Alternative title: To prove I don’t have a bit of an obsession with Christopher Eccleston I watched the Eleventh Doctor kick ass while I was wrapping presents (well, sellotaping my fingers together and screaming at everything that wasn’t in a box for being so bloody difficult…I may also have been a bit annoyed that when I try on bow-ties I look like right twonk…Thanks for that reminder Matt…Git).
I feel like the run up to Christmas has left me with my head permanently inserted up my butt, everyone around me sees it as a festive wondrous time full of warm fuzzy feelings, hot chocolate with marshmallows and cinnamon farts…I see it as a massive ball-ache which has left me threatening my car radio with a screwdriver should I hear East 17 one more damned time on my drive to work.
“Where is your Christmas spirit?” my friend enquired.
“Ruebi, come on! It’s Christmas!”
“No…It’s another rubbish Thursday pretending to be a Monday…”
“Just when you think, ‘ah it’s nearly the weekend’ some utter git unleashes a shit storm of such epic proportions that it catapults you through all of space and time back to Monday flipping morning!”
“Except this Monday morning comes with a severe lack of caffeine as the coffee machine has chucked it’s insides all over the floor (meaning there is the wonderful whiff of stale milk throughout the office) and some poor soul has evacuated their bowels so severely that the toilets are out of order for the remainder of the day (all 6 of them!)…Have you ever considered just peeing into a toner cartridge to stop your kidneys exploding? Have you?! No? Then you have no idea what I have experienced on this oh so Christmassy of days-”
“You. Have. No. Idea”.
I keep telling friends and family that I will probably feel more Christmassy once I finish work……On Christmas Eve…At 6pm. But I’m not sure I will, my family are getting quite concerned with my grinch-like attitude to the extent that mum is threatening to break “Frozen” out early if I don’t suddenly wear my reindeer jumper and hum carols (I can’t sing for toffee, she knows it, I know it, Simon Cowell knows it judging by all those cease and desist letters). The prospect of hearing the-song-that-shall-not-be-named is so terrifying that I find myself whistling “hark the herald angels sing” during an ad break while sitting on the bog, in case anyone walks past the door and assumes I’m plotting to snaffle Santa’s sack or something…obviously.
Quite honestly the only thing I want from Santa this year (aside from the Lamborghini, my own Q-Branch and access to Loki’s sceptre) is a decent night’s sleep, no migraine and a happy family. Which means I am totally screwed when I unwrap all those tubs of moisturiser that I guarantee are waiting for me to go “*gasp* how lovely…another bottle of something to irritate my acne…fabulous, how ever did you know!”
That said, how excited are you lot going to be when I raffle off all that shit! Smelly greasy rubbish for everyone…and if you’re lucky I may smush my face in it first so when you take the lids off there will be an imprint of my mush staring back at you.
How many of you are feeling decidedly grinch-like at the moment?