The Man Who Invented Christmas Page #2

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"Dull, vapid, and vulgar.

Not a single character capable of

exciting the reader's sympathies."

I certainly didn't think

it was vulgar.

Oh, look.

There's Macready.

Poor thing. His Macbeth was

absolutely shredded in the Times.

I must go and give him

my condolences.

I'm sick of London.

It's overcrowded,

overpriced...

- You love this town.

- No place for a man without money.

Not to mention

the bloody fog.

But it's your inspiration, your

what-do-you-call-it... your magic lamp.

[muttering, grunting]

I tell you, Forster,

my lamp's gone out.

I've run out of ideas.

- [Marley grunting]

- I feel old.

- [cork pops]

- [Marley exhales]

Old?

You're a puppy.

You're exhausted, that's all.

Too many speeches.

I've got another one tomorrow

for the Children's Refuge.

Well, you have to learn

to say no.

How can I say no if I can be useful, if

I can lighten the burden of another?

Well, you have to, what with your

new commission to think about.

Forster, I just told you that...

Sorry. New commission?

It's from Chapman and Hall,

for your new book.

I've told them you'll have the first

chapter done by the end of the year.

You like a deadline.

- Do you mind telling me what it's about?

- I'll leave that up to you.

- [footsteps]

- [woman laughing, faint]

[woman hooting loudly]

[hooting]

[hooting]

[woman] And on Christmas

Eve, they say,

the fairy mounds open wide

and the fire spirits

pour into the night.

And then

the Lord of the Dead

leads all of the spirits

into a wild hunt.

And he calls to them...

[loud hooting]

[children giggling]

- Do we have a new housemaid?

- What?

Uh, yes. Tara.

She's Irish.

Charley adores her.

What are you doing?

- It was only a stub.

- Another hour in that.

- Oh, really, Charles.

- If you carry on like this, we'll end up in the poor house.

- You're funny.

- I'm not joking.

Charles!

You give money to every and

any beggar in the street.

You insist we move to a bigger house

and order in all new fixtures,

and then you complain

about a new candle.

Debt is an ogre, Kate. If you're

not careful, it can eat you up.

Are we in trouble?

No, of course not.

Then what?

Nothing.

I'm just sick of writing tooth

and nail for bread, that's all.

Hmm.

- Should've become a journalist.

- You hate the press.

- Or a lawyer.

- "The law is an ass."

I believe you wrote that.

A hairdresser, then,

in the Burlington Arcade.

Do you know what

I should have liked to be?

An explorer,

paddling a canoe somewhere

in the wilds of Canada

in a pair

of buckskin breeches,

all on my own.

No nappies to change.

By the way, dear,

I-I saw the doctor today.

Not another...

little stranger.

Are you pleased?

Well, of course.

[laughs]

- Well, that's splendid.

- Yes.

I am a necromancer.

Behold.

[all gasping]

- And now...

- [gasping]

[man making

eerie whistling sounds]

[gasps]

[man hooting, cackling]

- [moaning]

- [chuckling] Charley.

Charley,

it's all right.

- I'm here.

- [gasps]

- [bell tolling]

- [hoofbeats on cobblestone]

[rapid footsteps]

Mistress Chickenstalker!

Mistress Chickenstalker, what

has happened to your pinnie?

You look as if you've

been caught in a cyclone.

That's much better.

Master Corporal Skittles, sir.

On your feet, sir!

[laughing]

Ah, Lucifer Box.

- Would you do me the honor?

- [laughing]

Good.

Ah, the Snodgering Blee.

We meet at last.

What's this?

You have forgotten

to wash behind your ear.

[laughing]

Cor!

Now you must be...

Don't... Don't tell me.

- [whispers] Who is that?

- Tara.

Tara. Of course.

- I see you've made a conquest.

- [chuckles]

What was that wonderful story

I overheard you telling

about fairy mounds

and the fire spirits?

Only a story my gran used to tell

us, sir, back home in Ireland.

She used to say

that on Christmas Eve

the veils between this world

and the next thin out,

and that's when the spirits

cross over and walk among us.

Do they indeed?

Well, well, well.

Christmas Eve.

[applause]

Thank you so much

for coming.

- It was such an interesting speech.

- Thank you very much.

- Your hat, sir.

- Thank you.

Oh, Mr. Dickens, it's such

an honor to meet you.

- We just adore your books.

- No, we don't.

- Well, I love them.

- Nonsense. You just like a good cry.

What is it you particularly

object to in my books?

Pickpockets, streetwalkers,

charity boys.

Those people

don't belong in books.

"Those people"?

You mean, the poor?

Look here, Mr. Dickens.

I'm a self-made man.

Pulled myself up

by my own bootstraps.

Never asked for anything from anyone

that I wasn't willing to pay for.

- Really? No help from anyone?

- None.

Well, Papa did give us a very small

cotton mill when we were married.

What do you suggest we do

with "those people"? Hmm?

Are there no workhouses?

Do you know how many people

would rather die than go there?

Then they'd

better do it

and reduce

the surplus population.

[man] Can you spare

a bob, please?

Care to buy, sir?

Hard workers.

Fit any chimney.

- You f...

- [whinnies]

Quick!

Come on! In here!

- Down here now!

- [child cries out]

- [man] Come on!

- [child screams] No!

[man] I lift mine eyes

unto the hills

from whence cometh

my help.

My help cometh

even from the Lord,

who hath made

heaven and earth...

All right, all right. I'm not paying

you by the hour. Skip to the end.

[man, rapidly] Rest eternal, grant to him, O

Lord. Let light perpetual shine upon him.

- Amen. Amen.

- Amen.

Shame, innit?

All that money and no one here to

mourn him except Old Scratch there.

- Who's that?

- His business partner.

The meanest cur on two legs,

so they say.

Aye, right.

Come on.

Ah... humbug.

"Humbug."

"Are there no workhouses?

Well, then they'd

better do it

and decrease

the surplus population."

[chuckling] "Old Scratch.

All that money. Shame."

Good evening, sir.

Yes, it is,

Mrs. Fisk.

- Charles?

- [shouting] Humbug! Humbug!

Humbug! Ha-ha!

[Charles's voice] It's about a businessman.

Or a factory owner. A miser.

His partner dies. He doesn't shed a tear.

Thinks only of the money.

And on

Christmas Eve...

On Christmas Eve,

he meets some kind of... of...

of supernatural guides,

or spirits, possibly,

who in the course

of one night

teach him what a miserable,

loathsome, selfish toad he is.

It's a short book.

Short and sharp.

A hammer blow

to the heart

of this smug,

self-satisfied age.

- It's a comedy.

- [laughing]

- Brilliant.

- [laughing continues]

- Does it have a title?

- Yes.

[clears throat]

Humbug:
A Miser's Lament.

A Christmas Ghost Story...

Christmas Song...

Christmas Ballad.

Something like that.

Intriguing, really.

Ah, just one question.

Why Christmas?

- Well, why not?

- Does anybody really celebrate it anymore?

Apart from our clerk, who

never misses an opportunity

to take a day off...

with pay.

More or less an opportunity for picking

a man's pocket every 25th of December.

- [chuckles]

- What we mean to say, Mr. Dickens, is,

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