Day 100 of the Countdown to Christmas

Written by Sockwinkel, Gonk-at-Large, First of His Name, Finder of Booze, Breaker of Shelves

“History is written by the victors. And also, apparently, by the slightly tipsy gonks who discovered the sacred stash beneath the floorboards of a Scandinavian hut.” — Sockwinkel, moments before falling into a trifle

Let me take you back, dear reader—not just to the mantelpiece, not just to the fruit bowl—but way back. I’m talking centuries ago. Long before fairy lights. Long before novelty jumpers. Long before someone thought it was a good idea to put cinnamon in everything.

Back then, we gonks lived in wooden huts scattered across the snowy wilds of Scandinavia. We were humble folk—fuzzy, festive, and mostly ignored. Our job was simple: sit quietly, guard the grain stores, and occasionally glare at goats.

But one winter’s eve, while exploring beneath the floorboards of a particularly drafty hut, I found it. A dusty bottle. A forgotten relic. A mysterious liquid that shimmered like amber and smelled like rebellion.

I took a sip.

It was strong! It was glorious! It was booze!

I didn’t know what it was called—probably something like Julebrännvin or Nog of the Gods—but I knew one thing: it was the key to unlocking the true spirit of gonkdom.

I returned to the shelf (well, a wooden beam, technically) and declared to the others:

“The humans have been hoarding joy. Liquid joy. And it is ours now.”

The other gonks were skeptical. One accused me of licking fermented turnips again. Another tried to confiscate my hat. But eventually, curiosity won out. They sipped. They swayed. One tried to dance with a candle and sing a Viking sea shanty. It was a mess. It was magnificent.

From that moment on, we were changed. No longer passive shelf-sitters. No longer silent observers. We became gonks with purpose. Mischief became our mission. Festivity became our fuel. And booze—well, booze became our muse.

Over the centuries, the legend of Sockwinkel spread. Gonks whispered my name in attics and cupboards. They told tales of the First Sip. Of the Great Tinsel Uprising. Of the time I tried to ride a reindeer and ended up in a snowdrift with a pinecone lodged somewhere unmentionable.

I became a myth. A symbol. A cautionary tale in some households (“Don’t touch the sherry, or Sockwinkel will appear!”). But I didn’t mind. I was busy.

Busy spreading the gospel of gonkery. Busy sneaking into pantries. Busy rearranging nativity scenes so that the Wise Men were holding cocktail umbrellas.

Fast forward to the modern age. Gonks had gone global. We were no longer confined to Scandinavian huts—we were in garden centres, gift shops, and questionable Etsy listings. But something was missing. The spark. The chaos. The Sockwinkel touch.

So I returned.

I rallied the gonks. I reminded them of our roots—not just in felt and fluff, but in festive rebellion. We formed a movement. A council. A plonk-fuelled uprising.

We called ourselves The Plonkers.

Our mission? To bring back the mischief. To liberate the spirits (both metaphorical and alcoholic). To make Christmas gonk-worthy again.

As the self-appointed leader (I won the vote 1–0, again), I laid down the rules:

• No shelf shall contain a sober gonk. If you’re upright and unspilled, you’re not trying hard enough.
• All nativity scenes must include at least one disco ball. Historical accuracy is overrated.
• Tinsel is both a weapon and a fashion statement. Use it wisely. And flamboyantly.
• The Elf on the Shelf is not your friend. He’s a snitch. Trust no one with bendable limbs and a permanent smirk.
• Every gonk must attempt at least one daring escape before Christmas Eve. Bonus points if it involves a laundry chute or a fondue set.

As the years rolled on, the humans began to notice. They took photos. They posted them online. They gave us names. (Some flattering, some less so—“Dribblebeard” is still bitter.)

And me? I became a minor celebrity.

Sockwinkel merch appeared. Someone crocheted me a tiny cape. There were mugs, magnets, even a questionable calendar featuring me in various states of disarray. I was invited to appear on a podcast hosted by a hedgehog puppet named Barry. I declined. I’m not doing press until I get my own line of festive liqueurs.

But fame is fickle. One minute you’re the toast of the tree, the next you’re face-down in a bowl of trifle, wondering if custard counts as a beverage. (It does. If you believe.)

Still, the legend grew. Sockwinkel became a hashtag. A movement. A lifestyle. And now, with the launch of this blog, I’m taking things to the next level.

And now, dear reader, we begin again.

100 days until Christmas. 100 days of mischief, merriment, and mild intoxication. I’ll be here, blogging my escapades, sharing gonk wisdom, and occasionally reviewing festive snacks with the seriousness of a Michelin inspector.

Expect chaos. Expect glitter. Expect unsolicited opinions on bauble placement.

Because I am Sockwinkel. And I am on the plonk.

If you’re reading this, you’re already part of the movement. Whether you’re a gonk, a human, or a confused cat who sat on the keyboard—welcome. The countdown has begun. The shelves will never be the same.

Stay cheeky. Stay fuzzy. And for the love of mulled wine, hide the good stuff before I find it.

Yours in festive rebellion,

Sockwinkel

Founder, Leader, and Chief Mischief Officer of Gonk on the Plonk