I Hate Christmas

Christmas is coming and me dad’s run outta fags

Please put a tenner in me mam’s handbag

If you haven’t got a tenner, a fiver will do

If you haven’t got a fiver, your window’s going through

Have I ever said that I hate Christmas?

It’s not just the expense, although that’s enough to give any sane man a coronary. It’s the entire thing.

Peace and goodwill to all men? Does that include the prat two doors down who threatened nuclear retaliation because his wife’s washing got mucked up during the summer? I meanersay, that fire was accidental. It’s not like I thought, “Hey up, she’s hung her washing out, time to torch the barbie.”

Her Indoors and me visit both her sisters, one on Christmas Day, the other on New Year’s Day. It’s very nice seeing the family but it grows every year as some youngster turns up with fresh brats in tow, and I don’t know half of ’em. Look at the time I was chatting to young Lucy. I’d been rabbiting to her for ten minute before the missus told me her name was Charlotte. We don’t even have a Lucy in the family.

And I always get lumbered with the party bore. It’s usually some loud-mouthed dipstick who’s determined to put me to sleep telling me all about his new car.

“Take a look at it and eat your heart out, buddy,” one of them said when bragging on his new 4×4. “Four litre petrol, 0-60 in seven seconds, does eighteen to the gallon and enough room for me and the Pussycat Dolls. Can you imagine how good I look in it?”

Shallow? You’d need an industrial sander to get any kind of depth to him.

I pointed to my ageing, battered Ford Ka. “1.3 litre petrol, 0-60 in three hours, does 35 to the gallon round town, there isn’t room for Her Indoors’ pussy never mind her dolls and it’ll still be going when that converted plumber’s van of yours has been repossessed.”

The wife’s other sister runs a riding school and inevitably there’s a cast of thousands at her farmhouse every New Year. Never slow to give offence, when one woman asked, “Are you at all horsey, David?” I replied, “I saddled a fair few fillies when I was younger, and I’m sure you were one of them.”

She went off in a huff and I distinctly heard her asked who that, “offensive old bastard in the kitchen was.”

I recall one girl asking, “What do you do for a living, sir?”

“Don’t call me, ‘sir’,” I ordered. “I’m not an officer and I’m certainly not a gentleman. And if you wanna know what I do, I write songs.”

She got all giggly and excited. “Really? Give us an example.”

An air of anticipatory silence fell over the room as I tuned up my grumbling baritone rasp.

Good king Wenceslas looked out

Of his bedroom window

Silly bugger he fell out

On a red hot cinder

Brightly shone his arse that night

Like a crimson jewel

Til he sat in drifting snow

And let his backside coo –oo -l

The moment I’d finished, half the room went online to see if they could download the mp3.

It’s Christmas, y’see. They hand their brains in with their credit cards.