Look, I knew I’d be writing about this at some point in the next couple of months but, for fuck’s sake, I never expected it to be this early. In fact I can barely bring myself to type the next sentence but you know me. I’m a stout little kraken. Ready? Tesco is selling Minced Pies.
No, you didn’t just have a brain haemorrhage of such profundity that you woke up in November. Check the date. It’s Sept 5. And Tesco is selling minced pies. Of the Christmas variety. Minced. Fucking. Pies.
I’d like to weep, really I would, but I don’t think I’d then be able to stop. I’d sob a tsunami of bitterness so powerful that the nation would only have the Hebrides to mark its spot. Yet I am so worn out with the fuckfest that is the dash to Christmas that the only other thing I can think of doing is to grab a Nowegian spruce and shove it so far up Philip Clarke’s arse that he could wear the fairy on his own head.
Why in the fuck does Tesco think we’d be interested in Christmas in September? Please don’t tell me that there are people already stockpiling for a Crimbo Eve buffet. Oh don’t, because I’m an angry little bastard as it is and I don’t think the delicate fabric of our universe could stand a Kraken-sized meltdown. I mean, look at Fukushima, Chernobyl and that glimpse of Prince Harry’s knob. Hasn’t our planet suffered enough?
Personally, I’d like to roam the checkouts at Tesco with a hunting rifle and pick off any shopper buying festive ephemera before November 20. Then I’d do my own Crimbo decorating by festooning selected stores with the innards of those who have fallen at the feet of greed and fuck all else to do with their time.
And I know, I know, panic buying at 5pm on the eve of the Great Disappointment isn’t any fun either, but what? You’re telling me that hiding from an Indian summer so that you can stockpile sachets of mulled wine is? Jesus fucking Christ. That doesn’t even make sense to me and I’m the one taking anti-psychotics.
Course, you know what this means don’t you? That by the end of October I will already hate Christmas so much that this blog will be actually, physically, radioactive with rage. No, really, you’ll log on and nine months later give birth to a barking, five legged fish. I will have formed my own mushroom cloud of hate from which you can all hang your tinsel.
Hopefully, for you, I will also be unable to post with regularity because I will have wrapped my hands around the throat of the nearest fucking carol singer. Only problem is that I’ll trip over the trick-or-treaters and penny-for-the-guyers in the process, really breaking my Christmas spirit. And, let’s be fair, I’m already stunted on that front as it is.