them was some old cassette tapes or DVDs that came free with the Daily Express (quite what a 10-year-old boy living in a state-run orphanage wants with the first three episodes of The Forsythe Saga is beyond me). But I wasn’t perturbed: my soul was filled with the warm glow that is the true spirit of Christmas.

The problems began when, in the midst of serving some leathery slices of turkey, I made the quite innocent mistake of knocking an entire vat of boiling gravy onto the floor and then, in a panic to clear it up, kicking a three-bar electric heater into the rapidly-spreading pool of meat sauce. The result, which anyone with a modicum of basic physics will know, was a dining hall suddenly and lethally alive with the raw kinetic power of live electricity. The few children already in the hall managed to get away but my fellow volunteer, a magnificently fat woman called Yvonne who talked incessantly about Jesus, was reduced to a kind of awful Christmas tallow candle, smouldering with the stench of a cattle pyre during a particularly virulent outbreak of foot and mouth. I was so disgusted that I barely had time to hide from the police when they arrived and spent an uncomfortable night in a cupboard evading their ever-more ingenious attempts to capture me. I eventually escaped through a window and went straight to the only bar left open where I ordered a full turkey dinner and bucket of hazelnut Baileys. The police, I assume, realised that Yvonne’s time was probably up anyway and gave up their search.

It’s important to put a bit back at Christmas, although if that involves electrocuting a devoutly Methodist divorcee from Kettering who’s only contribution to the world is to volunteer at an orphanage where the children all carry knives then you do have to question whether it’s best just to stay at home and weep at another re-run of Noel’s Christmas Presents as you curse the lack of erectile function in your John Thomas.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Gaylord Relief

The world is a cruel place. The vodka-swilling fools of the USSR, driven mad by the intense heat (not to mention the discrediting of their Leninist worldview), are driven to putting their babies in freezers and drowning themselves in the river, oil pumps from a broken pipe into the Gulf of Mexico like some great underwater cock jizzing jet-black semen all over the face of Mother Nature, while in Pakistan the floods are so bad that God seems to just be taking the piss. I’m normally a man who buries his head in the sand about news events (for five long days a few weeks ago I became increasingly frustrated, and then just concerned, when my attempts to get Raoul Moat involved in a charity auction went unanswered) but the dire state of various countries I don’t really care about came crashing into my life when I accidentally caught the start of the lunchtime news after a thoroughly enjoyable episode of Cash in The Attic. Once the tears of laughter had subsided, I was horrified. A normal man, confronted with the scale of the suffering, usually shrugs and says “what can I do – I am only one man impotently staring at the acts of a vengeful God.” But if one thing should have become clear to you by now, I am not a normal man.

I have experienced fame and power enough to rival any deity, so with this megalomaniacal thought seizing my brain (and two litres of Grand Marnier rocketing through my veins) I packed two family-sized suitcases with fresh cream cakes and set off for Pakistan to deliver aid to the suffering.

Arriving in Islamabad was something of a culture shock, but I soon stopped punching the locals and picked up my suitcases full of provisions, hailing a rickshaw and telling the driver to pedal me post-haste to “the floods.” He didn’t seem to understand but after I agreed to give him a dollar for every minute he stayed by my side, he pedalled off into the thronging traffic.
Days went by. When we eventually hit the flood plain I gave the driver (whose name I will never be able to pronounce – it seemed to contain an inordinate amount of Q’s) a festering apple turnover and told him to wait for me while I single-handedly rescued his people. I dived into the water, but all I could do to stay afloat was cling to my suitcases – their contents no longer fit for human consumption – and soon the waters swept me away. I didn’t see anybody for days, living only on dirty water and a few cream meringues that by now resembled the face of death himself.
It was just as I was about to give up all hope when I heard the helicopter. I was weak with relief and delight. They threw a rope down and soon I was high in the air above the hellish waters, and as they hoisted me into the helicopter I was met by a broad, reassuring American smile. Seeing me, he lowered his aviators and I was thrilled to see before me the gorgeous face of my BEST FRIEND Wes Craven. It turned out this was his helicopter and he had been delivering food and DVDs of ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’ to the survivors. He looked at me like he recognised me but then seemed to dismiss the notion as I slipped into a coma. When I awoke, Wes had left me in a hospital in Lahore where I contracted a particularly vicious case of dysentery and spent a sleepless couple of days loudly voiding my bowels.

My message is clear: the world is a cruel and unforgiving place filled with suffering and despair – but the love of good friends like Wes Craven make it somehow worth carrying on.

The Gaylord Redemption

I am a free man (barring the obvious restraining orders in place throughout England) but this has not always been the case. In December 1989 I had the profound misfortune of not only being arrested for going on a spree of opportunistic public molestation, but actually being tried and sentenced to a year in prison for the ‘crime’. Between New Year’s Day 1990 and New Year’s Day 1991 I found myself the reluctant inmate of California’s most brutal maximum security prison, simply known throughout the penal system as ‘The Citadel of Sodomy’. Surrendering my rights as a citizen, and with tears of fearful anticipation in my eyes, I donned a paper suit and began my year behind bars.

If I can give you one fact that indicates the hell I went through during those long, dark days, it is this: within three hours of entering that place my paper suit had been cruelly ripped from my body, and I was forced to spend the rest of my incarceration in a state of vulnerable nudity because the prison wardens quickly realised that it wasn’t worth giving someone like me clothes.
Life inside was tough. My cellmate was a charming but volatile neo-Nazi called Flint, who would end each night by kissing me hard on the mouth and whispering tender thoughts into my ear. The toilet arrangements were, frankly, despicable; there was a five minute window between the hours of 5am 5.05am when Flint wasn’t on or somehow using the toilet, and I had to frantically expel a day’s waste in full sight of the braying guards and pray that the smell wouldn’t wake the other inmates and spark a full-scale riot. Going to the showers (the wardens laughingly called it a ‘conjugal visit’) was even more humiliating: for one hour we would stand under high-pressure torrents of boiling water whilst I was raped, on average, 45 times. In an effort to stem this anal blitzkrieg, I ‘married’ the biggest, hardest man I could find; for one merciful week, I went untouched by any other inmate but him. Little did I know, however, that he was due for release, and no sooner had our wedded bliss began than he re-entered society and I was left alone and more desirable than ever.

Towards the end of my stay, I got a job blessing the holy water in the prison chapel, which offered some welcome moments of solace from the daily horrors of prison life. Even that glimmer of peace was ruined, however: during one particularly sexy service I began eking one out beneath my cassock, moaning loudly as I did so, until my screaming climax sent the congregation mental and a white supremacist gang ritually crucified a wonderful, charming black man called Baron Samedi.

Justice was eventually served, however, when 364 days into my sentence it was proved conclusively that I was completely innocent of all charges and I was immediately released from prison with a full Presidential pardon. I look back on the whole thing now as a rather jolly excursion, although my continuing trouble in passing solids and a pathological fear of soap point to the psychological demons that are still roused every time I watch my box set of ‘America’s Most Bastard Prisons’.