'Tis the season...

To be jolly, apparently. I'm not too sure when it was decided that the season began in the second week of October, or quite who it is that has the authority to determine the start of the season, but nether the less, we are now in the season. I have of course heard one or two people whinge "It'll soon be Christmas", but have previously dismissed these as the mumblings of sad old fuckers that quite literally have nothing else to look forward to moaning about. It was during my lunch today however, which on this occasion was 'enjoyed' in the finest of eateries, McDonalds, that I came to the realisation that it is, apparently, nearly Christmas, despite it still been October. This realisation was served in the form of been forced to suffer the same four Christmas songs played on repeat, curtsey of whoever it is at McDonalds HQ has the extremely important job of selecting the playlist for the chain of restaurants and gets to decide when they are played (perhaps this is the man that decides when Christmas starts!). After hearing the timeless sounds of Slade declare it's Christmas there really is little left to deny. God bless Noddy Holder, I hope he never dies. Not because I even remotely like the pork pie looking Brummie retard, but because upon his death, I will undoubtedly be forced to hear his gravelly trade mark rasping continuously for weeks on end. They might even manage to piss Cowell off and get a Christmas number 1 out of his rather selfish demise. This will have me resorting to inserting a 6 inch nail into each ear hole, and purposely allowing a lift door to close on my head, in an attempt to end the torture. Anyway, he's on my list of Celebrity Vampires so I'm sure I'll never have to get all melodramatic about it (I genuinely do have this list, I'm not making this up for comedic effect here, the list comprises entirely of celebrities that despite having the appearance of being constructed from cellotape then melted with a lighter and pubes hair sprinkled on top, refuse to kick the bucket. I present to you exhibit A: Bruce Forsyth. Ever seen him in daylight? It's because he's a sun fearing immortal, clearly).

I rest my case. Pervert Vampire.

I'd like to clarify at this stage, just to eliminate any incorrect assumptions, I do not hate Christmas. I actually quite like it, which seems to surprise most people, for some reason. I get the vague impression that some people think I'm grumpy. Just last week in fact, my friend (well, technically, my girlfriends friend, but despite our continued exchanges of sarcasm, I actually quite like this girl so I'm going to refer to her as "my friend". This way I appear to have more friends than I actually do, so everyone's a winner… apart from the girl in question, perhaps) said, and I quote "You strike me as a miserable old man". Charming. Now couple this with my blatant hatred of anyone under the age of 21 years and my absolute fear of anyone under the age of 21 months, I can see why people jump to the conclusion that I may be very against the public celebration of our Lords birthday (I almost said that without sounding sarcastic didn't I?), but again, just to clarify, I'm not. Thoughtful presents, less thoughtful (but equally appreciated) money in cards, time off from work, festive massacring of escaping British prisoners of war on telly? What's not to like!?

I find that generally society is far more tolerant and nicer to each other around Christmas as there is definitely a festive spirit in the air, so long as you don't wish to breath this air whilst trying to walk anywhere / stand anywhere / queue for anything. In the interest of preserving this possibly imagined perception of festive cheer, I try to avoid the aforementioned as much as is possible, as well as reading the news about how local burglaries have taken a sharp rise this year, speaking to the neighbours about the stolen goods they have bought and how "if I'm after anything they'll sort me out", and most of all opening the front door to the groups of carol singers - and of course by carol singers I do mean gangs of hooded teenage chavs braying the crap out of my door at 10:00pm who then proceed to mutter the only line of Away in a Manger they can remember whilst trying to sneak a peak of how big my telly is or if there any decent size boxes under my Christmas tree, all for the reasonable sum of a fiver. Or the offer of a beating with the fat end of a pool cue which I rather handily keep behind my front door for such occasions, whichever.

Unfortunately the determining of the start of the season has not yet spread to my place of work, as I found out when informing my college of the soundtrack to my lunchtime and being overheard by other colleagues. The witches corner took this news as an opportunity to break out into tandem moaning (I should point out that these are the same sad old fuckers I mentioned earlier on) - which to my surprise was not about how everywhere is really busy, the fuss, or how much it all costs, but the overwhelming abundance of food. Long ago in my very first blog I promised to never write about work, and I'm not, but I am about to write about a colleague, who for fear of incriminating myself or setting myself up for an industrial bullying claim I'll refer only to as Kath. Now Kath is a self proclaimed health freak who feels the need to question everyone as to how many calories are in whatever they are seen eating with a look of judgment on her sagging face, and lives solely on a diet of dry brown toast, bananas, and cups of warm water. The warm water thing puzzled me, so I googled it - turns out warm water is a natural laxative. Lovely. Despite Kath's "healthy" diet, and contrary to her self belief, she looks like shit. Actually I take that back, at least shit has substance. She looks like what I imagine Skeletor would look like if he had an eating disorder, wore foundation, and underneath that hood had the hair of Worzel Gummage. No doubt my announcing of the commence of the season has set Kath into worrying that she may be pressured into eating a sprout on Christmas day. She disappeared for a while after she'd finished fretting about people bringing in mince pies to share around. Probably to worship Armitage Shanks after going crazy with the toast that day. I don't know how I keep this festive cheer up sometimes.

