Sod off Christmas

Here we are, once again. dare I utter the dreaded 'C' word. It had completely slipped under my radar to be honest, until that Coca Cola advert that has been on every year since the year dot cropped up on the idiot box. And of course, there was the complete numpty I bumped into who uttered forth the joke 'Who is always full at Christmas, Mark? Well, the turkey of course, he is always stuffed!'. I'm not entirely sure I have ever said the word 'tosser' as loudly in my life.

But as much as I try and avoid it, now that we have turned the corner into December I guess I need to get it dealt with, including shopping, christmas cards, visiting relatives and abusing carol singers at my doorstep (although mercifully after the 'dressing gown malfunction' in 2005, these visits are now few and far between). Shopping is something I cannot bear at the very best of times. Like any typical man, I will only do it when absolutely necessary (i.e when there are no more clean boxer shorts left and I cant work out how to use the washing machine) and tend to do it with all the enthusiasm of a small child enduring a punishment. Christmas just exacerbates everything that I hate about shopping. For instance, staff in many stores have been Americanised to the point where they are visiously forced to say things like 'have a nice day' and 'come again soon' through grimaces, and I do feel for them at this time of year. Mostly they are made to wear rediculous hats that leave a pendulous testicular appendage flapping about at the side of their faces (much like a plush teabagging)and then are made to continue the aforementioned forced politeness. Last year I was met by a 'greeter' in one of the larger chain stores, and after a welcome from him with a rediculous amount of forced enthusiasm I swear I witnessed his dignity finally give up, pack its bags and exit him via a concealed exit on his face. It left behind it nothing but an empty stare into middle distance, and a gently undulating rocking motion in the once human shell.


Once you have got through the ordeal of actually entering the shops, you then have two things to master. The first being the battle royale between you and the blue rinse brigade, and attempting to block out the white noise of the screeching christmas songs bleeted out by the sarcastic tannoys ovehead. For the bloodshed and the carnage that ensues once you get into the moshpits that are the shopping isles, the tannoy might well be bleeting out some heroic war anthem, whilst we clamber about helplessly in slow motion. Old women with trolleys over the festive period quite simply take no prisoners whatsoever. Foolishly place a limb inbetween them and their shelved object of desire and Im afraid you can kiss it goodbye. Not even shin pads will save you here. A determinedly directed trolley with saga lout on the other end is no match four your week and feeble flesh and bones. And that's only the start of it. We havent even discussed what happens if you pick something off the shelf, it's the last one of them, and one of the clones needs it. Doesn't bear thinking about it.

Up and down the country on boxing day, men are staring out of living room windows cradling their heads in their hands, whispering painfully to loved ones 'you weren't there, man. You weren't there'. So while you women may scoff and mock us men who don't like you're shopping, think on this. It is like comparing the royal marines to conscripted rookies. You are evidently designed and thrive in these types of situations. This becomes our vietnam.