You cheap, lousy faggot.

I bloody hate Christmas, of that there can be no doubt. If Santa has a Nemesis then I'm it. It's cold, everyone of us will have a massive argument at some point, there will be tears, it's expensive and, even having asked that prick in the red suit every year of my childhood, I still never got the puppy I wanted. And why? Because tradition dictates Santa draft two lists, naughty or nice. What a judgmental bastard he must be. Yes, okay, I did break that window with a football and blame my sister and yes, I did steal a "Dubble Bubble" bubble gum from the counter or my Aunties shop on Partington Lane when I was six but in my defence A) It was windy and that pane was loose and B) Dubble Bubbles were GREAT for blowing bubbles. I can resist anything, with the unfortunate exception of temptation.

There are twelve months in every year. Only twelve. Christmas exists in just one of those months. Depending on your view it lasts either for that one "special" day or for twelve special days. Therefore every year Christmas takes up something between one thirtieth and one three-hundred-and-fifty-sixth of the year. I could accept that. What I can't accept is being reminded Christmas is coming before October is finished. The "run up" to Christmas is over two months long, a SIXTH of the year. Advertisements on the TV reminding us that we need to spend money we haven't got on loved ones and people we can't abide on one specific date. A date that no one forgets. No one. Men forget wedding anniversaries, children forget parent's birthdays and I forget my wallet a lot, but no one who hasn't suffered major head trauma forgets when Christmas is. In fact, even those that do experience major head trauma know full well when it is, they just use their misfortune as an excuse to pretend they don't. Every cloud has a silver lining.

When my children were small I "did" Christmas. I over spent, I over ate and I drank too much. I watched James Bond rape and murder his way through his fascist missions. I played family games and wore a stupid hat. (I like hats, I'd have been wearing one anyway, but I dislike being told I should.) I danced and sang in the snow to entertain my boys as we were sent on our own (largely rape and murder free) missions to pick up a case of lager or bottle of Bailey's Irish cream from their Grandmothers house because we were running out and Doctor Who was starting soon. And every year, as they got older, I was a year closer to never having to put up with that shit ever again.

My children are now in their twenties, and like the rest of my family don't bother with me anymore. I'm a miserable bastard, I've made silly decisions and I'm now lying in the bed I've made for myself. I am the reincarnation of Scrooge and all the richer for it.

This Christmas, like last Christmas and, if I make it that far, like next Christmas, I will have one long, blessed day without any company other than that of my dogs. I will eat toast a lot. I will probably still watch Doctor Who. I may even have a drink or two. I will open no presents, give no cards, make no phone calls, baton down the hatches and ride out the storm. People will ask "How was your Christmas", not because they give a shit how my festivities went but because, once I've answered them, they can bore my tits off with tales of their own puerile day. I'll say "Oh, it was quiet." and leave it at that. I'll force a false smile as they tell me what ridiculously over priced gifts they bought for their ugly children, how the turkey was a bit too dry and that the sister/wife/mother/lady from next door is no longer talking to them as a result of a simply hilarious (sic) misunderstanding. Then it'll be over, for another ten months.

Christmas, it's said, is a time for sharing with loved ones, for giving and for making the world a better place. In actual fact Christmas is one long wank-fest for the big corporations. It's a time when Tesco can remind you to spend money you can ill afford on foodstuffs that will shorten your life. It's a time for television companies to rake in the revenue from advertising, on behalf of Tesco, that you can purchase foodstuffs you can ill afford and that will shorten your life. It's a time to get drunk and tell your mother in law exactly what you think of her, to give your wife the slap she's been asking for all bloody year and to shout at your children because, inexplicably, they're over excited and annoying you while you're trying to get pissed and pretend your worthless existence has any meaning.

Now before I get it in the neck off those of you that enjoy the forthcoming shenanigans please let me try and defend my standpoint in a very hypocritical and festive way. Christmas is a time for giving, right? So, give me a fucking break. I'll even write you a thank you letter.

If you're one of the three ghosts that I have to be rude to and ignore every Christmas Eve take this on board.

Ghost of Christmas Past - Thanks for the memories. I still have them, I enjoyed a few Christmases, I can remember these occasions, they were perfect, let's just leave them be.

Ghost of Christmas Present - Thanks for nothing. I'm poor, I'm cold, I don't like turkey and I've got all the socks I need.

Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come - Yes, I know I'm going to die. It's all I have to look forward to. Why not show me something useful, like winning lottery numbers, where I've left my ClubCard vouchers or how do vampires shave if they can't see themselves in a mirror?

On a more positive note, there is one tiny piece of 

Christmas I still hold dear. Everybody...

J2H