Christmas Schmistmas

Christmas Schmistmas

Jan 09
Christmas Schmistmas

On Christmas Eve I watched two grown women fighting over the last huggable unicorn. Actual fighting. Security called and everything.

“Put me in your microwave and I will keep you warm,” promised the unicorn. That’s all it was. The promise of warmth. ‘Cos they all looked cold, those last-minute Christmas shoppers. Cold and hard and horrified at the amount of cash they’d haemorrhaged on a Destiny’s Urban Outfitters combo (matching pants and top a steal at £169) or little Bobbie’s Swegway (reduced from £249 to £199) – or the massive load they’d spontaneously spunked on Christmas tree baubles handmade in Jutland that you can pass off as having belonged to your Danish grandmother who fashioned her own jewellery out of reindeer afterbirth.

No-one looked as if they agreed with Mariah Carey when she squawked at them over the in-store PA: “All I want for christmas is yoooooooo,” in the appalling aerobatic trill that spawned a million talentless talent show hopefuls.

No. I don’t want you.

I want an inflatable santa suit and a plastic cactus lamp and a croc-shaped phone holder and a sparkly drinking straw shaped like a penis and a pottery Chihuahua with its own growable coat made of sprouted chia seed
Salvador the horseman looked nothing like this.

and Kim Kardashian’s Ultimate Eyebrow Book and countless other useless items that will end up in a landfill long before next Christmas.

Last year my annual Yuketide cynicism spiked in a shop called Tiger where I mistook the sign £2-for-1 for 2-for-£1 and ended up with a Christmas stocking bill of £250. This led to a shameful lapse in shopping protocol or ‘My Aleppo Meltdown’, where I turned on the other shoppers and started ranting about glut and waste and barrel bombs and Assad funded militias and no parents let alone presents. Then I sat on the floor. Then lay down on the floor – security called and everything.

Driving home, cheeks aflame with shame, I realised there was no difference between me and the Unicorn Women.

We were all equally desperate. Equally deluded. Made equally insane by the conditioned obligation of the giving and receiving of shit WE DON’T NEED.

And all in the name of some brilliant branding dreamt up by a Baptist bloke called John.

So Happy New Year you miserable sinners. Next year I’m off to Lapland to assassinate Santa. X

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