I guess the title’s a bit of a giveaway that this post is about Christmas and, this being me, you’re already expecting another solid entry for the weekly swearblogger’s round up…

…and I have to say that when I do get into this properly, you won’t be disappointed.

But to start with I should say that there are a few good things about Christmas.

The distinct absence of work for a few days is always welcome. And so is the fact that, just this once in the year, the main Terrestrial TV companies actually bother to spend some fucking money on programming for a change – well apart from ITV, who look to have just given up on that (spending money on programming) altogether.

My six year old daughter’s still young enough to be suckered by the old ‘Santa routine’ and still finds the whole business of opening presents, playing with the packaging for several hours and then stuffing herself with chocolate until she pukes to be a complete blast, which is kinda a fun (yeah, alright – big softy with the kids, I know).

And, after many years of careful relative training, I’ll be getting my usual welcome supply of book tokens, which, this year, may well necessitate the purchase of yet another set of bookshelves – or as my partner usually manages to say, ‘I don’t know why you don’t just move into the fucking British Library’.
So it’s not all bad, but it is a time of year that does come with rather more than its fair share of irritants, some of which will be getting both barrels in a moment

Mmm. Where to start? How about with a perennial favorite…

‘Away in a Manger’.

Yeah, that’s right, the Christmas carol, ‘Away in a Manger’ – I hate it. In fact, I loathe it with a passion you cannot possibly comprehend.

The vast majority of Christmas carols. so far as I can see, are benign enough. By and large they serve no useful purpose, unless you find some amusement in the sight of a Sally Army band freezing their tits off outside the local shopping centre (I do) or consider that the Midnight carol services run by many churches provide a valuable social service in taking most of the drunks off the streets for long enough to let you get to bed and get some kip before the bastards come rolling past your house for their nightly departure ritual;

‘You’re my mate, you arrrrrr. I fucking love you, mate…’.

But Away in a fucking Manger? That’s different. That has a purpose, one that makes it the Christmas carol from hell.

Away in a Manger is nothing more nor less that the sadistic infant school teacher’s revenge on the world for having to put up with your bratty fucking kids for the rest of the year. It is the first, and only, Christmas carol taught to four and five years olds in infact school, and why? Because those sadistic bastard teachers know full well that having taught the lisping little arseholes the fucking song, they will go into the world and sing the fucking thing in their dull little monotone voices in any venue, at any time, and at every possible fucking opportunity.

Go shopping in the two weeks before Christmas and in every single fucking shop you go into, you’ll find some winsome little munchkin singing away at the top of the voice:

‘Away in a Manger, No-ooo crib for a bed, the lickle lord Je-thath lay down hith thweet head…’

Stop. Just stop it. Just fuck off will you… Arrrghhhhhhh!

Every fucking shop. Every single one of them has its own diminuitive singing toss-pot to go with the piped fucking musak version of ‘Will you Stop the Cavalry’. Well, no. Don’t stop the fucking cavalry. Not until they’ve done something useful and trampled the fucking warbling dwarf under their hooves. Then they can stop.

What else is there? Oh yes. ‘It’s a time for giving…’ – the next fucking chugger who pushes a plastic ‘tin’ in my face and says that to me while I’m out shopping is going to need an emergency collectiontinectomy to remove the fucking thing from their colon.

It may well be a time for giving, but I’ve already fucking given. I’ve two kids of my own to bleed my bank account dry at this time of the year without worrying about whether little ‘Joshua’ and ‘Jeremiah’ in Malawi will be getting christmas presents this year – and in case, from their photographs, they look like they’d much prefer to be getting a few decent fucking meals down them rather than getting a shitty plastic Power Rangers doll of Christmas day. Why not just sell the little fuckers to Madonna, she’s loaded.
Look, I have this simple arrangement going with charities already. I work for them, and they give me money – why the fuck am I then going to give it back, you twat? Just fucking think about it for once.

A couple of years back my one-time employer decided to try and intrude on the usual office festivities – which consisted of getting pissed, picking a workmate’s name at random out of a hat and buying them the most bizarre piece of tat you could find for a fiver, and trying to win the office competititon for finding the most phallic arrangement of a candle and two baubles on a Christmas card – with the suggestion that we skip the crappy present gag and put the cash towards buying some poor unfortunate a fucking goat instead.

Being a touch unsure of how well this might work out, I asked a friend, who works for an overseas aid charity (aka Trailfinders for students) about the logistics of this kind of deal, and got the reply;

‘You’d be better off currying the goat before you send it – at least they’ll get a meal out out of it. Fucking things cost more to feed than the recipient’s family and the cheese tastes like shit’.

So just remember, at Christmas, give a man a fire and he’ll be warm for night; set him on fire and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life.

Still, if you are the kind who does do charity a christmas, then our man in the kebab shop has just the thing for you.

I hereby announce the launch of the Eugenides Christmas Appeal 2006. Bids in the comments, please, for a quite awesome prize – the exclusive services of Mr Eugenides for an entire evening. One lucky winner will be able to watch me drink heavily all day (alcohol not included in price of bid), eat a kebab, lecture you on the evils of socialism, and then have an invited friend or family member called a “cunt” in all manner of daring and humorous ways until I fall asleep on your sofa.

Much better than the annual Blue Peter car boot sale, I’m sure you’ll agree.

What else? Ah, yes. Channel 4’s ‘Alternative Christmas’ message – this year its a woman wearing a niqab.

Look, guys, I hate to say this, but I can hear the barrel being scraped from here. The first year you did it, with Quentin Crisp, yeah I could see the point, ‘hey’s let’s get a real queen’ and all that but I do think this gig is getting just that bit tired and old hat now.

Look, fuck Channel 4. Leave the BBC on, cut two eye holes in a big plastic bag and put it over the telly when the Queen comes on. It’ll give the same effect and make about as much sense – and you won’t be risking accidentally running on into the fucking Snowman afterwards, which is always a bonus.

Fuck it, I’m getting bored with this – that’ll do for now. Now where’s that picture of George Osborne and the goat – I wonder if I dare…