It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was hosting my first Christmas Eve television spectacular; it was my rellies’ Christmas Day shit show. It was Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, gold standard families, oi, oi, oi; it was a public debasement of that currency, bah humbug rules, okay!

Christmas morning dawned full of promise; the sun was beating down, yet the oppressive heat that stymies outdoor eating was for another day. Buzzed following my first live seasonal spectacular, I was in social media junkie mode; the lady in red, my favourite work-issued Escada dress, posting the video blancmange I’d promised my national audience. A demonstration to Australia and hopefully the world of the real meaning of a family Christmas.

My brother had iced the esky early, so the booze was already cold as. Likes, likes, likes. Dad was getting the barbie ready, the task not taxing enough to distract sourpuss from his mobile. Fewer likes: that’ll be the Facebook generation knowing it’s women’s work that’s never done. 

Gran was smiling happily; the director in me still pondered whether leaving the empty gin glass in her hand would have earned me more likes. Mum was happily harassed, clutching her first glass of bubbles and patrolling the kitchen for the smallest sign of misbehaviour in the assembled ranks of meat, veg and pud. Lots and lots of likes.

She’d have been better off noticing Gran’s eyebrows acting up, they arched suspiciously when I’d finally got off social media and proffered her a sparkling wine. “South Australian, Carol?”

“No, silly. Real Christmas Champagne.”

“A second G&T then. Why suggest foreign when you know that out-of-state wine doesn’t agree with me?” Dear God, as if a digestive system could seriously be that terroir intolerant. 

“You’ve lived in Sydney for nigh on thirty years. Surely the sun can’t still be shining out of Adelaide’s arse.”

“Language, young lady. If I was your mother, I’d be washing your mouth out with soap.”

“Nowadays that gets the child protection agency on your tail.”

“That balderdash is why society’s going to the dogs. Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

“Anyway, Gran, I’m way past that; closer to my thirties than my teens.”

“Whatever. Just another example of the world going to hell in a woke handcart. Talking of which: your career seems to be going dam-busters.”

Having prepped Gran’s gin—weak this time--and my champagne, I plonked down on the couch next to her confident that my new job would only trigger the usual manageable prejudices. “Starting to earn more screen time. You see my Christmas Eve special last night?”

“Of course. You hit the nail on the head. A timely Christmas reminder to Australia: get back to those family values that made us the world’s best place to bring up kids.”

“Yeah. Faux News has been a real career boost. Mind you, I’ve had to toe the party line.”

“Just knew wishy-washy mainstream media wasn’t for you. Like grandmother, like granddaughter.”

I bit my tongue. Being a journalist today wasn’t anything like my gran’s copy editing in the old days. Today Faux News only really had one thing in common with the Adelaide Advertiser of old, the man who owned them. South Australia one day, global media baron the next.

“You’ll laugh, I unwrapped a Feeldoe sex toy from my Faux News secret Santa. My boss is so old school. When I looked shocked, he was, like, ranting, ‘Don’t be so bloody woke.’”

“Big or small?”

“What; the telling off?”

“No, that dildo. A ginormous faux cock would be kind of ironic.”

“Gran!”

“What?” She leaned conspiratorially towards me and whispered, “You do realize there’s no truth in the saying, ‘Size doesn’t matter.’”

“It’s not what you do with it then?” Jesus, one drink in and I’d let myself swap risqué banter with my grandmother.

“Not in my experience. Fortunately, your grandfather, may he rest in peace, was one of my largest.”

One of! That was way too much information; this grandmother and granddaughter tête-à-tête was at risk of jumping the rails.  So, I quickly changed tack. “What did you mean by ironic?”

But it was already too late, I should have known an alcohol-infused train of conversation could career downhill faster than you’re able to post a TikTok video. “You know I worked for the Faux News owner after he inherited the Adelaide daily paper?”

“The good old days of journalism.”

“In many ways. But even more sexist than today. A girl must do what a girl must do. I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to work after my first child, so I needed to make hay while the sun shined.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, the scuttlebutt was that, while the new proprietor wasn’t a generously proportioned pup, he was exceedingly generous after you lost your knickers. How else do you think your grandad and I managed to finance our first home?”

