In Which Christmas Fucks Right Off

I know I say this every year, but thanks be to fuck Christmas is over.
I really love the first three weeks of December, I really do. I love hanging out with my friends and choosing presents and drinking red wine. Big fan of all of this. But every year I'm subjected to so many TV images of happy bi-parental families all hugging each other and being pleasant, and observing all their smug fucking traditions and high-fiving each other being looked after by their Mammies, that by the time Christmas comes around the reality falls so short of my paltry expectations that I actualy feel like I have failed to Christmas at all. That I am not a good Christmasser. Indeed that it is not Christmas that falls short of my expectations, but I who falls short of Christmas.
Yesterday I passed a bus shelter where an ad showed in the distance a woman hugging her son on a doorstep, and the caption read 'Come Home for Christmas', or something. And I was suddenly and acutely outraged: the bus stop made me feel inadequate.

In the spirit of it being nobody's business, I'm not going to describe my family here, but I will say the following vague things to anybody who had a shit Christmas.

I think that if life is unfair to you, or if you have problems, and you are any kind of person at all, the chances are you spend twelve months a year trying to make it right. And I don't think heavily moralistic bus stops, judgemental fat old men or the scowling face in your mince pie, have any place in a just world.

So this year I say not only Fuck Christmas. But Fuck You, Christmas!

And to all a truly Happy New Year.

Anyway. Over. Yes. Very good. Back to work. Speaking of which, I was back in 'work' today, already. All on my lonesome sitting at my little desk, and ring the phone did not, nor did the postman call, and not once did anyone ask me how to turn on the photocopier. Not much to do today at all. And so I was obliged to turn to the company charter I'm supposed to be translating, and stare vacantly at it for hours at a time. Ever translated a charter from French? Me neither. Very interesting indeed. Mostly because the French for charter (Charte, (n. f)), is pronounced exactly the same as the English for a fart where some shit comes out (Shart, (n)). Yes it is.

A Poor Man's Keanu Reeves

Did you wonder what The Day The Earth Stood Still was like? Too busy to go see it? Well not me:
Keanu Reeves, aka Deadeyes, is an alien who lands on Earth in a space orb to kill the Earth people and save the Earth from their destructive nature. Jennifer Connelly is then called in to work on a team of about 5 not particularly clever scientists and an older fatter woman. Somebody says that the effects of an asteroid hitting Earth at high speed would be "astronomical" and no one is really sure why. Keanu is wearing placenta at this point. Then he grows. Grows! Then he does some funky bad guy shit, and lots of people get bugs inside them causing fatal nose bleeds. Then Jennifer Connelly persuades him, by demonstrating her interracial mommy love for the son of her dead husband, that people are alright. And then he sticks his hand in his space orb and everything stops and all the space orbs fly away. The End.
I think the moral of the story is that once we start really fucking up the Earth, we'll know it's time to get the act together cos aliens will come and tell us we are scum, but that's cos aliens are robots.
An anonymous French person with whom I have recently been in contact has this funny habit of pronouncing 'rude' in two syllables: 'reeude'. I love it. I also love the way 'Health & Safety' in a French accent becomes 'Elfin safety'. See but aliens wouldn't understand that, cos they're all Keanu Reeves on the inside.

That Song About the Something

Friday. I was so relieved to have Friday's phone interview over I shouted to flatmate: Let us go to the shop and buy food, and possibly wine. I could eat a camel's arse.

Well we shortly thereafter found ourselves in the booze section, and there she said to me What do you want? And I said to her How bout this one, and I lazily pulled from the self the brother of the bottle that crashed after to the floor and died as we looked on. And then a man came with some kitchen roll and cleaned it up as we looked on.

I had a crazy dream the other night; me and the faceless man figure who is sometimes my sidekick in dreams, were running away from Morgan Freeman and Gene Hackman and their association of shady characters, because they believed we were in possession of some sacred/ confidential document, but it turns out it was just a book that was available for sale in Waterstones and other leading retail outlets across the country. So it was fine.

A Man Who's Got His Game Locked Tight.

Gah. Something hilarious happened in work today but I can't tell you about it because it's too gross and I can never tell anyone. Thankfully there were no witnesses. But between you and me, I'm never using the registered post book again. Yuck.
Anyway, I got some temping. The noblest of all temporary occupations. Oh man.
So Christmas. I can't wait. Except for the Christmas bit.
Having contracted a terrible intestinal malady, from licking library books, I have not been feeling very well the past couple of days. And so, having given up hope of doing anything productive with my weekend, I fell asleep with the fire on, in a nauseous bundle of tea and moaning, infront of Return of the Jedi last night; very Christmas. In fact, I was amazed how faithfully Star Wars represents the story of the nativity: Bad guys are faceless and if they have faces, the faces are covered in scabs. Good looking people and teddy bears are the way forward. Amen.