From my blog and with apologies to those who celebrate for the right reasons. But post brain injury the following feelings are multiplied every single year...
Here we go again,
Holidays are coming, holidays are coming....
Oh sod off, I hope that bloody lorry crashes and it's a total write off. Endless adverts for Christ (no pun intended) knows how long for tat that you wouldn't buy any other time of the year. Already this morning, I've seen M&S, Coca sodding Cola, Smyths toys (Who?) Argos, etc, etc. It makes me yearn for personal injury ads, or God forbid, Calgon.
The Christmas tree went up in our local pub in September, yes September. That's a quarter of the year building up to the biggest anti climax that humankind has ever dreamt up. 4 months of listening to young children squeal and beg for overpriced crap that they'll use for ten minutes before boredom creeps in. And we all buy into it, every year. Celebrating the birth of a character in a book. Next year I'll buy presents on the day Bagpuss was invented. Bagpussmas. We'll go to midnight Pussmas at the local toy shop. We'll have a nativity play where the local urchins play Bagpuss, Professor Yaffle, the mice on the mouse organ, etc. We'll make a video of it that we'll never watch and we'll beg for new year and the eight months of non-Bagpussmas adverts on TV.
I don't drink, I'm not rich, I hate flashing lights, Xmas cake is the work of Beelzebub, I'd rather have a curry than a plate of Turkey and stuffing. Christmas really isn't for me.
Bagpussmas next year, good-oh.
Pass the Nurofen