Wednesday, 24 November 2010


Some things are nicer upside down. Last week I fell in the street outside Waterstone’s and the disgusting capitalist bookdump looked 90% nicer. Katie Price’s malfeasant turds steamed with more élan, as though her sickening assault on books was an illusion. Hey, I thought. Maybe life is worth living. Maybe I should keep writing stories no one reads for websites no one reads that pay nothing or working on a book that won’t be published because the publishing world is motivated by business not passion or love, and the whole soulless band of revolting succubi running the publishing houses will embrace me with open arms, and my sense of worth will balloon and my love for existence will attain new highs of smirking happiness and joy, and those hours sacrificing a paid career doing something proper that has left my CV in tatters will have paid off. Perhaps working in a world where bestsellers riddled with bad grammar written by rich twerps with no souls isn’t so bad, and taking great care with every word, trying to make something beautiful, something new and inventive, isn’t needed after all, perhaps I can scrape dandruff onto a sheet of paper and fax it to Jonathan Cape and tell the dolts it’s the newest thing baby, get with it. Perhaps if we shut up and stop chastising our mothers for reading Michael Macintyre or Dan Brown, we will harmonise as a species and the government will put money into the arts and people can do things other than making people buy drinks and food and clothes and crap and we can all move to Luxembourg and live happy in our wisdom.

Or not. It is that time of the year. The time to mix bleach with toothpaste and suck exhaust fumes. There is nothing good about December. Nothing. There is nothing good about our need to consume and shop and purchase, to gorge ourselves on useless items, to stuff ourselves with pap until we burst. Hate yourself. Everything about Christmas says: hate yourself. Hate the way the world has become. Hate that rancid bitch, Lady Capitalism. Hate your friends, lovers, dogs. Hate the whole bally thing. Buy chocolate. And hate. Buy more chocolate and sit there, gulping it down, belly distending as you hate, hate, hate, breaking off another square coz hey, why not, it’s Christmas after all.

I am boycotting everything this December. Everything. I refuse to do anything. I refuse to acknowledge the existence of pavements. I refuse to go sledding in thermals. I hate how Christmas boxes me in. Christmas is a manipulating force of evil that steals my freedom. It will vex me no longer with its shiny baubles and wintry claws. It cannot sell my heart!


  1. It's only that way if you want it to be.

  2. I'm feeling better now. I had a bath.

  3. Well, I hope that was cathartic - your polemic, not the bath.

    I agree with much of what you write. I'm not religious, but I'd prefer Christmas if it was less consumerist and more about religion. The early appearance of Christmas trees and decorations in shops is nauseating. Last week I heard one of those loathsome jolly Christmas songs in a shop in Princess Street and wanted to vomit.

    Last week, too, the first person asked me if I was organised for Christmas - usually I get that question some time around September. The temptation is to reply: what, organised for last Christmas, you mean? But that would be cruel.

    The customs of gorging on essentially unhealthy food and getting pissed also deeply depresses me. The actual celebration, after all, is only a day. And the New Year is only a day. Why then, do all these excesses span a two week period? Why do people become so anxious about the whole affair? Is Aunty Jean going to disown them if they don't buy the right nightie from M & S? Will families fall apart if the turkey is cooked upside down or the Christmas pudding hasn't enough sherry or brandy, or whatever the booze is meant to be, in it? Does anyone ever stop to think why they get in such a state over 'being organised for Christmas'?

    My acts of rebellion include deliberately leave the shopping until Christmas Eve and making no attempt at writing Christmas cards. Another way of coping is to escape to France, where language limitations protect me from over exposure to people's Christmas chat.

    Right, well, that was quite therapeutic for me.

    Hope the course is going well. I won't wish you a Merry Christmas.


  4. ^^ Agreed. It's too cold to write a detailed response, but I'm with you all the way.

  5. Hee hee. Humming "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas". I watched The Grinch on our last day in Bali. In the end, you will slide down the mountain and play with the Whos. It's fate.

  6. Who are the Whos? I am Grinch illiterate.