Thursday, December 15, 2005
Merry Xmas Everybody
Right, I've kept this inside for far far too long. Sod Christmas. I hate it. Fucking Christmas. It can sod off. I'm sick of it already! I'm too tired. Give me a fucking break. Christmas is cancelled in the Bandito bunker. End of. Full stop.
"But why, oh gentle Del?" I hear you cry, "Christmas is a time of goodwill to all men!"
Is it bollocks. Christmas is a pain in the arse. I am tired. Really tired. I have mountains of work piling up because of the years end. But I have a mountain of parties to attend, and because I have no self control, I feel obliged to get drunk at all of them. This is very tiring and expensive. There's also the horrid shadow of forced jollity, often bringing together people who wouldn't otherwise socialise with each other. All to the accompaniment of terrible music. This is BAD.
I was going to do my Christmas cards tonight, but I'm too tired to face it. And now I'm out of time, with barely a moment to myself before Monday evening. And it's just terrible ritual of chicken. Who can send the card the latest? And if I don't send one... Potential disaster. Friendship over! Luckily, I'm not female, so I'll be largely forgiven because, as the adverts have taught us, men are incapable of organsing anything. This is of course rubbish. We're just lazy. But the moment we knew we could get away with it under the smokescreen of incompetence, we were right there. Now, most of the cards are to people I know and love, and it'll be quite fun. But what of those friends who dropped off the radar? In some cases, it's mutual uselessness, for which equal responsibility can be claimed. And those who I've moved on from...well, sending them a card would smack of hypocrisy. But then... those I've tried to keep in touch with, do they even deserve a card? I say, "NO!"
Carol singing, communicating with lost friends, getting together with the family, gaudy decorations, going to church drunk, putting on any kind of hat that involves red or tinsel, going shopping in Central London. All bad bad ideas that would have you hauled to the nuthouse any other time of year. I nip to HMV on Oxford St to get a record, and it's full of Johnny Comelately's. Where were you in June? And of course the shop assistants are more than happy to help. Sell outs. You all make me SICK.
I have no decorations up. I won't be putting any up. I will be going home on Christmas Eve, and that's when I'll start decorating. I'll be back here by my birthday on the 27th. A birthday that for 25 years has been overshadowed by the festival of saint commerce. I must state that I have no quarrel with Mr Jesus. He sounds like a top bloke. Not too sure about his politics, but hey, you'd invite him along to any party. I just don't see all that much Christian love in the puking secretary on Tottenham Court Road, the screaming child after an XBox 360 or Noel Edmonds. I'd be happy with the time off, some peace and quiet, a nice turkey lunch, and a few cheeky beers. Everything else is just bollocks.
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