The Road to Christmas

I know I’ve harped on about this before, but Christmas is the season of goodwill? Really? Are we all sure about that? Its something I hear year in, year out, and yet as I stare out the window looking at the sleek black Lexus that is happily parked on our drive, in my space, under the sign saying ‘private car park’ I can only assume I misheard. The last few days have involved me and L being barged out of the way by many an unapologetic shopper, and today I turned back from trying to get petrol after several drivers shouted at me because I wasn’t willing to move forward straight into the back of the very still car in front of me. I don’t remember these bits of the Nativity play. I don’t remember it taking Joseph and Mary three times the amount of time it should’ve done to get to Bethlehem on account of a donkey pile-up on the JerusalM40 because people were scrabbling to escape to the possibility of a holiday with such extreme desperation. The notion of happily festive time ebbs away as you realise you have to spend at least five hours of it stuck in a car on a journey that usually takes a fifth of the time.

 

I escape all this because my family live a ten minute drive from where I do, which is a lovely bonus. Every year I choose between strolling there, or being super lazy and getting a lift or driving myself. Walking there and getting a lift back is usually the most sensible as any kind of physical activity post Xmas food is a no go zone. No one wants to look out of their window on Christmas Night to see a wheezing man climbing a hill, occasionally stopping to retch up a potato that physically won’t fit in his stomach until his body digests something else. So ultimately, what I’m saying is that I should have no concern over driving conditions today or which dickhead is parked in our driveway in their car that is far better than mine. Yes, it is this latter fact that makes me a) even more angry and b) automatically assume its some smug prick who has no concern for others. This is usually my immediate reaction. Much like the American penal system – guilty until proven innocent – which has of course led to such situations as this blog here.

 

But it does bother me because like a the sort of complete tool that has several different heads but is of no real use to anyone, I have to do my final gig before Christmas tonight in a small town in Derbyshire. Why did I accept this? Because lovely people, I still need to earn money due to next month being a veritable blackhole of comedy possibilities, so tonight’s pittance will help me get even closer to paying some of January’s bills. Hence while you all settle down with your mince pies and knowledge that the next few days will be filled with eating and fun, I will be screaming at the top of my voice ‘Why? WHY? WHY?’ as I stare at the same bit of M1 that I have been for the last four hours. I’ll be cursing the birth of Jesus and his ommitence in life of pointing out that the light he’ll bring to the Earth are those of car break lights streaming along a grey road of pain. I’ll be swearing at Santa for his initiative decision to use a flying vehicle to avoid all such shit and mostly, mostly I’ll be blaming myself entirely for wanting to eat next month, knowing full well that were I just to stuff my face through Christmas in the way I will, that I could quite easily fast for a month and still not be remotely malnourished as my body feeds off its own fat collectives.

This gig had really really better be nice.

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