Wizzard

In an up-stairs room, sitting on the edge of a bed, is a man posed with a guitar. He wasn't playing at our moment, just staring into space as if he was listening, or had been listening, but the sound had completed. The man didn't stop listening. He had just played his final note and it had lost all audible energy, but he knew it was there, somewhere. The man's hands were still so you could see the last chord that he had played.

The man had just composed his one hundredth song. But there was something about the song he had just written, at our moment. It was the same as every other song he had ever written, all ninety-nine songs. Not only were all one hundred songs exactly the same, but every song, every song, was a Christmas song.

Today, the day he had written his one hundredth song, was Christmas Day. The existence of a story had only become apparent at that point and that angered the man, that he was playing a part in fate's cruel play. Is there a way to escape one's fate? the man pondered. He had tried hard and relentlessly to write against the will of fate only to unconsciously be the author of fate itself. In his case this was to be an allegory of Christmas to which he was unimportant and replaceable.

The man walked out of the room, through doors, down stairs, and to the outside, putting on a jacket because it was cold outside. In his head he configured a maze of paths into a 3-dimensional map. The man walked the paths consecutively as they came up. They appeared as expected by his memory, things normally do, and if not, it would be the fault of his memory. The man walked through his memory paths with the intent of a man who is certain of his destination, making straight lines and definite turns. He doesn't slow or stop until he reaches a busy road. At the crossing, he stopped and waited for the green man. The safety of the green man.

Finally, the man reached the Forth Rail Bridge and walked to where he thought was about halfway. He climbed onto the old red iron girders, standing still against the hard wind and over the frothing waves one hundred meters below. In this picture time had stopped. Then the man inhaled a final icy breath, a Christmasy breath, and allowed himself to topple like a chess piece, stiff and without emotion, over the edge.

The waters of the Forth can on some days be calm, but today the waves would swallow a man whole. Any last regrets in the descent would not be heard today. But he was certain about his decision, so there was no need to discuss anything with the Forth.

Then, the man thought that it was over. Enough time had elapsed since he had allowed his fall. Once the swirling in his brain had stopped he could sense he was lying horizontal, albeit with his limbs thrown around awkwardly but fully intact. It was like he was lying in a giant red pillow on ecstasy. This must be heaven.

Then, from somewhere above him, the man heard a hearty voice.

“Ho Ho Ho! Stranger.”

Is that God? thought the man before his eyes focused.

It was Santa.

“Lucky I was just passing. The conditions were just right for the bridge dive. I'm not supposed to, not since we lost Blitzen.” Santa continued to laugh periodically, seemingly unfazed that a man had landed in his sleigh. For a moment the man thought about this, and then he remembered. I'm still in the story, the Christmas story. He wondered how much of his life had been free will. Did it start when he bought the guitar? Were my parents involved? he thought. Agents of fate.

The man's thoughts were interrupted - “Come on son, let me help you up.” Santa's rosey face moved over him like a moon as he was cast into shadow. The man hesitated, his paranoia giving way to Santa's disarming character and kind face.

Maybe Santa is just a pawn too. A dressed up pawn, or a knight. We're all sacrificial in the game. Who is writing the story? WHO is writing the story? “That's it! Who is writing the story?” the man shouted aloud. An unintended vocalisation of a thought. Santa turned his head and had clearly heard the man's exclamation. But he did not engage a conversation, not yet. And not that conversation. He returned to the reigns and guided the sleigh as the Forth became a river, smaller and smaller, and continued westwards.

After a while, the sleigh started a downward descent to a place that the man recognised. It was Glasgow SECC. As the sign came into focus, it read 'TONIGHT: WIZZARD Live!'

“This is your stop Roy. Tonight is every night.” Santa turned as he addressed the man.

The man looked confused “Roy? Every night?” he repeated.

“You're Roy Wood, lead singer of Wizzard” Santa replied.

And in that instant the man stepped onto the stage, through the smoke, in Wizzard glitter, bells and beard. It was automatic, he had written this song one hundred times.

“It's Christmas!” the first line rang out. The crowd cheered with manic excitement like they do every night. Then a little instrumental panned out before the fateful line:

“I wish it could be Christmas every day...”

As soon as it had started it was over. The man was sitting in the room again holding a guitar.