Happy Xmas

Ah Christmas.
Again!
We seem to do this every year now. We dig ourselves a little deeper into debt to buy a bunch of stuff people don’t want, and what do you get in return?
Shower gel.
What are they trying to say? Or am I the only one who gets shower gel? It’s just me isn’t it. I smell.
The tradition of giving gifts at Christmas started with the three wise men giving their gifts to the baby Jesus. Their names were Gaspar Marks, Melchior Spencer, and Balthasar J. Argos.
Bastards.
If they’d just given Alcohol then that would be the tradition now, and I’d be able to get pissed all the way through to April. As it is now I’m going to be able to smell nice though to April.

It’s not all about the giving and receiving of socks and shower gel though. There is eating too…
My Breakfast on Christmas morning will usually consist of a fist full of nuts, one of the kid’s selection boxes and a tangerine. Lunch will be something light like another selection box, some of the chocolate decorations off the tree, some more nuts. Another tangerine. A bacon sandwich with a quarter of Christmas cake smothered with Bailey’s Irish cream for pudding. (Bailey’s is a cream). I am then wheeled over to my chair where a bowl of Cadbury’s miniature heroes can be found within arms length. These aren’t easy to get down past the nuts, the orange, the bacon and the cake. So it’s at this point I like to start washing the bite size confections down with a can of beer. Or if I’m feeling particularly festive, a can of sherry. It’s important to go easy as one can often find ones self in trouble when it comes to the CHRISTMAS DINNER.

“Dinner” doesn’t really convey what you’re up against here though. It’s like referring to Everest as a hill.
There’s roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, baby potatoes, baby roast potatoes. Carrots, sprouts, cabbage, peas, Yorkshire pudding, and parsnip. There’s roast pork, sliced ham, roast beef, applesauce, and sausages, and sausages wrapped in bacon. (Because a sausage isn’t quite meaty enough), and cranberry sauce. Some little scotch eggs too.
Then of course there’s the Turkey.
But is it a turkey? The thing we got last year was so big I suspect it was the product of a union between an ostridge and raptor.
There is no way to eat all this. It’s impossible. Impossible without gravy to lubricate the tubes. And a can of lager, and a sherry, and a bailey’s.
The tablecloth is there for one reason. To hide the fact that everyone has their belts undone.
The short gap between turkey and pudding is filled with witty conversation and eggnog.
No body wants it. No body needs it, but it’s brought in all the same.
Pudding.
Pudding was invented because your average dinner isn’t big enough to fill you up, but then again the average dinner doesn’t cast a shadow. (Any bigger and there’d be mountain goats on it hopping from roast potato to parsnip.)
There’s chocolate cake, arctic roll, and éclairs to get through before the Christmas pud is rolled out of the kitchen, up a ramp, and on to the table.
You can’t fit it in. Your full. Your stomach is full. Your neck is full. You’ve got potato in your cheeks and you have a little sausage under your tongue. Any more food and you’re going to have to resort to filling up a lung with Christmas pudding.
It does look nice though.
It takes a while to get away from the table. You know it’s going to be an effort. You don’t make the effort for the Queens speech, but you do for Wallace and Gromit. The three yard walk brings on the meat sweats. You fall back into your seat, look over to your right. The bitch has filled up the Cadbury’s heroes bowl again.
She’s trying to kill me!

Happy Christmas.