Most calendars don’t have a 629th August. This is the story of how one land came to have one, slap bang in the middle of September.
There once was a king called Hector. He requested that all his subjects address him as King Hector. He had a big robe, a big crown, a big orb, a big sceptre, and a big throne. He held big parties in his big castle, he drank big glasses of champagne, ate big bacon sandwiches, and did big poos in his big bathroom. Life was pretty good for King Hector. Apart from one little thing: he hated Christmas.
A few years ago, Lord David of Coverdale had asked the king why he hated Christmas, and was swiftly taken off to Ghraib Abbey where he was found guilty of treason and sentenced to stand in a really big bucket and drink lemonade until he drowned in his own piss. Ever since then, nobody has dared to ask King Hector why he hated Christmas.
Quite soon after Lord David’s demise, the King’s hatred intensified. One sunny August morning, he was sat in a deck chair in the royal gardens sipping a cappuccino and watching his springer spaniel shag a poodle, when he had an idea. He rooted around in his regal pocket, pulled out his mobile phone, and sent a text message to his lawyer: CUM 2 RYL GDNS NOW!
The lawyer, Lord Ronald James of Dio, hurried to the royal garden.
“Aaah, good to see you, Lord Ronald,” said King Hector.
“I am your loyal lawyer,” said Lord Ronald, a bit out of breath.
“Listen here, old bean. I’ve been giving it some thought, and, well, Christmas… let’s abolish it.” said King Hector.
“Well, erm, yes, of course, Your Majesty,” said Lord Ronald.
“Good. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted,” said the king, sparking up a Gitane. “Oh, and you’ve got some toothpaste in your beard.”
So that the people didn’t revolt when they found out that King Hector had banned Christmas, the law actually stated that the day’s date could be decided upon by King Hector when he awoke every morning. He went to bed on 31st August, dreamt (as he was often did) of a busty wench covered in jam, then woke the next morning declaring it to be 32nd August.
The next morning, he decided it was 33rd August. And on and on and on: 45th August, 72nd August, 110th August…
All the children in the land kept quiet about the extended August as it meant wonderful extra-long school holidays; but they did wonder where Hallowe’en had gone to. And by 147th August, they realised that Christmas wasn’t going to happen at all.
The old ladies were happy, though: it meant they weren’t get older. Business men were happy, too: they could put off their tax returns. Utility companies, though, were oturaged that they could never send out their end-of-the-month bills.
All the while, the King stayed happy, knowing that for as long as he felt this way, Christmas would never arrive. He was even a bit clever on what would’ve been April Fool’s Day (but was actually the 213th August) by changing the date back to 92nd August.
O! what a malarkey it all was!
When the King sat down for a pleasant feast of roast giraffe and honey-glazed pauper’s liver on the 629th August, he coughed. Then he coughed again. And again. After ten minutes, his cough was so bad he stubbed out his cigarette. Another ten minutes later, he was dead.
The Queen cried, and wiped gravy off her late husband’s chops. When the people heard of their monach’s demise, they mostly giggled behind their hands (apart from the readers of the Daily Mail who all wept and demanded the blacks be sent home as punishment for something or other).
From that day, the calendar returned to normal. Tomorrow would be the 20th of September, and Christmas was just three short months away. But every year the people remembered the day their king died. They’d go to bed on 18th September and wake up the next morning; the morning of 629th August.