On the 12th day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:An arrogant, parochial assumption that the following blog post is a justifiable parody of some wondrously shitty British attitudes towards the festive period, when really I’m writing about South-East of England prejudices and idiosyncrasies. Down here we’re far less friendly than the rest of the UK. Although liberal-minded enough to abhor racism, we’re Nazi-like in how regionalist we are. And worse of all, like I said, we erroneously believe that our failings are common to the rest of the UK. (Or maybe they are. You be the judges.)
On the 11th day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:Eleven charity cards. Costing ten times more than ordinary cards, but worth it because some of that goes to charity? No. Have you ever noticed how much? About 30p per pack. Not even 30p per card. You might as well buy cheap cards and just give 30p to charity. Or 40p. Or fuck it, why not a tenner and make all the charity card buyers look ridiculous in their smug do-good mistake of allowing themselves to be fisted by a card company that used the word CHARITY to sell you over-priced cards.
On the 10th day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:Ten Christmas programmes written by Richard Curtis. Now, in your heart you know that Christmas is also a tragic time. It polarises people’s emotions. While the lucky have families and feasts and presents, others have no one and nothing and feel that separation more acutely than at any other time of the year. And did you see what I did there? In the middle of a (hopefully) witty blog, I have disarmed you by the juxtaposition of this token mention of something SAD. Well, Richard Curtis does this all the fucking time. If I’m watching Love Actually or Vicar of Dibley, I don’t want my escapist enjoyment soiled by Curtis sneaking up on me and throwing in a random sad scene to make me feel guilty, the sanctimonious, twee, middle-class bastard.
On the 9th day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:Nine pantomime dames. As a veteran of numerous fatuous and frivolous festive performances at Radlett Theatre, I can honestly say that being a Dad at a Christmas panto is the loneliest place in the whole world. Notwithstanding the occasional sexy witch, the whole experience induces a manic desire to scratch at your eyeballs with holly and then impale your head, ear-first, onto a reindeer’s antler. That moment when a 50 year old transvestite with no social parameters notices that you’re the only one not stood up to join in the Macarena, feels like the moment of death itself.
On the 8th day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:Eight Christmas sales. There’s nothing quite like seeing all the presents you bought the week BEFORE Christmas on sale at half the price two days AFTER Christmas. Thankfully, the current economic climate has brought us sales before Christmas this year, thus eliminating the need to lie to family members about having “ordered your present a week ago but it still hasn’t come,” knowing full well it’s still in the shop getting its price tag changed as you speak.
On the 7th day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:The ITV premier of a film that came out seven years ago.
On the 6th day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:Six greedy people who have a birthday within a fortnight of Christmas Day. Just when you’ve written and posted off all your Christmas cards, and you’re literally sitting in the warm piss of your own satisfaction at how well-organised you are, you suddenly recall that you have to send BIRTHDAY cards as well. Each costing more than the £1.99 you paid for 30 Christmas cards and in some cases requiring an accompanying present; but your abused imagination has already been beaten lifeless with all the thinking needed to choose a Christmas present for these people. Bloody freaks. Have a birthday like the rest of us between February and November please!
On the 5th day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:Five Christmas cards for the neighbours. Three of which you never talk to. Two of which you can’t spell their names. And one of which, you’re not even sure which house they live in. You might have sent a 6th card, because you received one from “All at number 68” but as they can’t be arsed to write their fucking names (or yours), bollocks to them.
On the 4th day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:Four witty church signs. You know the type. Jesus is for life, not just for Christmas. Or some other such pun. Some effort by the church to show it is moving with the times. Give it a couple of years and they’ll be even more up to date with something like COME TO CHURCH AT CHRISTMAS FOR GUARANTEED CLUNGE.
On the 3rd day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:Three days of the bin-men not collecting any rubbish at the one time of year when you have three times more than normal. OK, OK, so they deserve a holiday as well, our “refuse technicians.” Lucky for them, they (and the postmen, speeding around like the A-Team in their vans) don’t ask for a “Christmas box” like they used to, because I’d fucking oblige... after they knocked a slab off the top of my front wall with the bin last year and left it there, the careless cunts.
On the 2nd day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:Two Christmas songs I find bearable out of about 200 that I keep having to listen to. My theory is that we all have our two. Mine are Fairytale of New York and Happy Xmas (War is over.) The rest are Jingle Hell. The one that sends me into a homicidal frenzy is not so much the song, but the video of Kim Wilde and Mel Smith singing Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. I want to take that tree and beat Mel Smith around his flabby fucking gurning face with it. And then do the same with a large rock, just to be totally in keeping with the song title.
On the 1st day of Christmas a bastard gave to me:All the money back that I spent on presents for people that they didn’t want, so I can spend it on things that I want, but which no one bought for me. I bet even Jesus thought that.
Merry Christmas.
No comments:
Post a Comment