Had my gran just owned up to being a whore? “Fucking arsehole.”

“Language, Carol. Shrimp-dick was way too vanilla for bum play, but pathetically happy with the standard blow job and minimalist missionary. Even so, don’t tell your mother.”

Not just mum! That reminiscence wasn’t going anywhere near my social media. Fortunately, we were startled into silence by the ringing doorbell; not even the Jehovah’s Witnesses go door to door on Christmas Day. Grateful for the interruption, I easily beat Gran to the front door.

The elfin, grunge-goth cliché on the doorstep was totally ripped—both her threadbare tee and tights, and her emaciated, hollow-eyed look. The waif’s black lips turned from sneer to smile on seeing me. “Oh. My. Fucking. God. You’re that media star, Carol Kelly, right? What are you doing here?”

“My parents' place. More to the point, why are you here?”

“Jack’s sister. Oh. My. Fucking. God. He’s never mentioned being famous.”  I could only smile as her iPhone 15, incongruously pink, was instantaneously pressed into selfie service, unexpectedly anointing me the star of her Christmas Instagram, Snapchat and TikTok feed. 

Gran, having finally navigated her walker down the hall, interrupted the selfie-fest. “What do you actually want, young lady?”

“Molly.”

“No Molly living here. Sure, you have the right address?” 

“Gran,” my brother shrieked, having rushed downstairs, his mobile’s Instagram account clearly open on one of Grunge-Waif’s recent posts. “I’ll take it from here.”

“She wants Molly. That’s not you.”

There are things you’ve never imagined about your brother.  And conversations you’ve not anticipated having with your gran. “Molly isn’t just a woman’s name. It’s slang, nowadays, for a drug. You’ve heard of ecstasy tablets?”

“Oh, that party drug. But …”

“Indeed. Grunge-Waif here asks for Molly. She’s Instagram friends with your grandson. You do the math.”

Her mind, as always, was sharper than her body. “Drug dealer?”

“Seems so …”

Gran’s beady eyes appraised Jack. “Drugs! Not the appropriate career change of your …” She’s always prided herself on equal treatment of children and grandchildren. Just in the nick of time, she’d managed to swallow the comparison that had leapt into her mind.

But Jack got the point. “More fucking moral than fake fucking Faux News.”

“Isn’t.”

“Is.”

“ISN’T.”

“IS.”

Grunge-Waif, interrupted grandmother and grandson rehearsing a typical four-year-old debating contest and attempted the wisdom of Solomon. “Can’t split the difference. Both give paying customers what they want: hallucinogenic distortions in their perception of reality.”

Having rendered us statues of mute meditation, she seized the moment. Black fingernails traced down Jack’s abs and she cupped my brother’s crotch in her hand. “Haven’t got enough cash for Molly. Wanna a Christmas blowjob?”

That shattered the rare moment of contemplative grandmother syndrome. “Young lady, do keep up appearances.”

Grans always had a patronizing tone when delivering her, for want of better words, ‘life insights.’ The frisson of irritation that ran through said young lady confirmed Gran’s capacity to locate Grunge-Waif’s aeroplane mode with the ease she’d always triggered mine.

But apparently, she was still capable of sharing a Christmas cracker with a visiting stray. “Look, dear, it’s obviously a woman's prerogative to blow cock and score whatever bauble she’s set her eyes on. We’ve all done it; how do you think I got by when I was, like you, a tad needy in the cash department?”

“Then what’s your point?” Grunge-Waif asked; her hand firmly kneading her drug dealer's stiffening trouser snake. I averted my eyes; that, after all, was my dickhead of a brother. 

“Keep up appearances, dear. If you want ecstasy from sucking dick, be undemonstrative, go upstairs, and close the damned door.”

“Your place, your rules. Any other advice, grandma?”

Irony is lost on Gran. “Life’s too short to waste on short dicks.”

Grunge-Waif, dragging Jack by the belt into the house, called back over her shoulder. “Oh. My. Fucking. God. That’s so deserving of a TikTok video. Just between you and I, your grandson doesn’t waste a girl’s time.”