Christmas does for me determine a definite use of having a girlfriend. That came out wrong, I'm not saying my girlfriend is useless, just that as a fully grown man, her main use will prove itself at Christmas. Oh for gods sake, that came out even worse than the first time! Fuck it, it's staying. Remembering that my mum reads this crap, I'll choose my words carefully here, in fact, I'll exclude her all together from this next statement [note; mum - this does not include you]. You see, the thing is and I'm sure you'll agree, as an adult, Christmas morning sucks. If it wasn't for having a significant other, I'm pretty sure I'd have the equivalent of bugger all to open on Christmas morning. In fact I'd have worse than bugger all, I'd have what I do have; completely useless presents which have been purchased without an ounce of thought other than "must get him something / anything". I'm not talking about generic gifts like socks, for the want and joy of socks, at least I'd wear those! I'm talking about the kind of gift that will definitely be resigned to the cupboard of crap, a specific spot reserved for various useless items acquired over the years. Example - last year, after presenting my father with a jumper which I'd very carefully and rather thoughtfully purchased for him from George no less, he issued me with my present, wrapped in actual wrapping paper and everything, as opposed to being left in the carrier bag complete with receipt. I could tell from the size and weight this was a DVD box set of some description. Before I was able to even begin to get any hopes up it that it might be something I'd actually appreciate, he stated "I don't know if you're into 'owt like that" whilst I was still in the process of unwrapping it, begging the thought "why the hell did you think of buying it for me then?". This is the worst bit of Christmas, having to convincingly pretend to be grateful whilst clutching a DVD box set of The Alien Files, and sporting an insincere smile / grimace that resembles the face pulled by my mates when they insist on risking a hernia and forcing out a fart for 'entertainment' purposes. Actually, the worst bit is finding somewhere to stash something I'm blatantly never going to watch (it's a documentary series following the "adventures" of a group of amateur UFO spotters, in case you were wondering), as I can't throw it away, it was present after all. It can go in the same place as my remote control sumo wrestlers from the previous year. Having a girlfriend will at least ensure that I have something to open which I actually want, as no doubt I'll think what this is any day now and hint / tell her constantly between now and the big day. I'm not completely selfish; I'll obviously buy whatever she tells me to buy for her!

I suppose all this somewhat premature talk of festivities is my own fault really, I brought it on myself no doubt for having a Christmas pudding that I spotted hiding on top of the cupboard for tea. Yes "for" tea. Well, I had some custard that was going out of date. Waste not want not, and all that. Again, it's not that I don’t like Christmas (reiterated for those that my be missing the point here) it's just that I don't like thinking about Christmas as early as October, especially when there are other events that come before it on the calendar such as Hallowe'en (complete with appropriate apostrophe to satisfy the grammar Gestapo), the annual celebration of a foiled terrorist burned at the stake (one for the kids, that), and more importantly, my own birthday, which comes before Jesus' every year but for some reason is not celebrated to the same degree.

Well, the playlist at McDonalds says it's so, so I guess it's so, even if it is still 10 whole weeks away. So let me be the first so say to you all, Merry Christmas, fuckers. Oh, and by the way, a little while ago I read something of interest that I thought I'd share with you; statically, you're more likely to have an accident in your own home than anywhere else, and the odds shoot through the roof on Christmas day. Interestingly, the most common cause of injuries treated at A+E is not through mum's insisting on using a steak knife as a screwdriver to fit batteries to a kids toy and inadvertently impaling their palm, or even gung-ho dad's lopping off a digit whilst hazardously carving the turkey tanked up on brandy to try and make the day more bearable. No, the most common injury on Christmas day is children with broken limbs from falling down the stairs whilst wearing novelty slippers. Tra-la-la-la-laa, la-la-la-laa.



PS: Sorry dad, if by some unfortunate miracle and much to my embarrassment you've found and read this, but can we stick to socks this year please. Or a BigTrak! Or a BMX!! Or a Skalextrix!!! So, socks then.