I think I reached my tipping point very early into the first week of December. The radio station had renamed itself Smooth Xmas and was throwing out songs that made me reach for the sledgehammer.
My annual onset of SAD (Seasonally Affective Disorder) – otherwise known as GOBS (Grumpy Old Bastard Syndrome) – had arrived in full flood.
The official definition of SAD is depression associated with late autumn and winter and thought to be caused by a lack of light.
In my case it is exposure to a surge in the seasonal parasite known as Nonentitus Celebritus (Official translation – tossers).
I decided to enforce a television blackout to avoid a bombardment of happy smiling faces from all parts of the continent, sat around plastic turkeys, pulling crackers that one might hope contained a trace of Semtex.
Thank God for Robson Green and a series link to Extreme Fishing. Down with the blinds, lock the doors and follow the Geordie Boy.
Often, when asked what I want for Christmas, I can only think of “January please!”
By then everybody will be back to being as grumpy as me but now broke and thankfully out of sight. I can sit in The Scruffy and revel in my splendid isolation; paradise by the bar top light.
Even Our Kid has “sold on” my seat at his dinner table this year which I have to admit I find hilarious. Only the other day Facebook informed me that me and Our Kid had been “friends” for seven years. Thank you Mr Zuckerberg.
Turfed out onto the mean streets by your own blood (just kidding mate as never got the hang of the wife’s parsnips) I’m going to hide behind a bush and mug his cat for the spare turkey leg.
All we’ll need is David Attenborough to commentate on the kill.
Unable to cope with my gloom, refusal to wear a stupid paper hat and dismissive looks at the crackers, it looks like it’s a meal for one. It’s like being a reject on Dinner Date which is also on series link just in case Robson gets a bit tiresome.
Even my work laptop – for I do open it occasionally – is full of Christmas wishes from financial institutions I’ve never heard of.
“Santa does asset finance” proclaimed one of them. No he doesn’t you lying b*stard I thought.
Of course there are some plus points at this time of the year.
Behaviour normally viewed as “odd” fifty weeks of the year becomes the norm so I now have two weeks off from being labelled a moron.
Survival can also be a challenge for the otherwise domesticated male but, if Bear Grylls can exist on bugs and reptiles, then stale sandwiches at The Scruffy is pretty close.
Christmas cards actually make great compost although the ones with glitter can make the worms glow in the dark.
And, as recycling should be uppermost in our minds, if somebody wants to spend a fortune on wrapping paper and twee bows for me trying to jazz up yet another Jamie Oliver book, they’ll do nicely next year; my mum will never notice.
I also get the chance to put on my apron as it’s payback time for the old biddies in Pilates with my festive choc-chip cookies so they can continue farting all Christmas, Pilates or not.
Not that I’m any good at baking. Searching for ingredients the other day I came across a jar of brandy mince, sadly three years out of date and probably borderline arsenic by now.
My oats were also aged and most likely spent. Keen on not wasting food I mixed the two together and lobbed the lot on top of the garage for the pigeons.
Several hours later there were rat-arsed birds wobbling all over the place bombing the soil like kamikazes. Better not hang any washing out I thought.
Although there are few classes, the gym is always an option, populated by equally sad people; there is always comfort in the familiar. Silent sweaty glances are exchanged as we know we are kindred spirits; it’s the closest most of us will get to being sectioned.
‘Tis the season to be jolly so they say; so come and spend a fortune buying crap you will not have the slightest use for come the New Year.
‘Tis the season to be afraid more like, especially on roads full of manic women, loaded like crack addicts with the shopping hormone.
If I really understood – and believed in – the true meaning of Christmas I might be better placed. But I don’t and so it’s down to the pub to grin and bear it, ever grateful that nobody has ever bought me a hideous Christmas sweater from Townys.
Well it’s time now to put the feet up and take a few weeks off from the daily grind. Keep an eye out for the annual tale of daring do as we brave the elements in search of beers afar.
I’ve been doing this blog now for four years with almost three hundred pieces and several books that have raised thousands for junior cricket.
I seek only to entertain but also, because we are fortunate to live in a country where we can freely express ourselves, to challenge and to provoke on occasion.
We are all fallible creatures and you can never get everything right; along the way you can just hope that your **** ups are minor and at some point recoverable.
Thank you for your comments along the way and best wishes to you all.
“Even if you fall on your face, you’re still moving forward.” Robert Gallagher.
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