Liars' League

Jesús, Mary & Joseph try for a Christmas Orgasm by David McGrath

Read by David McGrath         N.B. CONTENT WARNING FOR SWEARING AND UTTER FILTH .... ENJOY!

When the kids were younger Joseph always turned off the television on a sex scene. The family would then sit in the silence of the sex that wasn’t. And when enough stifling awkwardness had passed, the youngest kid, having guessed an adequate length of time for the sex to finish, would ask his Dad was it OK to turn back on the film? And Joseph would himself guess if an adequate length of time had passed, and maybe say OK, and maybe turn back on the telly. Or maybe say no, that there was plenty of time for watching them dirty auld films when they were older—that it was bedtime.

So Joseph sits with the whole world about to swallow him up. He’s mortified. Sex is not within forty miles of Joseph’s type of conversation. And to sit talking about the female orgasm—Kentucky Fried Christ. He reaches for some hope.

Christmas Special by Rhys Timson

Read by Patsy Prince

"Picture the scene," Henry says, taking a sip of brandy and setting the glass back down. "It's a traditional German Christmas. We see a young mother, blonde hair in braids, fretting over the placement of decorations on the mantelpiece. The tree is up, covered in tinsel, and three or four fair-haired children are running around causing chaos. There's a ring at the door, and our hausfrau rushes to open it, children around her legs screaming Vater! Vater! They open the door, and there’s a man in a long coat, his face obscured by a tower of presents. One by one, the children take the presents down, until we can see him. We can see who it is.’

Henry raises his left eyebrow provocatively. ‘It's Hitler.’

Lucy groans and turns away. Glen pulls a face and looks at his pint of Doom Bar. There is an awkward silence that is swiftly invaded by the noise of the pub’s other patrons. Henry raps his fingers on his glass while Lucy scrunches up her face, unable to form words.

Practically Family by Rosa Muller

Read by Claire Louise Amias

If we were all being honest, none of us expected the nanny to actually stay for Christmas.

One of my bad habits (amongst a few), is letting my mouth run away with itself. James and I had got stuck into slightly more cherry brandy than was strictly necessary, as it was Christmas, although technically it was still November – the 8^th.  When I walked unsteadily past the nanny’s bedroom I heard a low, animalistic howl.

I could hardly ignore it, could I? What if a werewolf had broken in and was savaging the poor girl? Surely I would be failing in my duty of care?

Uhtceara by E. J. Fry

Read by Peter Kenny

Uhtceara: lying awake in the period before dawn and worrying

I lie in the dark and consider the issue of a list. Not a Christmas list, unfortunately – or at least, not that kind. On this list, you would be losing. You would be surprised by that, I think, and that would probably be another entry into the ‘con’ column; your lack of awareness. But I haven’t officially started list-making yet and I shouldn’t admit half-considered entries. Not on a subject of such importance. That would be unfair.

Just a Nice Family Christmas by E. P. Henderson

Read by Lucy Mabbitt

“Who’ll be Mother?” Jess wonders as we flip through her extensive wardrobe.

It’s more of a relief than anything that none of us are seeing our folks again this year – nobody’s exactly family-orientated, and enduring the usual round of resentments, tensions, arguments and passive-aggressive regiftings doesn’t appeal. So Jess, TJ and me are having Friends are Family Christmas in our flat, where nobody can critically examine our lives, question our choices or, crucially, tell us we’re drinking too much.

“Is that a wig?” asks TJ. He extracts a blonde mop, frisking it about on his spread fingers like a permed Muppet.

“Hey,” cries Jess, “my Halloween costume!”

“Sexy Killer Clown wasn’t it?” I remember.

Cocktails & Candy Canes by Pete Armstrong

Read by Tony Bell

"No thank you, I shall carry it myself." Mr Jingle clutches his battered suitcase like Al Capone clutching his gun, or Al Capone's grandfather, perhaps. The young receptionist shrugs and leads him through to the old dressing room, as if he didn't know the way. She waves some lacquered fingernails at a kettle, some teabags, and a mince pie on a chipped plate.

Making sure the door through to the restaurant is unlocked, she flashes a plastic smile and leaves him to it. Back in the day the staff here were a bit more talkative, they checked he had everything he needed, maybe even admired him. But Back In The Day is a long time ago.

Baking Day by Angela Sherlock

Baking Day MP3

Read by Lin Sagovsky

The bank slopes gently to the river so there is no danger for the girls. Mamma has said they may play there while she is gone into Mullinvane but they must not go out upon the ice. She has taken the pony and trap and Dada is away up the fields somewhere, so they have promised to be on their best behaviour.

   But it is not the river bank they want today. That is a summer place, for building dams and fortifications of pebbles. The river bank is for dressing down. Off with the boots and stockings, skirts tucked into knickers. It is for soft silt between the toes and sunlight dancing on the arcs of water they send flashing into the air.