Most people would probably not write something about Christmas after New Year’s Day, after all the decorations have been stuffed into the cardboard box and the teabag squeezer has broken. But I am my own man. I am a bohemian. Get used to it, you great big hairy square.
We all know that Christmas is about the celebration of the birthday an Israeli carpenter who has been dead for thousands of years. Of course, he freaked everyone out way back then by “coming back to life” on the Sunday after the Friday on which he initially “died”, and clearly people are worried that he’s going to do that again. But just because someone can pretend to be dead for a weekend doesn’t mean they can pretend to be dead for nearly two millennia.
I think it might be safe to stop celebrating his birthday now. None of us are old enough to remember him. Even if it turns out that he really is still hiding in a cave, I doubt that he will be angry. He’s a reasonable bloke. I would imagine that he’ll be quite pleased that he’s fooled us. I can remember playing hide and seek as a child, hiding underneath the table as per usual, and flapping with worry whenever it took a while for people to find me.
Of course, though, we’re not really looking for an opportunity to give this Christmas thing a miss. We rather like it. For starters, there’s the important religious gubbins, but also there’s great potential for consumerism. We can’t forget eating perhaps too much food, watching predictable sitcoms, being with people who came out of the same testicles as ourselves (or similar), and so on, either, but the consumerism is the most important thing.
I am just about young enough to still be able to get away with scribbling on folded sheets of paper and wrapping the sheets of paper in newspaper and sort of pretty much calling the resulting things presents. I love not being a grown-up.
I received a record number of Christmas cards this year, by which I mean that I have never received so few. Most referred to me as “and family”. One called me “Joshan Goodwin”. Another card was addressed to my my mother on the envelope, my father inside the card, and Chris in both places – I will give somebody the benefit of the doubt, and assume that Chris is what they think my name is.
Still, not very many Christmas cards. It serves me right, although I blame the snow. The snow was a definite factor. If God sorted out His dandruff problem, if He didn’t carelessly drop bits of the Channel 4 News presenter all over the place, I wouldn’t appear to not have any friends.
Obviously I am going to tell you what I got for Christmas. Favouritism is a horrifying notion but I can’t mention everything, being a ridiculously spoilt brat. Rather a lot of correction fluid and Pilot V5 pens (which I have just realised contain ink that goes right through thin paper, which is frightfully annoying and means that the search for the perfect pen continues) and glue and PG Wodehouse.
A special shout goes out to the Samsung U10 from the brother (it was the purple one because it was the cheapest one at the time, but now the silver one appears to be the cheapest). It seems pretty magical. Some exciting pictures that can both move and make noises will surely be coming your way very soon.
You should thank him by buying his book. Buy several – they make excellent emergency gifts. It’s definitely a good book. Don’t think that, just because we came out of the same set of testicles, I am biased – it really is good. Go on, buy it. You know you want to.
Doctor Who was reasonably OK. I didn’t see the second part because my mother was watching the news on ITV, but I almost certainly will get to watch it if current trends continue. Of course, Noel Tennant off of Dixon of Dock Green turned into someone else, and apparently it wasn’t very good.