Who you callin’ Scrooge?
If Riley’s previous post evoked any kind of warm festive feelings within you, gurl bye.
1. In the three weeks preceding the big day, you will be asked the question ‘All set for Christmas?’ approximately 4,632 times by people you don’t give a shit about. Even after giving your lacklustre answer, you’ll feel the need to reciprocate, and will then be forced to listen to them telling how they scored the last Hachimal in Toys r Us, but still need to buy a baked ham for Aunt Pauline because she doesn’t like turkey.
2. You can’t eat ANYWHERE without waiters asking contemptuously if you’ve booked a table and then offering you a slot at 5.15pm on the 27th. Of January.
3. Your stomach goes into Obese-American-Man-Riding-a-Mobility-Scooter mode as soon as mince pies hit the shelves in Asda. No amount of food is EVER ENOUGH to satisfy it, and even MyFitnessPal has given up reminding you to record your calorie intake. Which is fortunate really, because it would implode if you did.
4. Formerly lovely, reliable alcohol becomes a frenemy you can no longer trust. You may actually die if you have to spend one more Saturday welded to your couch with the Prosecco shakes, praying Sandra from Marketing will forget you called her a Basic Bitch for requesting Snow Patrol at the Christmas party.
5. You fantasise about a government ban being imposed on present-buying. You’d happily forfeit the three quite good things you’ll receive for the hours spent haemorrhaging money panic-buying chocolate brazils and hand creams on December 23rd.
I could go on. I haven’t even mentioned jumpers, Secret Santa, and everyone within a 12-mile radius of a supermarket turning bat-shit mental because Pringles are on offer. But I’ll stop here, shall I?
Merry fucking Christmas!