My July dreams of home-made presents for everyone in the family have gently drifted away into the ether. The final nail in the coffin came on Wednesday, when I spent the entire 5 hour coach journey to my Mum & Dad's house sleeping, instead of making my brother a last minute hat as planned. Sorry, dude.
There will be no home made presents for anyone this year. Oh, and no cards either. Sorry everyone. Instead everybody will be enjoying the contemporary Christmas experience, i.e. receiving the hastily chosen, ill-conceived fruits of last minute shopping trips. The lucky recipient of this years most perfunctory gift will be Matt, whose present was chosen earlier today in a record breaking 10 minutes. It's a good job it's not the thought that counts. Oh no, wait.......
Luckily Mum & Dad have got the tree up, the booze in and the entertainment laid on. This includes the world's biggest TV, a mammoth collection of DVD's, 2 working computers and (my favourite) an abundance of those generic letters that people enclose in their Christmas cards so that everyone can share in their annual misfortune.
I'm not sure if my parents' friends are just extremely unlucky or what, but the catalogue of tragedies that have befallen them this year includes, but is not limited to: benign ganglions, bruised faces, failed exams, strokes, relapses resulting in hospitalisation, fights with drunken Scousers, Glandular fever, shattered legs, skin grafts, black eyes and death.
Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that Christmas was supposed to be a time of JOY. 'Ahh' you might be saying, 'A problem shared is a problem halved'. No, actually, a problem shared is a problem all spread around, forcing misery on unwitting card-opening joy-seekers. So herein follows my generic Christmas message to all.
Having a shit time? Keep it to your bloody selves, you doom-mongers! Then I won't have to feel so guilty about having a good old laugh at your expense. Hey, someone's got to enjoy themselves, right?