Well I’ve spent much of the year bellyaching about everything under the sun – and now it’s time to turn my attention to generating some actual bellyache.
The fridge is groaning with condiments and exceedingly rich cheeses. I’ve been carolling around the piano with my family in a ridiculously wholesome, fifties-style way.
A little boy is, right now, hoping that his letter (pictured) has reached Santa and that all his Christmas dreams come true. To whit:
- “Scooter”
- “Lego Christmas”
- “I want to see Rudolf”
My own dreams are that I will see out the year without crashing the car and return in the New Year about half a stone heavier than I am now.
So, unless the telly is really shit (or something wacky happens, like North Korea nuking the South) I’m dragging my sorry carcass away from the screen to go live in the real world for a little a while. Whatever the parade of cretins who run the show are doing, they can’t take my stockpile of festive booze away from me.
Gawd bless us, each and every one.