“Good to know Jack takes after his grandfather,” Gran confided in me as the other two groped their way upstairs. “Best not tell your mother about his new career.”

This had been all way, way too much information. My gran was a whore, my brother was dealing drugs, and I’m the Faux face for family values. Jesus Christ, I needed another Champagne.

In the kitchen, Mum was totally buzzed. With the turkey and trimmings almost cooked, she’d another glass of champers in hand and was prancing around the bench top, wearing flashing reindeer ears from the Two Dollar shop, and singing along to ABBA’s Dancing Queen.

That was way too cute: posting my all-singing all-dancing mum on Instagram and TikTok got my name in the social media spotlight by stoking the momentum of the famed #ChristmasMoms’.

By the time I’d escorted Gran outside to the table by the pool and poured her a glass—"South Australian, I trust, Carol?”—of Polish Hill Clare Valley Riesling, then nabbed the last of the French Champagne, my mum's media presence was trending in Australia. Better still she was harvesting early morning United Kingdom likes on their Faux News site as well as my own media.

So cool, but Aussies aren’t satisfied by poms anymore. I had a cunning stunt in mind to climb the greasy pole that is social media’s Everest. Fossicking for Christmas likes in the good old U S of A, one Aussie cliché at a time. First up Australia’s best-known marketing icon: my dad’s long late-night journey had netted a kilo of prawns from Dante’s third circle of Hell, namely the Christmas parking at Sydney’s Fish Markets.

Yet, despite the limited conceivable shenanigans that could possibly have befallen him at the fishmonger’s, Dad was deep in the taciturn mire. Engrossed on his mobile, he would smile from time to time but then sigh despondently. Even more disconcerting was the drinking of low-alcohol beer on Christmas Day which was positively un-Australian.  

Whatever. A daughter in director mode is an irresistible force. “Get prawns cooking on the barbie, Dad.

“Now, an uncooked prawn in your tongs. Turn to the right; the summer sun will illuminate your face.

“Smile. Best bogan Crocodile Dundee accent. Say these exact words:

“‘I’ll slip another shrimp on the barbie for you.’”

“But these are prawns, love.”

“Shrimp means pathetically small,” Gran waspishly added. “No self-respecting Aussie prawn identifies themselves by the s-word.”

Be that as it may, prawns masquerading as shrimp had been the most successful media campaign in Australia’s history. “Were these prawns ever capable of articulating their personal pronouns, being recently deceased they won’t be doing it anymore.

“Furthermore, it was good enough for Paul Hogan to swallow national pride and speak American. You two can bloody well do so too.

“Take two.”

Seems there’s nothing like losing your video virginity to make a man smile. My father’s screen presence was a total dad joke; more than a little cringy but kind of endearing. Yet he got so many likes. I almost cried with happiness when Ralph Marchant, the Faux founder, not only liked but also commented: Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Christmas memories: Summer sun and family fun. 

Out of nowhere the Faux followers and Ralph sycophants piled in and my #AussiFamilyXmas rose to the top of the pops. Wow just wow, and a little jealous too; so many American likes had netted Dad more media attention in a half hour than the lifetime total of the rest of the family put together.

And the people that really mattered—Ralph Marchant and my Aussie boss—had got the point. Faux’s trending global Christmas presence was all down to me. Even Gran cracked a proud grin when I showed her my private messages.

I was on a roll; time for a family follow-up Tiktok. As Dad stepped inside to get Mum, Gran picked up a barbecued prawn and pursed her lips. Oh. My. God. It looked like she was about to fellate the damn crustacean.  “What will Ralph think?” she asked with a snigger.

“Sweet fuck all. I’m not recording that.”

“Language, dear. Worried that shrimp-dick will get the joke?”

“The dick size of the owner of the business you work for may or may not make for good television. But as a career choice, it rarely ends well.”

“You’ll be fine; Faux keeps telling us they’re free speech’s light on the hill. And you’ve my personal assurance that this isn’t slanderous.”

My parents’ return shut down that conversation, allowing me to slip into director-domme mode with the three of them. All was going well until the shrimps froze between plate and mouth; the sticky summer stillness had been pierced by the scream from an open upstairs bedroom window. “Oh my God. Oh my God, I’m fucking cumming.”

