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| An Ax-cellent gift!...Yeah, i'm good |
I'm not one of those miserablist fucks who seem to gain a self satisfied pleasure by boasting about how much they hate Christmas. These are the worst types of people and are probably the same ones who feel superior by saying that The Beatles are 'overrated' and think they're ever so clever by referring to people as 'sheeple', the tiny minded little pigfuckers that they are. However nor am I someone who dances around merrily, waving mistletoe in their hands and bursting into song every few minutes and who laughs and claps when that goddamn Coke christmas advert comes on. 'Now it's Christmas' they'll laughingly proclaim, until I smash a Pepsi bottle into their face. No it's not you drooling epitome of consumer culture. Stop being attracted to the shiny lights of marketing you pathetic demographic, I hope your teeth rot and you choke on them. God I despise the Lowest Common Denominator, even more so when I see reflections of myself in it. There's nothing worse than seeing hints of your own, miserable inferiority. Anyway, I digress…I do enjoy Christmas, but mainly just the actual day. Gifts around the tree, food and drink and pulling crackers, it's a nice day and I feel happy at the end of it. All of the huge, pressure filled build up though, that's too much for me.
Christmas in an office environment is always a strange experience. Offices are weird enough as it is, as I've mentioned in several, annoyingly similar blog posts in the past, but at Christmas it goes into overdrive. The office is soon bedecked by bedraggled looking christmas decorations, dragged out of storage in the basement where the mice have been having festive themed shits for the past 11 months. Tinsel covers my desk 'wall', lights drape across the window and streamers hang from the ceiling, where they inevitably fall down twice a day and suddenly make everything look bleak and unloved. Just before Christmas a row of desks decided to hold a little in office 'party'. They brought in those sausage rolls that are filled with pasty, tasteless reformed meat and rusk, and there was cake and doughnuts and christmas music (Oh joy!) and all the usual crap.They all put on cheerful christmas hats and reindeer antlers and had a merry little lunch break. Of course afterwards they went back to work, but they kept wearing their cheerful christmas hats and reindeer antlers because, oh gosh, it's Christmas. I have nothing against that, I've been known to enjoy a novelty hat, but it's still strangely disturbing to see a middle aged man wearing flashing reindeer antlers as he screams profanity down the phone at some hapless colleague who hasn't filed a report. It's like a Ray Winstone Christmas, before he turned into the cuddly type he is now.
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| Eat your fucking sprouts |
If you walk around any major shopping centre (or mall if you insist on being American) at Christmas and it will usually have, pride of place in the centre, some sort of 'Santa's Grotto', where rosy cheeked children are ushered breathlessly inside to meet with a kindly and twinkly eyed Father Christmas, who with a loving hug and a good natured chuckle will ask about the child's Christmas wishes and make vague but well meaning promises, and usher the child out with a photograph and a small present. The magic and sense of wonder will fill the child with a real sense of the uniqueness of the occasion and no doubt they will sleep well that night. Of course, as ever, the reality is a horrible mockery of what should be a special occasion. The winter wonderland that has been set up in whatever gum strewn spare space they have usually looks like a nightmarish acid trip populated with bastardised rip offs from the Chucky films. As you approach the grotto (often made out like some snow strewn cottage) you'll see an army of dead eyed animatronic elves, listlessly repeating the same jerking motions back and forth, with no discernible aim. As if cursed by a terrible God they stand frozen to the spot, slowly waving their arms in an attempt to gain your attention, and they would no doubt be screaming if their tongues hadn't been ripped out by vengeful harpies. A few of them are inevitably broken and can only be assumed by the terror filled child to be dead, worked to an early grave by the terrible master that lies within. The child then waits in a queue, all the time watching nervously the nearest elf for signs of life, when suddenly some spotty and bored teenager, also done out like an elf but inexplicably twice the size of the robot ones, looms out and ushers them inside the doom cottage of snow. When inside though surely all will be well, with the kind and all loving embrace of Father Christmas.
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| Come and give Santa a hugsy |
But it's not like that anymore. Thanks to everyone assuming that everyone else is some greasy faced paedophile and that they cannot wait to fuck their ugly little children, there is no reassuring sitting on the lap anymore, lest a thousand questing penises thrust up. The child is simply presented to the man (or 16 year old boy who pulled the short straw as is often the case) who mutters a ho, ho, ho, chucks them a badly wrapped toy of miserable cheapness and has a quick photograph taken (whilst maintaining a non-child touching distance) of the no doubt screaming child, by another teenage elf who then kicks them out to keep the money making procession continuing. The entire thing is a cheap and shitty farce and probably raises all sorts of questions as to why the fake bearded figure they peered at through the gloom seems so different to the magical, laughing and flying Father Christmas they know and love so dearly from terrible american films.
Anyway, i hope you all had a nice Christmas
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