Tony and me are off to the pub, to celebrate the fact that my fat friend has managed to get himself a job.
Okay - the job in question is hardly going to make him rich, but as the boy rightly says, with the festive season approaching quicker than a very fast train, and our financial situation worse than usual, any money we can get our hands on right now will help pay for our end-of-year party.
So, for a few hours a day, right up to the twenty-fourth of December, Tony will take his place in a downmarket department store, not a million miles from here, where disguised as Father Christmas, he will welcome small children into his grotto, ask them what they want for Christmas, and help keep the magic of yuletide alive, for the younger generation, here in south-east London.
Of course, being naturally fat, Tony doesn't need to worry about wearing the padded costume supplied by his employers. He also reckons that with his natural gift of bringing joy to others, his love of children, and his warm and sincere personality, he says that it was only right that he got the job.
I can't see his latest career being a blazing success, because as we all know, Tony likes to spend most lunchtimes at the bar of our favourite pub, knocking back delicous pints of lager, smoking heavily, and swearing at anybody who annoys him. Also, his tolerance of small children, who he often refers to as "little bastards", is very limited.
Still, if he wants to end the year with what he likes to refer to as the mother of all parties, it's best if he gets on with the job, brings home some much-needed cash, and be nice for at least three hours a day, for the next three weeks.