THIS festive time of year is a particular favourite for that most curmudgeonly manifestation of mankind - the Christmas moaner.
The Christmas moaner can be heard holding forth to anyone who will listen about the utter-utter pointlessness of Christmas and how they are determined not to enjoy themselves.
Christmas is for kids but it’s not as good as it was when we were kids, because it’s commercialised.
The kids today don’t enjoy Christmas the same because they’ve got no imagination. It was a lot better in the old days when you got an orange in a sock and a shiny half a crown, because that’s when we used to appreciated the true meaning of Christmas. That was when we were five ourselves and when we wanted proper things like proper Adidas football boots, Levi jackets and Chopper bikes.
It’s all on computers now. We used to have to make do with Atari Space Invaders.
And the run up to Christmas in the shops starts earlier every year - in April now just after Easter.
And you can’t shift for kids stuff in the stores when you’re looking for a monkey metal windscreen wiper in the quid shop.
And everything’s shut for two days so you have to buy 17 loaves of bread and a stone of sprouts to see you through to the New Year.
And the Christmas adverts on the telly are rubbish.
Unlike the rest of the year when you are serenaded with twee females singing fey versions of your favourite punk songs, which you don’t like either.
Christmas telly is rubbish because its all repeats. And the great 70s programmes you used to be able to rely on at Christmas time are all disappearing because our childhood heroes are being implicated in police paedophile inquiries.
The Christmas moaner can be heard opining about the office Christmas party he doesn’t go to in an Italian restaurant because he thinks he won’t like and how he won’t be feigning enjoyment. Then there’s the people he doesn’t like who do go to it and how much it hasn’t cost him.
On Christmas Day he doesn’t like rich food and he’s looking forward to chips and beans on Boxing Day.
And he can’t escape to the pub because it’s full of Christmas part-time strangers who crowd the bar and can’t take their ale.
He moans that his old friends don’t send him Christmas cards any more and he tells them all on Facebook he’s giving the money to buy a goat for an African village.
Nobody appreciates the presents he’s bought and he’s taking the jumper his grandma got him back to the shop.
He’ll be glad when it’s all over and we can look forward to the unremitting gloom of the January and February beyond, when he can return to his usual cheery persona.