Am I organised for it, am I fuck! I haven’t got a single present. Granted, this is more a cash flow problem than a lack of organisation, and I don’t have many presents to get, so I’m not that worried about it. I’m also cooking Christmas dinner this year for the family. Not a traditional dinner, I’ll be doing Chicken Balmoral (Breast of Chicken on a bed of mash and a mound of haggis, drissled with peppercorn sauce -mmmmm Bootiful), which I am really looking forward to, although that sounds too fancy for my granny so she wants steak, old people, you have to love them.

Present buying and dinner preparation stress aside, that’s not what’s getting to me. What’s ripping my knitting are people that get miserable at Christmas. Now it’s fair enough if you lost a loved one around this time of year or your boyfriend cheated on you with a whore at the office Christmas party, I’ll give you room to not be at your festive peak. But if you are griping about Christmas being “too expensive,” “too much hassle” or that “it’s for the kids and you are not a kid anymore”, then bend over so I can kick your Ebenezer Scrooge shaped arse with my Santa Clause shaped welly!

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On evaluating what I’ve learned recently, I’ve found that:

•I share a birthday with Arnold Schwarzenegger, Marc Bolan, Lawrence Fishburn, Lisa Kudrow and Henry Ford.

•It’s no surprise Woolworths was going out of business; everything on their shelves was shit! I nipped in to see all the “bargains” on offer, only to find that there were more fleas on the skanky customers than bargains on shelves.

•You now only need one little cap to do a full washing

•Aching bones and muscles are signs of the flu, which in turn is a sign of getting older.

I have also found that I crave cigarettes more than I thought. When I learned that quitting the fags when you hit 30 drastically reduced the chances of emphysema etc, I figured that would be a good excuse to quit. Now I’d like to point out that I like smoking, I enjoy smoking, it’s not cool to smoke, but it sure does feel good. So being, what is commonly termed as, a social smoker, I thought chucking the health destroyers would be quite easy. Equipped with visions of an internal decorator painting my lungs with tar and furnishing my body with cancer cushions, I figured this would be enough to quash the desire to inhale the merciless chemicals.

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