“New Year, New Me,” they scream, “this year will be different. I will be thin, and beautiful, and fill my body with delicious vitamins and nutrients and BEAUTY MINERALS.”
It’s the most incredible party night of the year, they say. It’s totally unmissable, they say. It’s got fucking fireworks, they say. But who are ‘they’, and why are they promoting this frankly disturbing evening of overpriced entertainment with such wild abandon?
There isn’t a thing on Earth more utterly unhelpful than the fascist nonsense that is the ‘Christmas Gift Guide’.
Like some sort of festive parasite, the ‘Christmas Gift Guide’ thrives on the abject misery all men experience as soon as they begin their Christmas shopping.
It claims it will make the pain go away, solving all their woes with just a few pages of sweeping generalisations about what their nearest and dearest want. Trouble is, it has never even met them. See, look at the crap it has come up with this year…
There is only one good Christmas song. It’s called Fairytale of New York. The Pogues sing it, with their grumbly friend Kirsty McColl. And they sing it well, with all the enthusiasm of two people who can’t stand Christmas and the lies, treason and crap gifts it promotes.
The rest, without exception, are shit.
At some point in the history of the universe this conversation happened:
God: “Do you know what we should do to make Christmas even more FUN? We should force people to buy gifts for their colleagues/friends/family members that they don’t like. We should tell them to spend their own hard-earned money on useless shit for strangers, and we should market it as some sort of ‘fun’ activity.”
His helper: “Yeah, that sounds good.”
God: “Let’s call it Secret Santa.”
His helper: “Fuck, that’s brilliant.”