Ho Ho No

Its almost that time of year again, the time when you over-indulge on everything (otherwise known as any day in Lisa Riley's house) to celebrate the birth of a beautiful man who would only end up dying after getting nailed, no not Freddie Mercury.. In the coming days every single advert will be backed by the sounds of sleigh bells and bunches of sanctimonious bleach teethed jumper wearing cunts all sitting around pretending to enjoy the family get together over an over stuffed bird with a horrid neck (Not Kerry Katona).

All products will try and align themselves as the thing that makes your Christmas, DFS start their christmas campaign in earnest from about June, and promise you endless orgasms and a washboard stomached mixed race hunk with big beautiful afro hair, or just some anal sex interested leggy slut if you are a man, but only if you buy one of their corner sofas for four nine nine on 5 years interest free credit. Pringles have gone the whole hog this year and completely shoved Christ out of the way, and are declaring "Merry Pringles" as if in some way their fatty artery clogging crack cocaine covered fried powder snacks embody the meaning of Christmas.

They would have to go a long way to catch up with Coca Cola who have turned Santa Claus into the worlds biggest killer of teeth and starter of type 2 diabetes with his fleet of 18 wheelers. Its only a matter of time before tampons start coming with little bells on the ends of the strings, this will make a festive rattle, and also give you an idea of who to avoid at the Christmas party..

 Aftershave/Perfume ads attempting to bamboozle you with perfect specimens rolling about on satin sheets having toothy liasons over background shots of a night time illuminated Paris or Milan, the reality being the tacky packaged scent barely overpowering the smell of your partners BO, ballbag or fanny sweat, the mere thought of them spraying it over their paunchy body leaving you swilling your own semi digested dinner round in your mouth. Eau de Toilette, Eau do fuck off.

 Marks and Spencers believe its tradition for them to have an advert out, something memorable, the only thing memorable about M&S is their mens clothes, which are all memories from the 70's when women were women, and men were Bullseye contestants, and rapists.

 Then there is the mass headfuck of what to get the kids, whats in? What are they into this year, what do I do with the entire chest or shit from last year that they enjoyed for about 10 minutes, battling around the shops trying to buy a Furbee for Timmy, thats great, you can now sit downstairs getting cunted on Gin while Timmy talks to some bug eyed hairy gibbering cunt for fun (no, not Tony Blackburn).

 To get a furbee you are going to have to go out and fight other parents for it, a shoving match against some chip fat coloured scrape backed haired Lonsdale clad cunt from Mitcham who is buying her presents with either benefits or a crisis loan, or just generally stolen money. And even worse, is those with older kids who are web enabled, they want Iphones, pads, laptops, tablets, they will then look these up on Amazon or Argos and if enough money hasnt been spent they will start self harming, screaming they wish they had never been born through spot popping pus riddled rants.

The same families who only months before were wondering how they would cope when the price of milk went up 5p now out in a blind frenzy swiping more plastic into slots than Susan Boyle with a new dildo. You also have to deal with the over enthusing, usually council housed young Del Boy type who puts up 4 terra watts of christmas lights that confuse all european air traffic, and gets his ugly family on the news as the family that love Christmas the most. In these repulsive VT's the Dad usually has a knife out of shot and if any of his family do not enthuse his annually more ridiculous light display they will be murdered that night, and not put back in the cellar/incestial rape cave where they no doubt live.    

What you don't see with these is in the new year when the electricity bill arrives for tens of thousands of pounds and the silly cunt burns his house and family to death in a final humiliated display of light.

 Christmas day itself is usually a huge anti climax, the thought put into the presents repaid with about 10 minutes of interest and then that looking around to see if there is anything else, like a fat person when they get to the bottom of a family sized packet of crisps, and then just spending the rest of the day watching retarding television while getting horribly drunk on top of a repugnant amount of grub that would probably kill the Man Vs Food guy. By 8pm it is estimated that the average Brit will have eaten 8kg of salted peanuts, 4lbs of meat in the form of boiled ham and turkey, 16 roast potatoes, 9 Brussel Sprouts, a further 12 roast potatoes in the form of crisps, 11 mince pies, 2 tea spoons of christmas pudding (just being polite because it tastes like eating an alcoholics faeces) 12 cans of weak lager, 9 whiskey and cokes and 1 walnut from the wasteful bowl of them that sits on the sideboard EVERY FUCKING YEAR?

 While eating the dinner you will pull on Christmas crackers and read out jokes that are so unfunny that they will actually start a cancer in some people while wearing silly paper hats watching one of your older relatives falling a sleep (yup, heart trouble). You desperately want to break the dinner table tedium by saying the most inappropriate joke, probably about a high profile child abduction, or if stuck, just a racist one.

 I got so bored one year that I set fire to a christmas cracker. Because its crepe paper it all started to flicker away and the table cloth caught fire. I was beating it with my hand and my mum came running out with a large saucepan of water, I was relieved, until she poured it on my head and walked away. I had to beat the fire out with my hand. I love my mum.

 You spend the next 3 days eating the same shit, but cold and, as you get older, wondering how the fuck you are going to shed the weight and consider joining a gym like all the other sheep OH BAAAAAH BAAAAH, Ohhh, listen everyone, I've made a new years resolution, I resolve to never BLAAAAH BLAAAH BLAAH BAAAAAH, BAAAAAH, please, this year, resolve to sit in a locked car with a hosepipe fed round to the window and take deep breathes, please, your very sheep like existence causes misery to all around you. Just ask them, please kill yourself you fucking boring bah bah cunt. Cheers!!

 Then comes new years, if you partner hasn't cheated on you already at one of the many Christmas do's then this will be the final opportunity (until St Patricks day) to get some extra curricular cuck* (*cunt/cock). If you have gone out, you will be surrounded by hordes of whistle blowing wankers, girls in hot pants who will wake up wondering why the inside of their legs is covered in a chalky substance and also why they are pregnant, and blokes who wake up in A&E after pissing the tip of their liver out.

 You've probably paid 40 quid to cram yourself into some little fashionista fancied Shoreditch shit pit and wait 45 minutes to get in the line for the bar, to pay a tenner for a bottle of becks. In ten years time you wont be able to differentiate the various news years from each other, just vague memories of vomiting and shoving your index finger up some flabby bobbled gaping labia or, for girls, the misty memory of some pauchy shapeless veinless tub of turd rubbing his hook shaped demi-cock into you on a pile of coats at a house party.

 Happy Christmas, skip a present and plant a tree, do something nice for the earth Now cheer up you miserable cunts!! Xx