If some day you should see Diesel the Diesel Shunter growling angrily along the line, he may be on his way
to a town nestled deep in the heart of the Other Railway.
In this town is a business district filled with bloated bankers
and selfish stockbrokers. Every Christmas they dined on solid gold turkeys and money salad, while the Thin Git and the Other
Railway engines had to make-do with beans on out-of-date toast and Lidl-brand oil.
One December morning Diesel tooted
to all the bankers, "It's nearly Christmas and I'll ignore all your letters and parcels!"
The silly bankers ignored
him back. They were too busy throwing cavier to the ducks. They had no time for Poor Engines.
But a week later, the
traditional winter storms came. The Other Railway was covered in thick slush. The engines found work more difficult than usual.
Some had to help clear slush from the tracks with trucks full of salt (You don't want to know what they did to BoZo's boiler)
and workmen hacked away at the frozen banks of ice to get their Christmas savings out of their accounts.
say that their 'assests were frozen'. HAHA!
Oh, give me a break, it's Christmas.
Diesel and Spamcan were collecting
important post for Christmas. They were going to dump it in the canal and spend the day at the fuel depot.
says there'll be lots of post for the business district," said Diesel. "I'll need an extra drink for it all!"
was feeling cold and bitter. "S'not fair.
You're not leavin' any post for me to ruin, ya greedy gronk!"
Spamcan's chance had come.
"There's been a change of plan," said Diesel's Driver, "the Thin Git needs us at the Big
Fat Station. Spamcan, you are to take Diesel's train to the town."
Spamcan was delighted, but Diesel was livid.
won't be able to say Crappy Christmas to all my enemies!"
"Don't worry," said Spamcan smugly, "I'll do it for
"It's not the same," grumbled Diesel. "I'd written a song and everything."
Spamcan was making good time on his way to the town (Only twenty minutes late!) when suddenly:
what's that?" called his Driver.
There ahead was a fogman by the line. He was holding a bundle of crimson material.
town's cut off by red tape!" he shouted. "Those bloody bankers have hired the entire town for their annual Christmas party
and the Thin Git thinks it's time we taught those snobs a lesson."
Spamcan remembered when they snowed in Mrs Cruelly
two years before and grinned broadly.
"We need snow, workmen and a helicopter," said the fogman, "leave your trucks
in the sidings and go back quickly."
"Gladly," said Spamcan. "I was about to dump them anyway!"
soon growling to the airfield.
"Oi, Private Parts! Up and at 'em!"
Private Parts was an old military helicopter
who lived at the airfield. He was a paranoid fellow, said by many to have more mustashe than common sense. He was discharged
from the army after a disasterous mission where he mistook the QE2 for a German U-boat. Now he spends his days sleeping and
accusing people of being spies.
"TOOT TOOT!" bellowed Spamcan. "Wake up, you old goat!"
Private Parts awoke
with a start. "Whu!? Wuzzat!? Aha! Come to finish me off! You crafty Jerry, take that!"
He fired his guns, pelting
Spamcan with snowballs.
"Will you stop that, ya mad fossil!" snapped the diesel. "The spoiled bankers are 'aving their
annual piss-up! We're gonna ruin it!"
"Corking!" replied Private Parts. "I like a good bombing campaign to keep me
warm," and he bumbled away, knocking down a windsock on the way.
"Now," groaned Spamcan, "what's next?"
there was Diesel with Scrappy the Tractor and the works train.
"Get your arse in gear, Spamcan!" tooted Diesel. "Follow
The two engines battled their way through the red tape. At last they reached the town. Private Parts was already
there, busily dropping snow on people and animals.
"Have at you, you bally rotters!" he laughed boistrously, "give
Uncle Fritz my regards!"
Scrappy quickly got to work. "Yucky stuff!" he snarled, as he pushed the snow into all the
"D*mn you, Spamcan! D*mn you, Diesel!" booed the bankers. "You're the worst Santa Claus this town has ever had!"
Santa Claus?" asked Spamcan stupidly.
Diesel rolled his eyes.
"Santa Claus is a fat b*****d who drops Coke down
chimneys at Christmastime."
Spamcan looked at his exhaust.
"I wonder if..."
"No!" laughed Diesel. "Coke
drinks, Spamcan, not coke powder! Speaking of crack, that reminds me, your silly sub-plot is still back in the
siding, isn't it?"
Spamcan hurried back to dump them in the river.
Just then Derek arrived with the Brakefather.
"We've brought lots of hard liquor and expired food for the bankers!" he tooted.
With all the expensive restaurants
blocked off by snow, the hungry bankers swarmed around the train.
"That's our Christmas dinner!" exclaimed Diesel.
"Have you got holly in your brain or something?"
"It's the Thin Git's orders," winked Derek. "I know what I'm doing.
Diesel and Spamcan exchanged nervous looks.
That night all the engines had gone back to their sheds, drunk off their wheels, except Derek. The strong alcohol and
expired food had left the bankers light-headed and sick. As they stumbled to and from the toilets, the workmen crept into
their houses and gathered up their things.
They loaded sacks and parcels into the Brakefather, then they set off through
the neon-lit industrial complex.
All the engines were fast asleep in the sheds as Derek spluttered noisily into the
Yard. He knew exactly what the workmen were going to do, but he pretended it was going to be a big surprise anyway. Bless
him, he still leaves a glass of oil out for Father Christmas every year.
When the engines awoke next morning they could
not believe their eyes (And only partly because of their hangovers). The sheds had been repainted and redecorated with antique
furniture, top-of-the-range games consoles and an entire forest of Christmas trees covered in fur coats. Money lay everywhere.
engines tooted in delight and everyone agreed that it really wasn't a Crappy Christmas after all.