As both of the readers of this blog will testify, I am quite a miserable bastard and what better time of the year for the miserable bastard to be inundated with opportunities to complain about something than Christmas.
If it isn’t young, but possibly not naive girls from Manchester being roasted over an open fire or more probably in front of an open fire but under a group of Manchester united players then it’s the guaranteed plethora of absolute shit on television on all the channels, without exception.
This is also the time of year when Cliff Richard sings his cheery festive ditty about mistletoe and wine with children singing Christian rhyme. But it does make me wonder where the fuck Cliff Richard lives because you can be sure it isn't South Wales.
I was visited today by three ghosts… no, wait that’s a film isn’t it? I mean two young men from the Mormon faith who apparently have nothing better to do than to walk around, sticking out like proverbial sore thumbs and converting, or attempting to persuade people to join their faith. I was waiting from a friend to arrive when they knocked the door and as I’m not afraid to speak about religion I decided to speak to them for the five minutes I had to spare
(indeed when I’ve had a few beers I court the taboo topics of religion and politics. Maybe that’s why I sometimes get into trouble!). Twenty minutes later my friend had not arrived, the Mormons and I by had by that time covered the basics, where they were from (Finland and Colorado) and what I thought about Christmas. They seemed pleased to hear that I was not in favour of the ridiculous commercialisation that goes on and that it should be a time for families. I did however seem to have a prefix to most of my sentences which enlightened them as to my position on religion, it was "I’m not a religious person but…"
Anyway after 32 minutes of talking, me denying a request for them to come into my house to sit through a DVD about the Mormon church and them giving me a copy of their book ‘The book of Mormon’ my friend arrived and I was rescued (I did enjoy talking to them for a little while but it does get very boring when you reach a point where they just spout religion at you).
Whilst there is no fear of me being converted to Mormonism (although the practice of plural marriage is something to be considered) we did discuss some interesting points about Christmas including me teaching them something! The vision of the jolly old man in the red and white suit was in fact a creation of the Coca cola Company (the red and white suit that is).
Christmas has changed since I was a kid, or at least that is how it appears. It is now a time when we, as a nation stuff our already fat faces with sub standard supermarket shit that we wouldn’t normally buy or even eat. The stock response when asked about the seasonal eating habits is always the same, "its Christmas isn’t it!" and it truly is, every f’ing where.
I have just returned from a supermarket where I foolishly thought I could pop in and buy a bottle of wine (I know, tosser) and a bottle of beer (have I redeemed myself?) to watch a football match and I sear to God (not specifically the Mormon god, any god) it was the last time I will ever enter a supermarket and not just at Christmas either, ever, I hate them.
They always seem to be full when I want to go, especially at Christmas , of greedy bastards who fill both of their trolleys to tipping point with seasonal ‘treats’ to gorge themselves on whilst sitting (always sitting) in front of the TV watching the latest offerings from the special Christmas schedule.
These trolleys are laden with fizzy drinks, crisps, sweets, cakes and all sorts of heart attack inducing foods as well as the obligatory several cases of lager. The remainder of the trolley is filled with seasonal treats that these people have never eaten and probably wont eat this year or any other year, things like Stilton ( oh no, it’s got mold in it) and sherry (It’s Christmas isn’t it!).
These slugs waddle around, propped up by their wheeled food troughs, indiscriminately clawing things from the shelves like one of Dale Winton’s supermarket sweepers only in slow motion.
Whatever happened to quality over quantity? Why has it never occurred to me that at a time of year when the shops are closed for an absolute maximum of 2 days I should stockpile enough food to feed an African village for a month? Is there something wrong with me?
If these Christmas behemoths want to pile on blubber for the winter then so be it, it’s not my job to save them from themselves (although it is everyone’s taxes that pay for them to have their stomachs stapled!). It’s when they turn a 5 minute jaunt into a supermarket to grab a few things into an hour long battle to pay for my single bottle of wine or beer that really winds me up. They move with sloth like speed in their own little worlds, hell bent on cramming up the aisles and making escape impossible. When I finally do get out and one of the greeters says something festively sickening like have a nice day or merry Christmas I feel the need to run through my response in my head first in order to avoid the same fate that befell the escapees from the POW camp in ‘The Great Escape’ as they get onto the bus, as if they might hurl me back into the aisles with the rest of the fat Christmas turkeys when they realise I'm not one of their Christmas automata.
Christmas is just an excuse for spendthrift, over indulgent, hypocrites to spend beyond their means, get into debt and complain in January that they have no money and are overweight.
My new years resolution may well be to never darken the door of the UK at this most grotesque and commercial time of year again, a promise I don’t think I will have a problem keeping.
A lovely label cloud
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