My wife has a very Ebenezer Scrooge attitude towards Christmas. She fucking loves it. Oh, did I confuse you, I obviously was referring to Scrooge's attitude once he had been visited by the four ghosts (don't fall into this trap pedants, you will be outpedanted -unless you're thinking of the Muppet Christmas Carol where I suppose it is technically five). He loves Christmas at the end of the story (sorry, SPOILER ALERT - ooops too late) so I presume that whenever anyone says someone is like Ebenezer Scrooge that is what they mean.
I, on the other hand, have a very Ebenezer Scrooge attitude towards Christmas. I think it's a waste of time and money and an excuse to stop working and also I hate humanity. Oh sorry, that's a bit confusing. I am like Ebenezer Scrooge when he's been visited by no ghosts.
But the point is that we're both exactly like Ebenezer Scrooge and that's why this is a good and strong marriage. Imagine Ebenezer Scrooge being cloned and then fucking himself. This is what is going on here. Mmmmm. Say "Bah, Humbug, bitch."
I have become distracted.
My wife loves Christmas and I hate Christmas so how do we get through the Yuletide season. Well marriage is all about compromise, so we celebrate Christmas with wild abandon. You might think that that means that my wife rules the roost, but you're wrong. We celebrate Christmas for at most a month of the year, which leaves eleven months of the year Christmas free, just as I like them. It should be 50:50, but my wife only gets her way for one twelfth of the time. Who is the daddy? It's me. What I say GOES!
Anyway, this slight concession to my wife's wishes meant that we spent most of the day buying Christmas decorations, presents and a tree, which was surprisingly tiring work. But people were out there furiously buying tinsel and tat and gifts that their family wouldn't really want. If George Osborne really wants to get us out of recession he should merely decree that there is now a Christmas every three months. It would mean my wife would move closer to 50:50 parity in our relationship, but think of all the money that would be spent. We'd move ever closer to the Roy Wood dream of Christmas every day. People thought he was insane at the time, but me might be an economic visionary. It's hard enough me thinking of something to buy for my relatives once a year to be honest.
We headed down to Brook Green where a man is selling Christmas trees next door to Tescos. The little green is packed with trees, apparently 3000 were slaughtered to cater for the pine hungry inhabitants of Hammersmith. The man told me that they'd sold 1000 in a week, which made me wonder if this was the only job he had. Spend three weeks of the year selling trees at an average of about £50 a go, (£50,000 a week) and then head out to live in the Bahamas for 11 months. One day, when pine trees have the equality in this world that they deserve that man (and his customers) will be pilloried for thei money-making holocaust. But for now let's put dead trees inside our houses to celebrate the birth of a fictional character (who wasn't even born on this day anyway). Hooray!
But at least by the end of the day we had a tree covered in decorations and lights and all we'd lost was a day's work and a couple of hundred pounds. Bah, humbug.
