Top Five Things I Love About Christmas:
1. Getting Things.
2. The Way the Sainted Mother Acts Like a Five-Year Old On Xmas Eve (and has to Open A Present Before Retiring).
3. Sprouts.
4. Roast Potatoes with French Mustard (Why Oh Why Have Colmans Stopped Making It?).
5. Not Having To Watch The Queen's Speech (26 Years and Running: Who Gives a Shit?
A short piece tonight, as I have to get up at 8 and go out looking for a bird.
Stop sniggering at the back.
DING DONG (MERRILY), I'M HIGH!
By Matthew Craig.
Well. Nearly there.
I thought Christmas was going to be harder, this year. Turns out the sainted Mother doesn't go into hospital until the end of January. But I still have to cook the dinner.
I have an assembly line set up, though. It goes:
Mammy (peeling & washing veg in her Easy Chair)
To
Mattscrew (cooking the Dinner, stuffing the Bird, ahem)
To
Daddy (sobbing at the thought of the mountain of washing-up)
So it's not that much work. To be fair, it's been harder work cooking the regular dinner, some nights.
I'm looking forward to it, even though my stomach - ever a source of discomfort - has been grumbling. Guess I shouldn't have had that cherry cake and tin of custard just before going to bed last night.
Or those Pringles.
Or those Chips.
Or that Dr. Pepper.
You'd think I'd learn.
This year, against my wishes, we're having Turkey.
Or should that be turkey?
It should make a nice change, I suppose. We eat a lot of chicken in our house. I guess I'm trying to give the Parents some sort of low-fat meat, even thought I generally screw that up by frying the chicken and adding creamy curry sauce to it.
They whinge about it. The ungrateful wretches. My mother doesn't like having her chicken "interfered with," whatever that means. I have a sneaky feeling that it's all some sort of Karmic revenge for me whining about eating nothing but Chops every weekend for the four years I lived in Manchester.
Pigs Arseholes in Sewer Water would be almost as appetising as these frigging Chops...
Hmm. I fancy a Chop, now. Damnit.
So. I have Christmas Day Planned:
BREAKFAST:
Pancakes with lemon or chocolate.
Juice.
All-Bran for the Parents.
PRESSIES
GLEE
LUNCH:
Turkey, and Lots Of It
Roast Potatoes
Roast Parsnips
Sprouts
Copious amounts of Sage Stuffing
And Fucking Gravy. (BOOOAAAAKKKK!)
Followed by: Christmas Pud (with cognac), Cream and Custard.
SLEEEEEEP. GENTLE, GENTLE SLEEP
DAD FARTS
FURTHER ENJOYMENT OF PRESENTS
QUEEN'S SPEECH - on every other TV except ours, which will be playing one of This Year's Videos.
Preeence Pheeelieep and Ayyeeee...
MORE TURKEY
SWEETS
ONLY BLINKERED FOOLS AND FLOGGING DEAD FUCKING HORSES - on every TV except ours - this time, we're watching the Daddy weep openly over the pile of dirty plates. As with last year, and all the years before that, he vows to buy disposable plates in January...
This Time Next Year, You'll Be Even Less Funny...
REPEAT OF THE QUEEN'S SPEECH, WITH SUBTITLES - with a repeat of one of This Years Videos on the Craig Family Set.
I'll give ye an "Anus Horriblis," by the way...
SURF THE NET (Mammy) - Answering all her JesusGroup emails. I let her off my daily "Not Everything Is About Jesus" rant, understandably.
SURF THE NET (Daddy) - Looking to see how Christmas is going in Derry.
SURF THE NET (Mattscrew) - Christmas Tree Porn.
CUP OF TEA
And about a dozen Rennie...
And BED
First making sure to avoid any references to the Queen's Speech in the late night News.
I don't know what I'm getting for Christmas this year. This is unusual for me, as my folks, who care enough to get me What I Want, and are reluctant to surprise me (or risk disappointing me), usually ask me well in advance, and nip out to get it.
Of course, with Sick Mother and Car-Deficient Daddy, there's been none of this.
It'll be Nice to Not Know what I'm Getting.
Buying for them is a Lot Harder. Especially when the Daddy comes with me everywhere.
He won't take the hint: I tell him to wait in Smiths while I "go and do something secret," and he whinges about having to wait.
And yes, I could take the bus. But I'm too lazy. Nyeh.
The Mother is hard to buy for. She never seems to want anything. Then, two or tree days before Christmas, she decides she want a new Jesus video.
Three years running, I swear. Greatest Story Ever Told. The Miracle Maker. Jesus! (hay-zoos)
This year, I have improvised. Not saying any more than that.
I like putting as much thought as I can into these things. Buying things people wouldn't usually think of. Sometimes, of course, I miss the mark entirely. There are so many crap videos propping up the Daddy's sideboard that Oxfam could probably retire on the money they could get for selling 'em.
I'm finding that I'm enjoying the giving a lot more now I'm growing up. I think I've hit the bullseye with what I've bought the Mammy this year. She gets all excited right before she goes to bed. So excited, in fact, that she has to open a present before she goes to bed.
I have managed to resist, thus far, because I am an Adult, and I don't get enough presents to waste one on Christmas Eve.
I'm trying not to invest too much in this Christmas: after a reasonably miserable year (hey, I'm way ready to move on, now: I need money for the Big Spidey Movie Toy Fest - including Legos - in May), I'd like a Nice Chrimble. But I'm not going to drive myself nuts for it.
Nuts. Fuck. I forgot the Chestnuts...
I'd better go.
Have a nice Christmas. I'll see you on the other side...
Mattscrew, waiting for Santa to Empty His Sack, 24th December 2001.
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