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Friday December 22, 06
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10:47 PM - happy christmas your arse, I pray God it's our last
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Q: What did Adam say to Eve on the day before Christmas Eve?
A: Tomorrow it's Christmas Eve, Eve. Any chance of getting my Jimmy waxed?
So yes, it's almost Christmas. Aren't you excited? I haven't put up a Christmas tree this year, but I do have a festive apple core on my desk, next to my keyboard. I hate Christmas, I can't wait for the day the Muslims extremists take over and ban it.
Due to the machinations of a floosie with a heart unspeakably evil (see previous journal entries) I had booked the last couple of weeks of December off work, since I was supposed to be going to America for a little holiday. Despite having such dreams doused in petrol and set alight, I decided to use up the holidays anyhow: I had visions of doing productive things... I was going to buy a guitar for my nephew, since he was quite ill over the past few months and apparently it's all he wants for Christmas. Every day this week I have meant to do it, twice I went out to get it, but somehow ended up just buying stuff for myself instead.
To be fair, although I still haven't bought him his guitar and it's now December 23rd, I have bought myself some nice outfits. When next I venture out amidst the proletarian hordes - though I am perhaps the antipode of what is an attractive male - I shall at least be sharply dressed. But back to the point, I can't remember him ever buying me anything. I gave him £10 for his last birthday and he didn't even say thank you, the little ingrate. Teenagers are so ill-mannered. No, he'll have to do better than being on a drip if he wants something that expensive. I had a rather lengthy period in hospital myself, when I was 5, and all that was waiting for me when I got home were some Matchbox cars - and let me tell you, I was more than happy with them. Not as happy as that child from the Nintendo Sixty Fouuuuuuuuuuur video on YouTube, but happy nonetheless. I'm being horrible, aren't I? Oh well, I am what I am.
I was waddling around the supermarket this afternoon, picking up my rather sad Christmas dinner for one ready meal plus accoutrements; all the while the shop's tinny speaker system infecting the air with festive banality. Whilst I stood vacantly contemplating a bowl of couscous behind the glass of the deli counter, Cliff Richard gave way to The Pogues "Fairytale of New York" - the song which our general public have voted their favourite Christmas song 3 years in succession.
Excerpt:
McColl: "You're a bum, you're a punk."
McGowan: "You're an old slut on junk.
Lying there nearly dead
On a drip on that bed."
It's a bit of grim song to be playing in a supermarket at Christmas time really. On the plus side though, I duetted with the office floosie on it at a Christmas do' of yesteryear - on Karaoke, like - and it was most satisfying to deliver those lines to her.
Anyway, I must end abruptly since I've run out of things to say.
Until Later
J K Rowling
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And he's always sharply dressed.
Don't lie to the audience.