Prawns forgotten, my parent’s faces contorted in stupid what-was-that looks. Rendered speechless I hurriedly stopped recording. Gran doesn’t do speechlessness twice on the same day. “Inappropriate. Well brought up tarts Happy Christmasing Jack should know how to close the windows and curtains.”

Mum brightened; more relieved than upset. “Jack has a girlfriend?”

Gran was surprisingly tactful. “A relationship of sorts. I met her at the front door. Modern in her outlook.”

Cheshire Jack soon strutted outside. He helped himself to a lager and a couple of prawns, with all the smugness of the cat who’d swallowed the canary. Not that Grunge-Waif, who followed behind, was his equal in the swallowing department. Cum oozing down her black t-shirt was Salvador Dali-ing the formerly punk-clear image of Siouxie screaming like a banshee.

My brother gave new meaning to the word awkward as he stuttered through the socially called-for introductions. Though to be fair to him, there’s no etiquette guide for furtive Molly dealers on introducing a cum splattered Christmas customer to family.

Gran’s eyebrows hit maximum arch when Mum’s unctuous verbal diarrhea of a reply included a lunch invitation. Again, to be fair, this time to my mum, the words Jack and girlfriend hadn’t previously existed in the same state, let alone the same sentence. So, like any Incel-mum, she just wanted to believe; and after all, only Santa could explain a real live girl appearing in the house. Let the feasting begin.

Collectively the rest of the family suddenly held their breath. Gran had smiled; that sweet little old lady welcoming smile was as fake as our decade-old Christmas tree. This was her in Devil's Advocate mode, practiced talons unsheathed, about to launch a bullshit shredding mission. Grunge-Waif wouldn’t have expected the Spanish Inquisition in her drug dealer’s house. But, as it was Christmas Day, my grandmother generously opened with an easy starter for ten. “How old did you say you were, dear?”

“Eighteen. Old enough for drugs, voting and lewd TikTok videos.”

Gran’s lips pursed blood-drained tight. “Studying, dear?”

“Yes. Media studies at Sydney uni. Wanna be a shit-hot influencer. Change the world, you know what I mean?”

“Language! That's not real journalism, dear?”

“Reporting the news is so last century. Aspirational women create the news nowadays.” Dad and I exchanged a despairing glance; desperately racking our brains for a change-of-conversation topic.

“Fake news, you mean, dear?”

Grunge-Waif’s eyes lit up. “No no no! Look, Faux News is innovative, pleasuring the paying punters with what they want to hear. But, no disrespect to Carol, that means they need to say shit that isn't true.”

“You’re way too young to be sure of what’s true and what's fake. And, language, dear. Final warning…”

Dad looked relieved when I opened my mouth. Premature; I’d not thought through what I was about to say. “Perhaps a turkey TikTok. A Norman Rockwell rip off, the Aussie summer Christmas version.”

Dad took the hint, and both he and my brother escorted Mum indoors to fetch the bird and its accompanying one hundred and one accompaniments. Gran it transpired was an occasional swallower, she was hooked by the change of subject bait. “Don't think Norman actually did nautical.”

“What?”

“Seaman Stains, dear. One of your Grandad's, may he rest in peace, bad jokes.”

“Gran!”

Grunge-Waif smirked but took the hint. “My bad, but easily fixed.” Her practiced wiggle skilfully avoided skin contact with my brother’s cum while shedding her top. She flung the t-shirt over the yellow and green kangaroo floatie, accessorized with a Santa hat, bobbing on the edge of the pool, where Siouxsie sploshed and sank into the deep water.

Arms akimbo, the nipples of her mini-tits puffy and perking, abs taut and toned, her eyes locked on Grans. “Remember looking this good, grandma?”

That had me thinking, ‘time to run to a nuclear fallout shelter.’ But Gran stunned me. Her eyes softened, not flared. “Yes, dear, of course I remember. Challenge me all you want but do remember old age is your future too.”

Grunge-Waif’s supple fingers entwined with Gran’s arthritic ones. “Fair. Any advice then?”

