It's 5.30pm on Christmas Eve Eve. I'm sitting here in the snowflake pyjamas that haven't been removed since I drunkenly donned them at 3.30am, and my fingernails have turned inexplicably blue. Earlier I found a house brick recumbent in the fridge next to a tub of olives when all I really wanted was some bacon. I have one of those hangovers where you spasm sporadically and can't quite see properly... either due to alcohol-induced blindness or the fact I was awake for 22 hours yesterday. Quite possibly both. Just now I went to the considerable effort of elevating my posterior from my chair in order to burn a calorie walking to fetch my pizza. En route I stood bare-foot in a cold, inconsiderately situated puddle which I suspect to be dog piss. You know those days where you wonder why you bothered getting out of bed? This is one of those. Kindly refrain from making too much noise, and in return I shall refrain from throwing the nearest blunt object to hand at your face. Needless to say, I'm not feeling festive.
|Who ate all the pies? Not me....Well, yes me.|
I'm still trying to work out what Christmas means to me. I'm not from a religious family, yet year on year we still celebrate Christmas. Retaining tradition I suppose. I put considerable thought into Christmas presents this year, not buying things for the sake of it, but getting personalised gifts that I think will be useful and appreciated. Christmas, for me, is my Dad and me going to choose the tree every year. From the age of 11-17, it was singing four services between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, SOBER. It's eating until you feel sick, then moving on to Christmas pudding before watching the Christmas specials on telly. It's guests constantly sitting where you want to sit or hypocritically complaining about your pets getting in the way. It's the obligatory satsuma in my stocking that Father Christmas has subtly obtained from the fruit bowl. It's Dad blaspheming creatively at the turkey. It's the complete lack of snow, while it instead drizzles depressingly outside. It's the way most of the population forget about Baby Jesus because shit's going down on the Eastenders Chrimbo Speshal.
|Merry? Ain't nobody got time for that.|
Why on earth do we wish one another a Merry Christmas? Christmas, in my experience, is not particularly merry. Why not, We Wish You a Stressful Christmas, or an Argumentative one? We Wish You a Demanding Pensioner-filled Christmas. What would really make my Christmas would be if everyone started their Christmas food shopping in October. And if slow, grumpy, trolley-wielding old people could sit inside their trollies and be propelled along by jet-packs or reindeer so that I'm not tempted to barge them out of the middle of the supermarket bread aisle with a Waitrose Grand-Mange baguette.
Nonetheless, I hope you all somehow have some merriness at Christmas - even if this is induced by a glass of wine. And by glass, I mean a pint. And by wine, I mean sherry. I hope that the ever younger disbelieving children remember the important guy without whom Christmas wouldn't be the same. That's right Father Christmas, I'm talkin' to you. Try not to get breathalised. I'm off to change my name by deedpoll to Ebenezer Scrooge McGrinchpants, and hopefully I'll be visited by three ghosts in the night. Ho bloody Ho.