Holly Daze

So it’s f*cking Christmas again. Jolly f*cking ho-ho-ho arsing Christmas. Every year is the same ritual. I swear that THIS time I will absolutely veto the cynical-commercialized-such-a-swell-time-chocolate-rush-inducing-catalytic-tv-gazing-spirit-numbing-reindeer-jumper-wearing-uncle-farting farce that is the season to be f*cking jolly. But sure as buggery I will be drowning in the herds of last minute shoppers on Oxford Street on Christmas Eve, desperately trying to delude myself into thinking that the Beano annual 1974 is the IDEAL gift for my blind aunty. Well not this time. This time I’m gonna resist any softening in the heart, and scoff at the little choir boy’s puberty-tinged rendition of ‘Little Drummer Boy”. This time I’m gonna give nothing and refuse all gifts with an arrogant shrug. This time I’m just going to listen to Avant-Garde Jazz, eat sushi, burn my old decorations, declutter and wear Hawaiin shirts. I will jog through the Queen’s speech and not smile at any children. I will cut across anyone who attempts to wish me a Merry Christmas with a loud, slow lecture about jam. This time I will be immune to the tiniest drop of Christmas spirit.

Ooh look! some twinkly lights…

P.s. Merry Christmas, I love it really.


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