Look, it’s December 25th (somewhere). The day society collectively decided to suspend logic, fiscal responsibility, and dietary dignity in favor of worshipping a morbidly obese burglar who breaks into your house and judges your children. If you are reading this, congratulations: you haven't strangled a family member yet. But the day is young.
Christmas is not a holiday; it is a hostage situation with tinsel. It is a mandatory performance review of your love for your family, measured exclusively in how much debt you are willing to accrue to buy them plastic garbage that will end up in a landfill by February. So let’s unwrap this festive disaster, shall we?
Let’s talk about the elephant in the sleigh. We tell our children that a bearded stranger is watching them while they sleep. He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. In any other context, this is grounds for a restraining order and a call to the FBI. But in December? It’s "whimsical."
We invite this man into our homes via the chimney—a structural vulnerability that most security systems overlook—and leave him cookies as a bribe. It’s a protection racket. "Nice living room you have here, shame if someone put COAL in it." Santa runs the world's largest surveillance state, employing a legion of unpaid diminutive laborers in the Arctic Circle. OSHA would have a field day at the North Pole. The elves are definitely non-union.
The centerpiece of this farce is "The Dinner." You will gather around a table with people you share DNA with but absolutely nothing else. You will sit next to Uncle Dave, whose political views were formed in the 14th century, and Aunt Karen, who wants to know why you aren't married yet or why your job isn't "real" like her son's pyramid scheme.
And the food. Oh, the food. We spend six hours cooking a turkey, a bird that evolution designed to be dry and flavorless. It tastes like roasted cardboard. We cover it in "gravy" (salty brown sludge) to mask the taste of despair. Then there are the Brussels sprouts, the vegetable that tastes like a fart trapped in a cabbage. Why do we eat this? Tradition? Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.
Let’s discuss the "gift-giving" ritual. You spend weeks stressed out, running through shopping malls like a rat in a maze, listening to Mariah Carey scream-sing about what she wants (hint: it’s your money). You buy your dad socks. He buys you socks. You essentially swapped £20 notes but added a layer of wrapping paper waste to the transaction.
And if you don't buy a gift? You are a pariah. A Scrooge. You have ruined Christmas. "But I thought it was the thought that counts!" you cry. Incorrect. The receipt counts. If you didn't remortgage your house to buy a PlayStation 6 for your ungrateful nephew, do you even love him?
Your neighbors have turned their house into a landing strip for alien spacecraft. They have inflatable snowmen, 40,000 LEDs, and a mechanical reindeer that sings "Jingle Bell Rock" every 30 seconds. It looks like a clown vomited electricity on their lawn.
Meanwhile, you have a sad, shedding tree in the corner that is slowly dying, dropping needles into your carpet that you will still be finding in July. You put a star on top to symbolize hope. Hope that this month ends quickly.
People talk about the "Christmas Spirit." As far as I can tell, the Christmas Spirit consists of being aggressively cheerful to strangers while secretly wanting to punch them in the throat for walking too slowly. It is the season of "Peace on Earth" celebrated by fighting over a parking spot at Tesco.
We are told to be charitable. "Goodwill to all men." But try merging into traffic on Christmas Eve and see how much goodwill exists. You will learn new hand gestures. You will learn new combinations of swear words. That is the true spirit of the season: Road Rage.
So, pour yourself a drink. A large one. You’re going to need it to survive the Queen’s Speech (or whoever is doing it now) and the inevitable moment when your grandma makes a comment that silences the entire room.
Merry Christmas, you filthy animals. I hope your socks are comfortable and your turkey isn't poisonous. See you next year for the same disappointment.