I start feeling festive usually at around 8pm on Christmas Eve, and that’s only if my belly contains Jameson and my ears contain Fairytale of New York.
The Pogues -- Fairytale of New York
I’m not going to the office Christmas party this year, and the reaction when you say you’re not, just because you don’t want to, is anything from ‘oh well’ to ‘good for you’ to a slightly wounded perplexed expression. It’s really odd. You’re either to be congratulated to staying away from the jollity like some principled crusader against crap parties, or there’s something wrong with you that you don’t want to dress up and go and piss fifty quid up the wall with your workmates. You like having fun, don’t you?, I have been asked.
A girl on the train home last night was literally sliding around in her own bright pink cocktail vomit like a contestant on the most depressing edition ever of It’s a Knockout. Throngs of people in London are already pretty foul, but this time of year all bets are off and the trains are set to get pebbledashed by every other cretin, everyone else wrapping their scarves around their noses and trying to shut out the stinging vapours of hot bile and cranberry juice.
Christmas on London’s public transport
Time to hoard up in the grinch-lair till February, the madness is here.
I dodged ours for multiple reasons and comments from colleagues included, “don’t you like people?”, “you miserable git” and “do you not like having fun?”
People who couldn’t give a rat’s arse about socialising together for the rest of the year seem horrified that you don’t fancy spending an evening enduring stilted shallow conversation and mediocre over priced food, all the while wishing you were at home watching telly and eating biscuits.
A particular joy was also listening to people going on about their hangover the next day.
Holy crap, I am a grinch, but you know it seems to be harder work to grinch it up than just go along with the crapfest?