Posts Tagged ‘Santa Claus’
If the lovely people at Hallmark are to be believed, Christmas is a time for giving, indulging and sending out vibes of goodwill towards all men, women and house-trained animals.
The reality of the festive season could not be further from the clichés, corny poems and pictures of goofy-looking reindeer the marketing gurus expect us to embrace every December.
While the David Jones catalogues and Coles billboards depict well-dressed shoppers with Joker-esque grins peacefully perusing the aisles, apocalyptic scenes are playing out on the ground.
Is there a get-your-fucking-hands-off-that-last-trampoline-before-I-lose-my-cool card?
It’s all well and good to espouse the spirit of season but the fact is all textbook theory about appropriate Christmas behaviour takes a back seat to retail guerrilla warfare in the lead-up to December 25.
Those who doubt me should have been in the Townsville bottle shop I happened to be in at midday.
As I was filling my trolley with enough vodka and cider to anaesthetise a three-year-old gelding, I witnessed two women swap the Christmas spirit for a verbal stoush over spirits.
Basically, the second woman – let’s call her Little Miss Swear Jar – objected to the first woman – who we’ll call Mrs Three Bottles – taking what appeared to be the last three bottles of an unidentified dark rum off the shelf, even though the former obviously wanted to buy one of them.
Unfortunately, it was at this stage Little Miss Swear Jar forgot all about those warm Christmas card messages and launched into a tirade that would have made both elves and seasoned sailors blush.
Bearing in mind that I made a beeline for the opposite side of the store when the argument started, I’m pretty confident it went something like this:
Little Miss Swear Jar: You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.
Mrs Three Bottles: What?
Little Miss Swear Jar: Why the fuck are you takin’ all of them?
Mrs Three Bottles: We’re having a party and I need three bottles.
Little Miss Swear Jar: Fuck off. Everyone’s having a party tomorrow. Give me one of those fuckin’ bottles.
Mrs Three Bottles: Get fucked.
Little Miss Swear Jar: Fuck you, moll. You’re ruining my Christmas* and you can go and get fucked right up.
* Author’s note: Apparently, spirits really do maketh the occasion.
What were those morons at Hallmark saying about goodwill and compassion towards our fellow man?
After witnessing what should have been a pay-per-view event, I left the bottle shop thinking the advertising boffins should forgo the soft, heartfelt approach to Christmas marketing and focus instead on promoting a range of retail rage cards and light battle armour.
In 2012, it seems the key to Christmas is just surviving the supermarket skirmish.
Whether you celebrate Christmas or not, I hope you have a fantastic festive season and stay safe while enjoying the company of friends and loved ones.
I’ve got a strong feeling my name will turn up in Santa Claus’ naughty book this year but the fact you guys and girls –this blog’s raison d’être – keep coming back day after day negates the lump of coal that will be stuffed into my stocking* hours from now.
* Author’s note: This is not a euphemism.
There wasn’t meant to be a The Dissemination of Thought post tonight. I was planning on relaxing with a DVD and ice cream while I bid on shit I really don’t need on eBay. Like most good plans, mine came unstuck somewhere along the line, specifically at the point where I substituted the mint chocolate chip for three glasses of red wine and a few Scotches.
Between witnessing a myriad of morons – which from this point on will officially replace the twelve drummers drumming – throwing credit cards around in a last-minute buying frenzy and contemplating Thalia’s eventual return, I postulated about what I’d request for Christmas if there was actually an omnipotent figure with a penchant for red suits in charge of dishing out presents. A Ferrari? My weight in cash? A perpetual supply of socks and jocks? No, there’s only one thing that makes any sense to ask this festive season genie for: my Muse.
When you look past the ridiculous materialistic and commercial elements, this time of year is all about family and friends. Thalia’s a mix of both. She embarrasses me, but she makes me proud. I care deeply for her, but her jokes suck. She’s selfish, but I’ve got dibs on her liver. I’ve given up trying to work out where she is and when she’ll turn up next, but I know that if I really need her, she’ll be there. If it’s after 8:45am she’ll have a buzz on, and I’m convinced that she is stealing my CDs one by one, but my Muse will be there, inspiring me and offering answers as to why I’ve woken up in the shower with the water still running, holding an empty bottle of single malt and using a soggy copy of Rolling Stone as a makeshift pillow.
So if I only get one gift this year, I’d like Thalia back: tanned, sober(ish) and ready to get her lazy, hightailing ass back to work.
Author’s note to the jolly fat man: Santa, if you’re reading this, a left-handed Kurt Cobain Jaguar would make a fantastic stocking stuffer. I know I don’t play yet, but having that axe would certainly help to inspire me to guitar greatness. Or not. It’s your call.