Xmas is the single most protracted and undesirable time of the year. Nowadays, Xmas begins mid October and doesn’t finish until at least February. I can remember the days when Xmas started a week before the 25th, and then was long forgotton about by the time New Year came along. (Actually, I can’t - I’m not that old. But I know
that those days must have existed once.)
If you’re anything like me, you’ll be foolish enough to offer to do the entire family’s wrapping for them. Such a rare act of martyrdom doesn’t happen in many places, so naturally, my family seizes upon the chance to have someone else complete the arduous task of enveloping various trinkets in vibrant, gaudy wrapping paper and binding them with clear strips of plastic. I, in the past, have wrapped my own presents. That was interesting. This year, however, when I was asked to wrap a gift that was, in fact, for me
, I refused. Partially because I had spent hours the night before wrapping presents for a total of seven people, and also because the very idea of once more enclosing a gift in multi-coloured compressed tree only to rip up my hard work the very next day, was a prospect that appealed to me about as much as the notion of sticking my head in the oven (which is a pleasure I reserve only for the moment when the Eastenders Christmas special comes on).
I can only hope that Santa was nice to you this year. Last year, good old Santa gave me a debilitating illness, bless ‘im. However, this year, he pulled his elf-manufactured socks up, and he was rather good to me. I received some excellent books, and three scarves. I already have two scarves, so I now have a total of five. I mean, I know it’s cold, it’s winter for chrissakes, but come on.
Should anyone need a scarf, or several, please do let me know.
Xmas has always confused the crap out of me. For many reasons. Mainly, because of the things that we teach our poor human young to associate with this time of year.
We begin our sect-like teachings by first telling our children that a corpulent, bald, bearded man clad in red and white first lands on our roof via a bladed vehicle pulled by seven sentient flying antlered animals, and then embarks on the truly claustrophobic act of dropping down our chimney.
And after effectively breaking and entering, that he then proceeds to ingest the ritualistic offerings we lay out for him, despite the fact that the sheer amount of houses that he must visit and do this in, does therefore strongly indicate that he has Prader-Willi syndrome.
That he then sneaks around the house in a sinister fashion under the cover of darkness, depositing gifts (which were composed from manual labour accomplished by immortal midgets with pointed ears and curled boots) under a large, coniferous organism (which, by all rights, should never be inside a house in the first place), ritually adorned with burnished glass decorations, and carefully topped with a sentimental romanticised depiction of a huge ball of gas that happens found in our solar system (a star). And if not a star, then fairy, essentially a small synthetic representation of a female attired in pink fairy regalia that somehow, someway, ALWAYS manages to look like a transvestite.
Then, that despite clearly being morbidly obese
, he then has the athleticism and agility to climb up the smoke funnelling device once more, board his bladed vehicle, whip his damma steeds until they lift him up and away, to the next house. Not only this, but he is a man who likes to have small children sit on his knee.
What the fuck?
Does no one else not find this concept slightly…startling? And we teach it to our children like it’s the nicest, most warm and lovely concept in the entire world?
I’ve heard of Devil worshipping cults with more benign sounding rituals.
See? Christmas is weird. Humans are at their most impressionable when they are small children, we shouldn’t be telling them these things at such an early age. No wonder humans are all screwed up. And don’t even get me started on that goddamn Easter Bunny.
I’m not particularly large, but I don’t think that I would have the skills nor agility to climb up a bloody chimney, I don’t know how he does it.
And why does he ride on a sleigh despite the fact that we all know it never fucking snows anywhere near
Christmas day? Surely a hovercraft would be more practical, or even a helicopter or small plane?Why
does Santa give more presents to wealthy children than he does to poorer children? Is Santa a Capitalist?
And what truly heinous
experiments did he perform on the poor deer slaves to make them fly? Whatever they were, the side effects were horrendous, one of them as an LED stuck to his face where his nose should be. That’s just not normal.
No wonder the other reindeer laughed and called him names. No wonder they wouldn’t let him join in any of the reindeer games. Would you play charades with a levitating doleful-looking being with a light-emitting diode in the middle of their face? Fuck no; I’d call the Men in Black.
And finally: Why, why, oh why
would millions of parents go to all the effort of engaging in the worldwide oft violent fracas that is Christmas shopping, spending their hard earned cash on obscenely priced presents, painfully and carefully adorning them with ostentatious decor (all to a rigid, overbearing, and portentous deadline) only to promptly give all the credit to some fat stranger whom no one knows??
Christmas is weird.
Now for the boring part:Currently reading –
The Monk. (University Text) By: No One of Any Particular Relevance (aka – ‘I forgot’). Apparantly, a book that was both banned and censored, and has only recently been re-released in all it’s scandalous, blasphemous, depraved, incestuous, psychological, torture-adulating, power-abusing, sorcery-worshipping, gothic glory. Excellent! Sounds good, right?
You could have fooled me, I have started it three times and have so far failed to transcend past the first twelve pages. I’ve met yoghurt pots with more risqué content. Le Sigh.Currently listening to -
V Hardcore 2007. By: Three Dozen DJs with dreadfully poncey names, ranging from the truly grammatically horrific ‘Masif DJ’s.’ to the somewhat.elongated ‘Billy ‘Daniel’ Bunter & John Doe & CLSM Feat. Faye Hendry’. What? I like trance music, and I refuse accept the correlating inherent stereotypes that accompany said preference. It’s like that old Chinese proverb; “The tiger may lie down with two cubs under a cloudy night, and inane obtuse repetitive thudding bass noises intermingled with electronic blippy noises concluded with the occasional maudlin lyric reiterated at a continual and calculated frequency, will lead the way to true happiness.”
So there.Currently Drawing -
Werewolves, occasionally interspersed with Andalites.
Currently making: Unicorns with chains through their faces, interspersed with Eagles painted in Crystal Palace colours. No, really.Currently watching -
My Name is Earl.Currently feeling -
Thank fuck Xmas is over. Bah humbug, one and all.
In the past month I have learned - That the smell of your own burning flesh is both intriguing and repellent.
That you can never have too many scarves.
That it’s a lot harder to get a hairdresser’s appointment than a doctor’s appointment, despite the fact that people get sick every day but only need their hair cut every six months.
That ‘The Anarchist’s Cookbook’ is not actually about food.
That getting stuck to the Christmas wreath by your hair is even less funny the fourth time as it was the first three times.
That the term ‘Plug and Play’ is really not at all as simple as it sounds.
That being able to get something out
does not necessarily mean that you can get it back in
That if the eight month old wants to eat your trousers, then neither the strength of a dozen wild horses nor Divine Intervention will stop her.
That semi-dropping a suitcase full of books on one’s toe makes one swear like an inebriated Irish-woman. (Is there any other kind? (Boom boom!) Oh! I went there.)
That putting brackets inside brackets is pretentious and unnecessary.
And finally, that toasters sometimes spit blue sparks at you, but it’s really nothing personal.