“Make hay while the sun shines. The winter’s longer than you can possibly imagine.”

“You’re such a font on pithy Hallmark wisdom. Carol better go find me a top for lunch then.”

Gran giggled. “That’ll be for the best, dear. Tell me, what’s the rainbow-coloured crescent hanging from your nipple piercings about?”

“Advertising.”

Fuck no! Don't ask; pretty please, just don't ask. But Gran couldn’t resist. “Advertising what, dear?”

“My pussy, dear. You know my interest in boys is on a pay-to-use basis. This dog whistles girls: free pass, free pass, come use my body for pleasure anytime, anywhere.”

Gran snatched her hand from Grunge-Waif’s. Her gobsmacked pursed O-lips opened and closed, goldfish-like, only just capable of a church mouse’s little squeak.

Before Gran could recover her voice and launch into a heteronormative family-values themed rant, I skedaddled upstairs knowing I’d left a t-shirt or two from my student days in my old bedroom. PussyRiot may not have been the best sartorial choice for impressing family, but there again topless beggars can't be choosers.

I got back outside just in time to hear Gran say, “Jack’s a drug dealer, Carol’s the Faux face of family values. It's obvious which one’s more your type, dear.” God knows what had preceded that comment, but I sure wasn't about to ask.

“You like Pussy-Right?” Grunge-Waif asked as I handed her the tee shirt.

I took my time, wanting to be sure Gran, who’d just focused on the start of the turkey’s ceremonial procession outside, hadn’t twigged to the nontraditional pronunciation. She hadn’t; yay. “PussyRight up my alley. No fan of the Buzz … cocks.”

Grunge-Waif smiled a lascivious smile; I now knew which family member ticked the smitten kitten’s fancy, then slipped the PussyRiot tee over her perky nipples. “I’ll record your Norman conquest of social media, Carol. Here’s hoping you’re into ordering me about.” 

She had me bang to rights, that domme-director feeling was kicking in. I made my mum and brother retrace their steps so Grunge-Waif could TikTok them as they delivered the festive feast to Dad at the head of the table.

Dad had dressed to impress, that is if you’re impressed by a traditional Aussie-dad outfit: a cream short-sleeved shirt featuring flamingos and tradie shorts. Seasonally accessorized with a Santa hat and the menacingly poised, particularly if you’re a turkey, carving knife and fork. He smiled, his Sunday-best overacting dad-grin, for the camera.

Gran and Mum had been seated next to him and opposite each other. They looked up adoringly, proof that older generations of women can still pull off acting up for the pater familias.

Though, it has to be said, I was more than a tad nervous that the flashing antler ears–Gran objected, Mum insisted–included in the Rockwell family pastiche might well result in a social media reception more hysterical than likable.

Sitting next to Gran, looking the part in my seasonal-red Escada, I yelled ‘cut’ just as Dad started to cut. My dickhead of a brother was making incel doe-eyes at the dickhead-sucking goth behind the iPhone rather than the bloody turkey.  

But alcohol and sunshine induced bonhomie eventually make for happy families. Refocused, the second take was as naff as it was nice. A tsunami of likes showed me I’d caught the zeitgeist of today’s Australia. Better still, Faux News, settling into its self-appointed role as the bastion of Christmas family values, immediately trended globally.

With a daughter reaching for the top of social media’s greasy pole, mum issued a dispensation from her usual rule of no phones at the dinner table. My brother petulantly rolled his eyes, but the masticating rest of us scrolled through our media and occasionally pointed out cool comments including those of notable Faux alumni.  

“What the fuck?” Wow, maternal F-bombing was as rare as an echidna in these parts.

“Language, dear…”

Mum ignored her mother; something had clearly pissed her off to the max. “A newborn baby commented on the family Christmas TikTok.”

Dad shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Grunge-Waif shrugged her shoulders. “Not surprised, nowadays cutting the umbilical cord means birthing a baby’s social media presence.”

“I guess, but I’m more focused on #daddy. Is it a coincidence that the baby was born last night when my husband was at the fish markets?”

Dad had stopped shifting uncomfortably. He was positively squirming. “I can explain.”

