THE ROBBING BASTARD IN THE RED SUIT

If there's one thing capitalism knows, has really done a number on, it's generosity. And that's why Christmas has got us in this complete bloody bind. Not only do Marks & Spencer expect every man, woman and child to do their duty, they expect us to pay through the nose for it. Every regional branch manager is rubbing their mitts together with glee the second the merchandise from Bonfire Night has been carted back into the store room.

Never – not even back in the sliced bread heyday – have we felt such obligation to spend; Mum's finest smelly shit from last year is untouched and dad doesn't need another collection of Dire Straits' greatest hits but there is not a man in the land brave enough to suggest such heresy. And the ones with ‘better (rock) halves (hard place)’ – hah! They’d rather eat reindeer turd than face the shame of buying something small, god forbid, inexpensive. Why? Because this is Christmas. Well not this time, Fatty Farqhuarson of the Swindon branch. I'll get what I damn well like, what I can damn well afford and they'll goddamn like it. Because this is Christmas. AND WE'RE TAKING IT BACK.


IS THAT A BLOW-UP DOLL IN MY STOCKING OR JUST ANOTHER GENETICALLY MODIFIED SATSUMA?

Self-involved antipodean Radio 1 DJ Zane Lowe once said that he didn't understand why Brits complained about the cold winters, saying that it's the perfect time to get warm cuddling up to someone else. Which just goes to show, once again, that the man has absolutely no scruples. Thank you Zane, for your assumption that people in relationships constitute the norm, that single people can be usefully ignored if necessary. Thank you also for reminding us of our apparent failings and very well done for leaving us feeling ostracised just when we needed you most. Mistletoe, Zane? I’d like to ram a sprig or two right up your smug couple-up jacksy.


F-F-F-FOOTBALLERS, HOPE YOU F-F-F-FREEZE YOUR MANHOOD OFF

Footballers. What a bunch of thick, extravagant, cheating, diving, ugly, mercenary bastards. They give me a bit of joy over the Christmas period though. I have 8 glorious and wondrous days off over the Christmas period. So while they are freezing their bollocks off on training and football pitches I shall be nicely wrapped up at home recovering from or causing hangovers while shovelling selection boxes down my greedy throat. I'm praying for a blizzard! Don't fail me now, karma! BAM! Me 1 Footballers 0.


THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN FOOTBALLERS AT CHRISTMAS ARE FAMILIES

I don’t know who to feel more sorry for. Those that shoehorn the whole goddamn family around two mismatched tables, or those spending it alone. I wonder what’s more pleasing – the satisfaction you get from seeing your misery of an uncle open yet another unwanted petrol station special or having unadulterated control over the TV remote and its Christmas superpowers. They all have pros and cons but there is one myth that I want to dispel – that Christmas is a family time. No it’s fucking not. Christmas is a time for loneliness amplification. Christmas is a time where the holes in your pockets never felt bigger. Christmas is a time where you realise that in spite of sharing 99% genetic code with your nearest and dearest, you have nothing more to say beyond, “Pass the sprouts, Jean”. Christmas is a time where the few guilt free days I am granted off from this poxy job, which I am dearly trying to cling on to, are invaded by urchins that claim to be kinsman. Don’t they have homes of their own?


T'IS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY? T'IS MY ARSE

So in summary then, 2009 has been rubbish and Christmas looks as though it will follow suit. UK unemployment has risen above two million for the first time since 1997, which in day-to-day speak means we all know at least two people that will be fucked over the festive season, but worse still those that have a job may well be asked to make a trip to the nationalised bank to help the "jobless relies" out. Can I say no? Can I hell. It’s Christmas. But you know things are bad when the models in the Marks & Spencer ads fail to give you that annual hard-on that you’ve come to know and depend upon. It’s all a bit fucking depressing. Sod it. Here’s to 2010. At least it’s a World Cup year.

Andy, Lindsey and Martin