Thatâs it, Iâve snapped.
Christmas has been going down hill ever since they released the A Team action figures in 1985. Not since a caveman named Ug managed to convince his girlfriend to consent to a threesome with the lass from the next valley, using only cave paintings, grunting noises and animal bones, has history provided a cooler man than BA âBad Attitudeâ Baracas â yet here he was, in my hand, looking like he had advanced Sickle Cell anaemia, with arms that didnât bend and a woefully underscale M16 that could only be gripped in one hand. Those could have been the greatest toys ever, but The Man had to stamp on my dreams in order to get his profit margin.
I remember confronting my mum about santa. I wasnât worried about his non-existence â I was a realistic child â but I frigging well wanted an explanation as to who the hell all those strange old men had been in the department stores and crappy familiesâ club parties. More importantly â why the feck had I been required to sit on their oddly stained and quivering knees in order to get a present?
The religious aspect proved only slightly better than this thinly veiled paedophilia: so this doris falls pregnant, but sheâs still a virgin â honest âand shepherds come roundâ¦well, because shepherds are well known as party animals (?!) and all these rich blokes bring untold riches when the child is born, yet the kidâs parents still live in the crappy part of Judea making chairs for the rest of their lives. Then this guy grows up, and can tell a mean story and looks like Charlton Heston or something â and he can turn water into wine. Up until this point, theyâve got me; the breads and fish thing I can get, Jesus shares his food with the starving crowd and it precipitates everyone sharing what little food theyâve got, so no-one goes hungry â itâs a good story that lives in the same neighbourhood as reality â but water into wine? If you could do that, youâd start a much cooler religion than Christianity, which basically only tells its followers to drive like retards and put little fish stickers on their cars. I started a religion in Prague once, after uttering the immortal phrase âLetâs drink this, I think itâs a local vodka or something.â It had lap dancers and mermaids and lots of smiting. No man who is off his face from Palestinian homebrew would come up with âTurn the other cheekâ â it would be âLook like that at me again and youâll be eating through a straw, sunshine.â So at that point in theology, me and Christianity part ways.
Regardless of spiritual leanings, however, Christmas is rooted in the culture of our used-to-be-once-I-think-ask-grandad great country, so should be respected. Unfortunately itâs been hijacked by Primark and Girls Aloud. We celebrate Christmas by drudging around poor quality shops, fighting against a tide of reeking humanity. We spend lots of money on UTTER GARBAGE for the people we supposedly love, eat ourselves stupid then watch crap TV. Actually, that last sentence made me like Xmas a little bit moreâ¦where was I?
What if we stopped doing what the market told us to do? What if we all just sat down outside HMV and said: âEnough â we are not spending another pound until you feckers stop p1ssing around.â I donât want to hear a £20 Keyboard rendition of âMistletoe and Wineâ while shopping for pants in November. I donât want to see that thing off of that girl band who was married to someone but became a junky for about a week, dancing like a gipper and advertising the ultimate chocolate gateau for £4. If itâs that good, charge more you numpties â no wonder Iceland is sh.it. I donât like the fact that my skint sister feels obliged to get me a present, even when I tell her not to. Iâm a Captain in the British Army! Iâm born to impulse shop. If I want something, Iâll get it myself when I donât have to stand in the checkout queue with people who smell like cat faeces. You cannot afford an XBox 360, a small sex shop in amsterdam and a season ticket for Candy from Spearmint Rhino, so don't waste your money getting me a jumper!
So, in an effort to seize back the beauty of Christmas, I reckon we steal a pregnant mother, leave her in the range hut at Sennybridge, then dress as pirates, spacemen and samurai and go visit her when the sprog drops. I could turn some vimto into cheeky vimto and we could make a new religion that claims its homeland as Brecon â no fecker would fight over that. Whoâs with me?
Christmas has been going down hill ever since they released the A Team action figures in 1985. Not since a caveman named Ug managed to convince his girlfriend to consent to a threesome with the lass from the next valley, using only cave paintings, grunting noises and animal bones, has history provided a cooler man than BA âBad Attitudeâ Baracas â yet here he was, in my hand, looking like he had advanced Sickle Cell anaemia, with arms that didnât bend and a woefully underscale M16 that could only be gripped in one hand. Those could have been the greatest toys ever, but The Man had to stamp on my dreams in order to get his profit margin.
I remember confronting my mum about santa. I wasnât worried about his non-existence â I was a realistic child â but I frigging well wanted an explanation as to who the hell all those strange old men had been in the department stores and crappy familiesâ club parties. More importantly â why the feck had I been required to sit on their oddly stained and quivering knees in order to get a present?
The religious aspect proved only slightly better than this thinly veiled paedophilia: so this doris falls pregnant, but sheâs still a virgin â honest âand shepherds come roundâ¦well, because shepherds are well known as party animals (?!) and all these rich blokes bring untold riches when the child is born, yet the kidâs parents still live in the crappy part of Judea making chairs for the rest of their lives. Then this guy grows up, and can tell a mean story and looks like Charlton Heston or something â and he can turn water into wine. Up until this point, theyâve got me; the breads and fish thing I can get, Jesus shares his food with the starving crowd and it precipitates everyone sharing what little food theyâve got, so no-one goes hungry â itâs a good story that lives in the same neighbourhood as reality â but water into wine? If you could do that, youâd start a much cooler religion than Christianity, which basically only tells its followers to drive like retards and put little fish stickers on their cars. I started a religion in Prague once, after uttering the immortal phrase âLetâs drink this, I think itâs a local vodka or something.â It had lap dancers and mermaids and lots of smiting. No man who is off his face from Palestinian homebrew would come up with âTurn the other cheekâ â it would be âLook like that at me again and youâll be eating through a straw, sunshine.â So at that point in theology, me and Christianity part ways.
Regardless of spiritual leanings, however, Christmas is rooted in the culture of our used-to-be-once-I-think-ask-grandad great country, so should be respected. Unfortunately itâs been hijacked by Primark and Girls Aloud. We celebrate Christmas by drudging around poor quality shops, fighting against a tide of reeking humanity. We spend lots of money on UTTER GARBAGE for the people we supposedly love, eat ourselves stupid then watch crap TV. Actually, that last sentence made me like Xmas a little bit moreâ¦where was I?
What if we stopped doing what the market told us to do? What if we all just sat down outside HMV and said: âEnough â we are not spending another pound until you feckers stop p1ssing around.â I donât want to hear a £20 Keyboard rendition of âMistletoe and Wineâ while shopping for pants in November. I donât want to see that thing off of that girl band who was married to someone but became a junky for about a week, dancing like a gipper and advertising the ultimate chocolate gateau for £4. If itâs that good, charge more you numpties â no wonder Iceland is sh.it. I donât like the fact that my skint sister feels obliged to get me a present, even when I tell her not to. Iâm a Captain in the British Army! Iâm born to impulse shop. If I want something, Iâll get it myself when I donât have to stand in the checkout queue with people who smell like cat faeces. You cannot afford an XBox 360, a small sex shop in amsterdam and a season ticket for Candy from Spearmint Rhino, so don't waste your money getting me a jumper!
So, in an effort to seize back the beauty of Christmas, I reckon we steal a pregnant mother, leave her in the range hut at Sennybridge, then dress as pirates, spacemen and samurai and go visit her when the sprog drops. I could turn some vimto into cheeky vimto and we could make a new religion that claims its homeland as Brecon â no fecker would fight over that. Whoâs with me?