He had to be dreaming. Well, that was clearly Mum’s opinion. “Tell me if I’ve got this wrong. You said you were shopping for prawns. Delayed by the shit-parking at the fish markets.

“Seemed fishy at the time; for fuck’s sake you were gone a while. So do tell, what's your relationship to this Christmas baby.”

“Um, I might be his father.”

“Might! Jesus Christ, you adulterous equivocator, next you’ll be babbling on about an immaculate conception and birthing in a fucking manger.”

Gran pursed her lips, for once not focused on bad language. “Best you leave. Family isn’t family, when there’s another family on the go.”

Dad sighed. “Any chance of take-out turkey for a feeding mother?”

Reports that turkeys can't fly are clearly fake news. Mum reached for what remained of the bird–the right breast, wing and half a belly full of stuffing–which then soared through the air in a graceful parabola. But those big-breasted birds have difficulty nailing a graceful landing, the turkey clattered headless-first into Dad’s chest.

With much of the Christmas turkey sliding down my adulterous dad’s flamingo shirt--no wonder they had raised a leg--Mum stalked inside, taking care that the slamming door behind her achieved new heights of passive-aggressiveness.

Grunge-Waif whispered, in my ear, “Families are bat-shit crazy. I nicked a couple of your brother’s mollies while he was cumming. Want one?”

“Maybe, in a minute. Right now, it’s fucking damage control, my Faux boss is expecting a follow-up Family Christmas TikTok, like as of yesterday.”

“I’ve got your back, Miss.” And she did, composing a pitch-perfect message that was cleverly economical with the truth:

Christmas is about being present with family. When the food is served, put devices down, pause TikTok, and enjoy social intercourse with your family. We are; back soon.

Gran devil’s advocate mode was already back. “Why tell your wife? That's made a bad situation worse. So inappropriate.”

Grunge-Waif placed an e-tab in my hand and closed my palm around it.

Dad placed the carcass back on the plate. Then tossed his gooey flamingo shirt over the kangaroo floatie where it joined Grunge-Waif’s cummy tee shirt on the bottom of the pool. “Too stressful living a lie.”

“For you maybe. Stressful for others to find out the truth. Screw honesty, it hurts people too much. I prefer my daughter to be happy.”

Now a card-carrying member of the La Leche League, Dad left the house in a new shirt, insolently rubbing Mum’s nose in it by salvaging a Christmas turkey meal-on-wheels for his nursing bit on the side.

My gran was a whore, my brother a drug dealer and my parents’ marriage was on the rocks. Our reality wasn't exactly the traditional family Christmas I'd spruiked to my Faux audience and TikTok followers. The less said about that the better.

But Mum chose that moment to reappear outside with a couple of boys–well one was a girl–in blue. “Fuck, the police,” my brother whimpered.

Synchronised, Grunge-Waif and my palms smacked against our lips. With a slurp of Riesling–South Australian of course–some of the e-evidence vanished down our throats.

“Hello, hello hello, what's all this then, officer?” Gran had clearly watched way too many British police shows in her younger days.

“My team are upstairs collecting evidence, ma’am.”

“You’ll find that at the hospital.”

“What?”

“I assume you’re here about the missing husband. I can help you with your enquiries: he’s visiting the tart he got up the duff.”

“No ma’am. Adultery isn't illegal. But vast quantities of Molly are.”

“I need to see your search warrant, young man. Did you know there are lots of scams about nowadays?”

The cop rolled his eyes, and handcuffed Jack, while the contents of Jack’s room, and even the Christmas presents under the tree, were carried by constables out of the house. “Merry Christmas to you all, especially you Ms Kelly.”

“Plead the fifth,” Gran yelled as her grandson was led away. Obviously too many of her later years had been spent watching Miami Vice, but neither mum nor I had the heart to remind her that this was Australia.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” Grunge-Waif was scrolling wide-eyed through her media. “You’ve been set up, Miss.”

Gobsmacked, I read the breaking news on the website of the main Faux competitor, UnFairfacts website. Their most recent post carried the byline; Hypocrisy’ Bastard Child: Faux Family’s Drug Den. “How the fuck did they know about Jack and Dad?”

