It is a peaceful day in the Giant’s cloud kingdom. He is picking veg from his allotment and is in the process of cooking the finest Christmas feast this side of Neverland. He goes inside to the warmth of his wonderful castle: a log fire is roaring; oodles of fairy-lights twinkle above his head; the smell of mulled wine is in the air. He strolls triumphantly over his thick, red carpet and enters his well-stocked kitchen. He dusts the mince pies with sugar. He drinks a glass of port. He is happy.
Meanwhile, down on Earth, Jack rolls out of bed with a killer hangover. He’s been on the White Lightning for days and can barely remember his name. Worse still, he’s out of pills and is in dire need of a fix. He pulls on his trackie bottoms, slips into his Diadora trainers and hauls a dirty hoody over his head. He runs a grimy hand through his number one buzz cut and looks in the mirror. He looks absolutely mint. He staggers downstairs into a tirade of abuse from his mum. The family’s short of cash and she’s been forced to sell old Daisy the cow. Disgruntled and feeling decidedly unwell, Jack heads off to market to flog the dilapidated bovine. He meets a sweet-talking spiv who offers him a bag of rare beans in exchange for the cow. Jack eagerly accepts – he needs a high so bad, he’ll drink bleach over water and those beans look mighty trippy.
But as soon as he gets home he runs into his dad – a well-off city banker who slaves all day just to ensure Jack has a dollar of gas in his scooter. Jack’s dad doesn’t like drugs and chucks the beans away. They land in the garden and overnight sprout into a towering beanstalk that leads right to the Giant’s front door. Smashed on Hooch he half-inched from Spar, Jack shimmies up the stalk in search of crystal meth.
Noticing the massive castle, he breaks in and, upon finding a gigantic golden hen, nicks it and runs home before the Giant – who was tending to his Christmas roast – notices what’s going on. In a mad, festive rage, the Giant pursues. He gets halfway down the stalk before Jack finishes hacking through it with an axe. The stalk collapses and the Giant dies. To add insult to injury, his roast is woefully overdone.
Naturally, everyone is thrilled because the Giant is dead. Giants and Ogres aren’t all bad: Shrek seems rather nice at his core. But it’s hard to erase centuries of kid-gobbling and virgin-stealing: it leaves a grubby mark against your name.
This fairy tale brought to mind the case of Tony Martin, the Norfolk farmer who was arrested for shooting and killing a burglar found on his property. Initially, the public were against Martin whom the media branded a bloodthirsty killer, but the truth of matter – that the burglar should never have been thieving in the first place and kind of had himself to blame for getting shot – eventually swayed the public to sympathy. But there was no such love for the Giant.
I like this fairy tale – Jack’s a plucky lad, after all – but in these underdog tales, some more deserving chap often loses out. No one ever mentions the fact that Jack was a pikey bastard on the rob. Still, it’s Christmas so let’s raise a glass to the little sod and hope that with a good roast golden hen in his belly, he can finally kick the smack.
Pick up THE HARE newspaper at Night and Day, Bar Centro, Font or Tiger Lounge in Manchester town centre, or the Oakwood in Glossop.
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