Slash, my vicious editor and erstwhile business associate frequently accuses me of aiming my ire at obvious targets – like bankers. With this in mind I will be ignoring the most obvious target you could think of at this time of year: Christmas. This blog is a Christmas free zone.
I am most certainly not going to rattle on about foul smelling sprouts and even more putrid aunties who litter sitting rooms across the country following their temporary release from care homes where they usually pass away the afternoons testing manufacturers claims that the upholstery is urine resistant.
It’s why I’m not going to mention the strain put on the national grid by attack dog owning, tattooed, never had a job in their lives but its not their fault, chain smoking skinheads called Jake, who decide that the best way to teach little Jaketta about the nativity is to plonk a herd of illuminated reindeer in the front gardens of their council houses and hammer a Father Christmas with a flashing nose under every window.
I won’t bother to mention the false bonhomie that is cringingly offered by anyone reliant on tips to supplement their income and I most certainly won’t be getting on my high horse about being fed a diet of American films that are awash with ‘meaning of life’ metaphors and always end with some washed up American loner, who was an alcoholic divorcee for the first 20 minutes of the film, sobering up sufficiently long enough to save humanity and re-marry his wife.
I won’t mention this country’s obsession with a white Christmas or the fact that if it does snow all of our TV news bulletins will come from a gritting shed in Chelmsford, flooded with councillors all proclaiming their readiness to deal with a prolonged and sustained deluge, only to discover, after the first dusting, that it’s the wrong kind of snow for the grit they ordered.
And, finally, I will utter nothing at all about the many myriad of religious factions who pile out of the woodwork at this time of year to remind us how bad we are, despite most of them touching up young boys for the last 100 years.
Nope, no more soft targets for me, I definitely won’t be talking about Christmas…