“Data mining on media, police leak. Whatever. It's way too hard keeping secrets nowadays.”

Gran couldn't help herself. “That’s what is wrong with the modern world. Who wants the world to know who they’ve been intimate with? I especially didn't want those whom I was intimate with to know who else had been on my to-do list.”

Grunge-Waif didn't see the question as rhetorical. “I do. How can I be a shit-hot influencer if I’m not open about my life? The first lie risks my followers assuming all my influencing is built on lies.”

“Surely what goes on in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

“No, that old-fashioned approach is the cul-de-sac called fake news. Keeping secrets has come to mean you oldies assume everyone, including journalists and influencers, are always secretive.”

“Balderdash.”

“A little learning is a dangerous thing. Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring. There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, and drinking largely sobers us again.”

“Quote Pope all you like, but knowledge hurts. Ignorance is more likely to be blissful.”

“You rebelled against traditional interpretations of monogamy. But not shouting that from the rooftops entrenched the status quo.”

“In those days, we women, individually and collectively, couldn’t be Genghis Khan. No way we could lay waste to the patriarchy all the way from the Mongolian steppes to the gates of Vienna. Yet we believed: family, equality, orgasmic cock. Yes, sometimes whores compromise. Bitch, don’t you dare judge us!”

Piloting a walker, semi-pissed, with angry tears in your eyes clearly wasn’t easy. Mum shot Grunge-waif and I a Christmas death stare, then soothingly helped her mother inside to call an Uber so that they both could go back to the assisted care village for a comforting cup of tea.

Grunge-Waif caught my eye. I couldn't help myself, giggling at the craziness. That set her off; egging each other on, we couldn't stop laughing. “This Molly really is good shit. Poor you, though. No family, no presents, media presence waning.”

“Isn’t all bad. Plenty of food. And…”

She licked her lips. “And what?”

“There’s my work Secret Santa gift after all.”

She frowned quizzically. “You’re curious about what I’ll think, aren't you?”

My fingers spider walked up her arm leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “More than curious. Wanna go fetch it from my handbag in the kitchen?”

Grunge-Waif scurried off to fossick in my handbag. She soon returned, grinning lasciviously, then brazenly sucked on the pony end of the thick black Feeldoe I’d been gifted.

Leaning towards her, I licked her ear and whispered, "You know where that goes?"

She bit her lip, nodded and unzipped my red dress which puddled on the pool deck.

Falling to her knees, she reverently slid my panties down. Her face crinkled with pleasure as she inhaled the pungent scent of my arousal. Fuck, this Molly was indeed good shit.

“Such a pretty pussy.” Her voice was as sultry as the weather. One slow twist and the pony end of the Feeldoe stretched my slick walls as she carefully seated the toy snugly against my sensitive G-spot.

Standing, her eyes were mesmerized by the sway of the faux cock jutting lewdly from my trimmed twat. Achingly slowly she shed her clothes, unwrapping her taut little body. “Merry Christmas.”

Scooping a little whipped cream from the top of the trifle I traced my finger across her taut abs painting her goose bumpy skin with letters that spelt out w-h-o-r-e.

Her eyes widened and she giggled. “Empathetic or what, Miss? I’m such an attention whore. Feel a bit virginal though, never had anyone famous before.”

Sucking the creamy residual off my fingers, I grabbed a fistful of hair and mashed her lips against mine. She didn't kiss me, rather her mouth instinctively formed that perfect O which invited me to tongue fuck her lips and smear her taste buds in cream.

A tug on her hair jerked her face from mine. “What do you need, little whore?”

Her whimper was redolent with distilled concentrated lust. "You, Miss. Fuck me."

Letting go of her hair, my fingers lightly stroked her cheek. "Present yourself."

As she went to lie face down, she knocked the trifle bowl on its side and the creamy sponge spread like lava over the table. I pressed my hands against on her back, mashing her tiny tits into the sticky mess.

She whimpered. “Feels so sensual on my skin.” Her dainty hands gripped her arsecheeks and peeled them apart. She stepped wider, her glistening pussy ungluing was ever so inviting.

