OK. I’m waiting.
I have my arms outstretched upwards to the stars and my chakras open so wide a Higgs Boson could drive a ruddy great juggernaut right through the middle of them without touching the sides.
But it ain’t hit me. It hasn’t entered me. I am not speaking in Christmas tongues.
The spirit of Christmas has not seen fit to descend and use my body as a vessel for its gloriously tinselly commercialism.
I ain’t getting the Christmas vibe, man,
And I know I should be. The shops are selling their Christmas tat with the intensity of an Amsterdam window dancer. My home town had its big Christmas light switch on yesterday. Even Jamie ‘cheeky twatty’ Oliver is on the telly once more touting his mince pie flavoured ice cream (I kid you not: “individual ice creams wiv bits of mince pie in ‘em – even the pastry! Gor blimey, gov’nor!”).
The signs are there writ large upon the stars. Even the D list ones.
It is Christmas time (mistletoe and wine). It’s time to get jollied up. To get Santa’d. To get ho ho hoed.
But I can’t do it. I just can’t summon up the inclination.
It’s taken all my will power just to summon up a soupcon of enthusiasm to give my wife a Christmas wish list for myself – let alone trying to choose presents for other people.
I feel that spiritually I am shrugging with the burden of it all. I’m suffering from joy exhaustion or maybe more accurately “fear of joy commitment”.
Money’s tight. The health of the entire family seems to be dicey at the moment – if it we were a drink we would be Cinzano on the rocks without the Cinzano. Inanimate and domestic services are breaking down. My work colleagues inform me that Russell Grant got voted off Strictly Come Dancing. Things are on the verge of collapse.
Is this a good time to be having Christmas, I ask myself?
Might we not be better off postponing it until the Spring? ‘Cos Springwatch will be on the telly then and Chris Packham will be convincing us all that life is getting better because of all the birds and badgers producing young. The days will be longer. Jamie Oliver will have died from mince pie ice cream poisoning. I’ll have a modicum of hope in my heart that things will at least be getting warmer if not better.
This mid winter thing? I mean, is that really right for Christmas? Is it appropriate? Half of the world doesn’t think so.
Can we have a referendum on it, please? Put it to the vote?
Where the hell’s Jacob Marley when you need him?
P.S. This is my 800th post. That’s right: 800! 800 posts and still moaning...