Welcome to a special edition of this blog entry. It's my Christmas special. Yes I realise that it's a bit premature but fuck it, if I was a retail establishment I'd be almost three months too late. Might as well get my office party out the way. Not that I have a real office but I suppose a desk is enough. But it still doesn't stop me feeling a little abnormal because I don't have an office to party in, or indeed any office staff to party with, or seduce them in the stock cupboard. So it's difficult to not feel left out, because, according to the national press that's where all the action is, everyone's having office parties, they've always had office parties, well at least ever since This Life. Maybe the whole world is an illusion and we're all living inside one gigantic office or a photocopier...floating inside the water cooler...You know that thing, where everyone meets to have a 'moment', anything from Bluetooth, to the shite that Catherine Tate passes off as humour. So what can you expect during this Christmas special? Well, as well as exclusive access to my office party, you will have the opportunity during my christmas special to go panic buying. Make sure you've enough petrol first. You can NEVER have enough petrol. Just join a queue somewhere. Doesn't matter if you'll be using the car that much, just make sure you've enough to last you for a couple of months. Fuck everyone else. Now that you're all tanked up you will have the chance to unreasonably empty every supermarket of bread and burn it somewhere. Stop the fat families buying fifteen loaves for two days.
And I've been neglecting something. Perhaps you can help me with something. I've got some empty can of diet coke, some empty bottles as well, and I've emptied the toilet duck plastic bottles I've been collecting. I'm looking to using them as makeshift baubles and bells for the tree and perimeter of the house. Ideally, I'd like to light the toilet duck bottles from the inside. Any piece of crap that you can get your hands on would be much appreciated. Fuck the electric bill. They can sing for it! I'd like to put underfloor lighting to the paving stones that lead to my house, like Michael Jackson's Beat it video. If we can't over-indulged now then why bother?
My christmas special doesn't end here. You can also join me as I compose a review and a schedule of television, and we must include the tired old jokes about Wizard of Oz, Bond films, emaciated fairies, smelly grandparents, left over turkey sandwiches, Santa's tooth decay, deceased monarchs, nightmares about mummies eyes composed of big shiny blood soaked baubles, and how, in this time of goodwill, we hope and pray that Charles Saatchi collection will go the same way as Hemel Hempstead Oil refinery.
Finally, join me later on, wine and mince pies nearby, by the lights of my Christmas tree as we reminisce about the season in times passed, when, as a child, we loved bells and candles made of of clay and candy, how we made our own party crowns at school from crepe paper, and ate jelly and flirted with our teachers. And we sang Little Donkey and felt sorry for the mule humping fatty Mary all the way to Bethlehem. How odd we thought camels were, well before they names some cigarettes after them and how we secretly hoped we'd see that big guiding light in the sky. And everyone of us felt special and protected. Yes, we'll talk about those old christmas discos where they play Wizzard, Shaky and even Gary Glitter and shed little nostalgic tears at the innocence of it all, and the pointlessness of adulthood. Then we'll clink our wine glasses as we listen to Holes by Mercury Rev.
I think my christmas special is almost over. Thank you for joining me. And you can relive this christmas with me as much as you like by scrolling down. Maybe this isn't enough, I should leave you with a some chocolates or a black and white film, so you can curl up in your Ikea sofa as it pisses freezing rain against the window, and you can consider how lucky and blessed you are, that you're born in the west, and all those freezing people in the Indian earthquake are not as spiritual as you, or you aren't any woman in Ipswich who have to contend with the biggest threat in this difficult period: The panic stricken media. Is that what you want? Perhaps I could hold up some mistletoe, offer you a cracker, seduce your partner...In the meantime until 25th December, don't let all those people keep whinging to you how commercial christmas is getting. Was there ever a time when it wasn't commercial in your life? If they want to supplement their feelings and spend hundreds or thousands of pounds, no-one is forcing them. I have to dash now. I must look at the research on the new big conspiracy, the one that will shake the foundations of the Royal Family to the core. The one you might have heard of. Was it they who arranged the death of the Thames Whale?
Goodnight and seasons greetings. x
And I've been neglecting something. Perhaps you can help me with something. I've got some empty can of diet coke, some empty bottles as well, and I've emptied the toilet duck plastic bottles I've been collecting. I'm looking to using them as makeshift baubles and bells for the tree and perimeter of the house. Ideally, I'd like to light the toilet duck bottles from the inside. Any piece of crap that you can get your hands on would be much appreciated. Fuck the electric bill. They can sing for it! I'd like to put underfloor lighting to the paving stones that lead to my house, like Michael Jackson's Beat it video. If we can't over-indulged now then why bother?
My christmas special doesn't end here. You can also join me as I compose a review and a schedule of television, and we must include the tired old jokes about Wizard of Oz, Bond films, emaciated fairies, smelly grandparents, left over turkey sandwiches, Santa's tooth decay, deceased monarchs, nightmares about mummies eyes composed of big shiny blood soaked baubles, and how, in this time of goodwill, we hope and pray that Charles Saatchi collection will go the same way as Hemel Hempstead Oil refinery.
Finally, join me later on, wine and mince pies nearby, by the lights of my Christmas tree as we reminisce about the season in times passed, when, as a child, we loved bells and candles made of of clay and candy, how we made our own party crowns at school from crepe paper, and ate jelly and flirted with our teachers. And we sang Little Donkey and felt sorry for the mule humping fatty Mary all the way to Bethlehem. How odd we thought camels were, well before they names some cigarettes after them and how we secretly hoped we'd see that big guiding light in the sky. And everyone of us felt special and protected. Yes, we'll talk about those old christmas discos where they play Wizzard, Shaky and even Gary Glitter and shed little nostalgic tears at the innocence of it all, and the pointlessness of adulthood. Then we'll clink our wine glasses as we listen to Holes by Mercury Rev.
I think my christmas special is almost over. Thank you for joining me. And you can relive this christmas with me as much as you like by scrolling down. Maybe this isn't enough, I should leave you with a some chocolates or a black and white film, so you can curl up in your Ikea sofa as it pisses freezing rain against the window, and you can consider how lucky and blessed you are, that you're born in the west, and all those freezing people in the Indian earthquake are not as spiritual as you, or you aren't any woman in Ipswich who have to contend with the biggest threat in this difficult period: The panic stricken media. Is that what you want? Perhaps I could hold up some mistletoe, offer you a cracker, seduce your partner...In the meantime until 25th December, don't let all those people keep whinging to you how commercial christmas is getting. Was there ever a time when it wasn't commercial in your life? If they want to supplement their feelings and spend hundreds or thousands of pounds, no-one is forcing them. I have to dash now. I must look at the research on the new big conspiracy, the one that will shake the foundations of the Royal Family to the core. The one you might have heard of. Was it they who arranged the death of the Thames Whale?
Goodnight and seasons greetings. x
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