Digging deep into her, my scissoring knuckles stretched her velvet walls. I slithered them free and licked the digits clean. "Mmmm. I can taste the need."

She wiggled that peachy derriere of hers. “You have good taste. Fill me, stretch me, ruin me. Pretty please.”

I shuffled in and grabbed the base of the jutting phallus. As I guided the thickness to her snatch and penetrated her widening channel, she howled approval.

When I forged inside, the ridges of the faux cock caught on her lips. She gasped, hands slapping the tabletop splattered mum’s trifle over both of us. Pausing, I focused on the cream sliding down my goose bumpy flesh. “You like that too, baby?”

“Oh fuck, yes. Molly’s magic.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

“Jesus. Just fuck me.”

A stinging slap on her tight little arse rung out. She knew. “Just fuck me, Miss.”

My nails traced up her spine and I grabbed a fistful of hair. Slowly withdrawing the Feeldoe, her head snapped back as I tugged on her scalp and impaled the thick toy deep in her saturated snatch.

Picking up the pace, I pounded her relentlessly. Each thrust pressed the pony end into my sensitive sex. Those same stretching thrusts had her mewing, ‘fuck fuck,’ under her breath.

Tugging her hair, altering the angle of entry I slammed the horse into her sopping cunt with a force that moved the plates on the wooden table. Each stab of my hips sent tremors rocketing through my cunt, as I drove myself to the precipice of orgasm.

“Kitten likes it rough.” A statement more than a question.

“Yeah, fuck yes,” she panted.

“Going to come with me?”

She nodded and I surprised her, mashing her face into a pavlova topped with cream and summer berries. Tugging her face from the Eton mess, she howled as I impaled the toy deeper in her needy cunt and monster orgasms claimed us both.

Panting, the aftershocks rippled as I rolled her over and tenderly licked her creamy lips. The kisses turned sensual, playful, and we giggled as the toy slithered free, squelching. As I helped her to her feet globules of cream slid down her body. She smirked, mischief was afoot. Bending over, she lapped our essences off the sticky faux cock before sliding her tongue into my mouth. The kiss was a feast of sensuous, sweet swirling tongues. At the end she reached for the pavlova mess and smeared it on my full tits.

Giggling we watched it slide down my body until the slamming door startled us. But not as much as my brother when he appeared outside, screaming, “What the fuck?”

Pretty obvious what was the fuck. My Feeldoe was smeared with a glistening mixture of Grunge-Waif and his sister’s cum gush. Our taut bodies were smeared in his mother’s creamy meringue pavlova and sponge trifle.

“Like father, like daughter; fucking faux hypocrites,” he screamed, focusing his iPhone on us.

“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Grunge-Waif yelled. But it was already too late.

“Let’s see what the public thinks,” my arsehole of a brother snarled. Our phones pinged with an incoming TikTok titled, Faux Family Values?

The consensus didn’t take long to emerge.

Faux News issued a press statement. Apparently, I had laryngitis and was sadly unable to host the Sydney New Year’s Eve fireworks spectacular.

And Karen O’Reilly would step into the breach. I bet she would, the tart. Outrageous. Unfair. Humiliating. Karen from fucking accounts was living proof that you can get ahead by giving head. She’d never met a Faux executive she wouldn’t fuck.  

The phone pinged again. Fuck, I’d forgotten Mum had included Gran in the family’s WhatsApp group. You live by the sword, you die by the sword, dear.

Grunge-Waif was reading my fall from media star to tomorrow’s cautionary tale over my shoulder, commiserating, when UnFairfacts tossed their two cents worth into the ring. Trapped by their uber-wokeness they couldn't possibly be seen to have a go at me for being a woman or gay.

But they smelt Faux blood in the water, so just had to piled in:

Faux star desecrates pavlova in un-Australian Christmas outrage.

Jesus fucking Christ. A new low in press stupidity.

It had been the best of times; it had been the worst of times. It had been hosting my first Christmas Eve television spectacular; it had been my rellies’ Christmas Day shit show. It had been Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, gold standard families, oi, oi, oi; it had been a public debasement of that currency, bah humbug rules, okay!