So the festive season is upon us once more. Time for Santa, the nation’s favorite fat bastard, to invade our homes with his jolly red cheeks and a passion for children that, if you saw in anyone else, you’d be straight on the phone to the local police force.
Nevertheless, it’s that time of year. Maybe I’m weird, but I don’t enjoy Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy Turkey as much as the next guy, and I do enjoy people spending copious amounts of money on me. (By copious amounts of money I mean whatever it costs to walk into the local petrol station and buy a box of Maltesers..) But that doesn’t make up for it. You see, that’s my point: when you strip away the commercial aspect of it, all I have is a dysfunctional family meeting over a dinner table once a year, because there’s fuck all else to do when the shops are closed. You must know how awkward it is to watch your grandfather drink one too many glasses of wine and swearing at the television screen. Which isn’t even on. Or looking into your mother’s eyes, and getting the sneaking suspicion that the antibacterial floor wipes you got her just weren’t enough. Especially so when she maxed her credit card buying you a designer pair of chinos and a matching shirt. Well, it’s not your fault you’re so fucking cool.
Actually, maybe its the food that puts me off. Receiving a plate of food should never make you have a flashback and, for just a fleeting moment, make you think you’re Oliver fucking Twist getting handed a plate of slurry by the bastard overlord.
Or maybe that’s what Christmas is all about.