Christmas ‘Cheer’ is unfortunately back

The Grinch ain’t got nothing on me

By mid-November the Christmas season had already begun.

Fear not, this isn’t some rant about the ever lengthening of the Festive period. It’s about it all: the jumpers, the food, the TV and, worst of all, you: the people.

Admittedly there are funny parts: finding out that one of your uncles was a bigamist, that one relative who ‘went away’ was actually ‘put away’ for being an attempted murderer, and the memorable quotations, such as when your gay relative is mentioned your grandfather still says, “He’s not gay, he’s just lazy”.

I hate trees.

I hate trees.

But there are those who pretend the festive season is all about family, gathered in the music room singing Stille Nacht.

This isn’t some Dickens novel and being forced to spend a prolonged period of time with anyone – especially relatives – is painful, if not life threatening.

Don't need Christmas to get drunk. Just uni.

Don’t need Christmas to get drunk. Just uni.

Although those quotations are amusing, all the wine in world could not force me to enjoy Christmas. And that’s the first thing people say: “Christmas is the best excuse to get drunk”.

No, just no – you can do that every breakfast, elevenses, brunch, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner and when Radio Four plays the National Anthem just before 1am.

However, it does provide the excuse (because apparently society needs one), for when your friends ask you why you’ve got a G&T at 9am, you can say it came from your Ginvent Calendar (such a good ‘ginvention’ I now have 12 to help me through the rest of the year).

Then there is the bane of my life: Christmas. Fucking. Jumpers.

Hate jumpers.

Hate jumpers.

They’re jumpers, not some piece of art ‘worthy’ of the Tate Modern – so stop trying to ram them down my throat as if they’re chocolates and I’m Fat Bastard from Austin Powers.

Nor, I might add, are they designed with warmth in mind – the entire point of a jumper.

But forcing things down our throats is another thing Christmas is all about, although by that logic it’s always ‘X-mas’ in the Playboy Mansion.

But after the UK has collectively eaten enough food in one day to feed the starving for a year we slump down in front of the telebox to be fed even more shit.

Does he look merry?

Does he look merry?

I, of course, refer to ‘The Christmas Special’. That pointless hour of people acting happy and cheerful to resemble your Christmas, when all it does is bring home how terrible yours actually was.

If they wanted a real life depiction of Christmas for TV, it would be 15 minutes of tense silence staring in horror at the burnt offering your mother has brought forth, followed by 30 minutes of explosive argument and 15 minutes of drunk people sniping each other with drunk insults.

Food is overpriced.

Food is overpriced.

So Merry Christmas! It’s going to be terrible again, before we all return in the New Year and lie about how great it was.