Tag Archive | Shepherd’s Pie

You’ve ruined Christmas!

Frank_C

I don’t hate Christmas because I’m a miserable bastard, I hate it because it’s surplus to requirement. It’s an opportunity to max out your credit card, fight with family, eat unhealthy food, guzzle alcohol and pretend to like the crap presents people give you because they have no fucking idea who you are.

Some people even embrace Christmas as the perfect time to commit suicide. However, I’d like to reflect on all the disastrous Christmases I’ve had over the years. And there have been many. Let me tell you about some of the times I’ve been accused of ruining Christmas.

My first Christmas memory is of being around five years old and standing about two metres away from the Christmas tree scratching my balls. My old man came into the room, saw that my hands were down the front of my Magic Roundabout jim jams and said, “Don’t ruin Christmas Callum”. I have no idea what I got/learned that Christmas but I still enjoy scratching my balls.

With the introduction of alcohol to Christmas, the prospect of ruining the day increased exponentially. One year my old man and my wee brother helped me to ruin Christmas. We all got so drunk before Christmas lunch that all three of us passed out at the dining table. The next year alcohol was banned and we had a merry, yet boring Christmas.

I spent Christmas 1999 in Marrakech, where I got so drunk on the roof of the hotel that I had to be assisted to my room by strangers. I spent most of the day passed out on the bed farting, while my girlfriend sat on a rickety chair crying and gagging on the methane. The next morning over a lamb tagine, she announced that I had ruined Christmas.

Moving swiftly beyond the Millennium, ruining Christmas became a certainty. However, Christmas 2001 was spent in Brighton with the same methane suffering GF of Marrakesh fame. That year we hosted an orphans’ Christmas and we had a ball. My wee brother was staying with us and I invited loads of mates from around the traps. We all took hash cookies. It was a truly great Christmas. My wee brother passed out on the couch and the rest of us crumbled Jaffa Cakes into his bum crack. He was rather embarrassed by this but conceded that I had not ruined Christmas.

Jumping five years and a continent, I ended up spending Christmas with another girlfriend at her parents’ house. On this occasion, I really did ruin Christmas and to this day I feel guilty about my behaviour. Life wasn’t going well for me down under and I was a couple of hot dinners away from flying home to the mess I’d left there.

Christmas morning started with champagne and moved swiftly onto red wine (my Achilles heel). By around 8pm I was wild eyed and scary drunk. For those of you who know me, this is an unpleasant experience. A good friend of mine once described it as like being trapped in a broom cupboard with a high functioning zombie. Needless to say, when I stripped off my shirt and threw an antique stool against the wall, I had officially ruined Christmas and any chance of being invited back. That was not only a low point in my life but a low point in ruining Christmas.

After that I got on the straight and narrow and decided that I should devote my life to making Christmas better. It was a failed experiment but at least I stopped ruining Christmas. A few Christmases passed by uneventfully and I thought I was moving away from my Christmas shenanigans. However, I hit the festive wall by getting drunk by the coast one Christmas and I guzzled all of Christmas dinner, leaving nothing for my girlfriend. She loves scallops. I ate all 75 in one sitting and then passed out on the couch. When I rose from my slumber she accused me of ruining Christmas but revoked the accusation after we found naked photos of her Dad’s girlfriend doing unsavoury things to herself.

There have been a few more bumps along the yuletide highway, like last year when I started drinking whisky at 6am and cooked a dry shepherd’s pie for my guests, followed by a tearful monologue about how successful my year had been. But to be perfectly honest, I could do without it.

Christmas, like New Year’s Eve, is an example of forced fun. It’s not a time of reflection, it’s a consumerist hell hole that makes absolutely no sense to me at all. Why max out the credit card for one day? Why pour so much into one day, when the other 364 should be equally as important?

I’ve ruined my fair share of Christmases, so I’m officially retiring from non-secular holidays. They’re obviously not for me and vice versa. I should have done this years ago but people love to guilt trip you about not liking Christmas, like you’re some kind of negative vibe merchant.

So, this year I’m locking the door of the Treehouse and turning off my phone.

If you need me, wait ‘til Boxing Day. It’s better this way.

http://festivusweb.com/

 

The day Elvis died

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I am not gluten free. Far from it. I’m watching a show about a cross-dressing family man, eating white fish, and breathing in Saturday air. I make no plans for the weekends because plans get in the way of doing nothing.

When I was a kid, I had very red cheeks. There’s a photograph on the lounge window sill of me sitting on my mother’s knee with an exceptionally red face.

Some people think I was born old and intolerant, a five year old with the disposition of a jaded London taxi driver. I wasn’t like that when I was a kid, I was an adventurer, the buccaneer of the River Ericht, crashing through rain covered cobwebs on my way to the gorge.

What happened to that spirit? When did I get bogged down in having a career and doing nothing at the weekend? Sometimes I’d like to resurrect that little fucker and get him to take me on an adventure somewhere, anywhere. We’d spend the weekend diving for pearls, create complicated games out of Lego, and finish up tired on Sunday, tunneling through the biggest Shepherd’s Pie ever baked.

“We can only eat fish fingers on dull days”, is what I said to my Grandfather, standing in a Swedish kitchen in 1977. Elvis died that day.

But now it’s windy in Brunswick and the Bloody Marys are cascading down the walls. My feet smell like funky corn chips and I wish I’d at least tried pearl diving as a career. However, regret is one of life’s greatest fallacies and I’m not a kid anymore but I’ve never wanted to be anyone else, and oblivion is sewn into the fabric of morality.

Exit, pursued by a bear.