Without wishing to get bogged down into that whole ‘summarising 2011’ in the various realms of business, politics, music, film etc (I’d much rather leave that to the comprehensive editorial that is The Economist or y’know better news/blog sites), I have noticed that the annual reviews seem to have arrived earlier this year. This in itself reminds me of a recent twitter gag I read; “The people who moan about Christmas arriving earlier every year subsequently have to start moaning earlier every year” or something along those lines.
Recently I entered an Absolute Radio Christmas competition to win a new laptop. All you had to do was write an unusual Christmastime tradition in 50 words:
“Our family Christmas tradition is…Father usually bastes himself in chicken grease then lets the grandchildren roll him around the garden before nuts & seeds are deposited into his every facial orifice like a human bird-feeder until a Playful Robin craps on his head before we all sing some Cannibal Corpse around the piano X”
Now I know what you’re thinking right? That shouldn’t be allowed because there are only 49 words & a kiss. Why did I write this? Well, to relieve myself (wait for it) of the restless boredom that every aspect of Christmas brings…other than the company, decent grog & grub in that order (thanks ma).
Let’s start with the drink: NEVER drink after Christmas dinner as this is tantamount to assisted stomach suicide i.e. there simply isn’t room. This in turn means that you have to start drinking at around 11am or opening time if you’re a student/retired bachelor. You are therefore either pissed, stuffed or some ugly combination of the two with all the side effects & none of the benefits for the duration of the proceedings.
A glorious countryside walk followed by a pint of winter ale at your local (preferably of chestnut/dark appearance with ample malt & spicy aromas) is usually my personal highlight of the day. Raising that first toast aloft by the fireside bar & bumping into an old school buddy or neighbour should be savoured before the downward descent into becoming human foie gras whilst you endure your opinionated relatives’ prattling outdated views & fanciful notions. The cue-card read wittering of an imprisoned antique heirloom carted around the world to wave reservedly at our economy’s expense (HM Queenie) don’t help none neither.
Now onto the endless offerings of foodstuffs: Britain has a dodgy enough relationship with its eating habits & ideas of ethical/acceptable food sourcing the rest of the year anyway. The whole holiday affair is sooo stretched out wider than the Jolly Fat Man’s gastric band. Then just when you’re fully burped & digested it transpires that you need to throw an even bigger & more gluttonous New Year’s party but this time around with only a day or two in which to recover.
By this stage you’ve already missed a week by just sitting slumped with your intestines festering, constantly grazing on filling shavings of animal, cheeseboard or sugary sweet (so-called) treats. This last ‘Lost/Missing Week’ of the year should be acknowledged as such by the government (if they weren’t experiencing it themselves) as the least pro-active of every calendar year so tax & sick pay could be compensated for.
For reasons unknown, everything must be smothered or accompanied with spuds, egg(nog) or other heavy dairy substance and liquor. Ah sweet lady liquor; helps to ease the communal pain that all are feeling but to which none are allowed to admit.
A mate was telling me that when his dad was younger he joined a Santa school for training to acquire a job visiting residents of Lincoln door to door bringing Christmas cheer – talk about dream temp work. Now although I’m not so good enthusing strangers whilst stood on their freezing patios, I’d already be concerned that given the current climate & extra-squeezed living conditions they’d kick me in the spleen then deck my halls by punching my Christmas lights out. It seems jobs like that (from the first Simpsons Xmas episode) just don’t come along enough anymore.
To conclude: I received an email & according to Katie, one of the website editors of the RSPB, there’s naff-all chance of seeing turtle doves on the second day of Christmas this year. I mean if her organisation really cared about birds then surely they should’ve captured some inside overcrowded pens to mate forcibly after grossly overindulging without exercise only to be trundled out a fortnight later wondering how they ever balanced themselves merrily on high or sang so proudly & jubilant during the early season…JUST LIKE US.
Despite everything written above: MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!