A Tangled Web

Bah, humbug!



Earlier on today I noticed several shops in Halifax advertising Christmas goods - in August!! If the Christmas season starts much earlier, we'll all be starting our shopping on Boxing Day. However, I thought the gradual onset of Christmas would give me an opportunity to vent my opinions for you all on ATW.



I hate Christmas! It is the most overrated holiday in the history of the universe. It all starts in early autumn, when crackers and cheap tinsel appear on the shelves in Woolworth's. By October, it becomes impossible to go into any store without hearing interminable recordings of Glen Campbell's Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Brenda Lee's Rocking Around the Christmas Tree and, worst of all, Slade's raucous hit Merry Christmas Everybody. In November, the Yuletide 'kaufrausche' (shopping frenzy) begins: supermarket trolleys are loaded down with tons of roast spuds, stuffing, chipolatas, chestnuts, sprouts (which nobody likes), turkey (which nobody likes), plum puddings, legs of pork, dates, nutmeg, bags of carrots, biscuits galore, Swiss rolls, tins of cream, wine, whisky, rum, brandy, chocolates, etc, etc. Anybody would think most Christmas shoppers had just heard the four-minute warning!



After all the hype, Christmas Day finally arrives. It's usually raining when I wake up at approximately 6am (I am a long-term insomniac). Family relatives have already visited the day before - bestowing such useful gifts as tartan slippers, a Zorro cape, aftershave (which I'm allergic to - and have told them so 2 million times), endless buckets of fragrant soap which, on application, makes the body smell like a Parisian brothel, a book on a subject I usually find totally uninteresting, pairs of socks and a kitchen appliance. Most presents are re-wrapped to send on to relatives I don't like for their various birthdays and anniversaries.



After trawling through the morning television, an activity I recommend as punishment for deserters, I finally have to endure three hours of family contact for the annual Christmas 'pig-out'. This involves sitting around a table - feigning laughter and interesting conversation - before the customary cracker-pulling session begins. After donning stupid paper hats and marvelling at the cheap plastic phallus Auntie Dorothy has pulled from the remains of the cracker, it is time to eat a meal of such proportions it causes the 'love handles' of one's midrif to swell visibly during consumption. After retiring to the lounge for boring parlour games, the assembled begin to excrete clouds of gaseous emissions, belching loudly and complaining of acid heartburn as they do so. Finally, I manage to escape back to the confines of my house for an early night.



Perhaps it's because I have no children of my own, but I cannot comprehend all this rubbish about Santa Claus. Do children really fall for this guff? I apologise if I sound like an absolute killjoy, but the dimensions of the story puzzle me. Judging by the hilarious piece I found a short time ago, I'm not the only one who thinks so. Merry Christmas!