The Best Way To Spread Christmas Cheer Is To...Stop, Just Stop

Christmas can go fuck itself. There, I said it. Tinsel can take a hike. Santa can sling his sleigh and Rudolph? Have you been checked for allergies mate? Tis the season to be jolly, is it? What's so jolly about getting fat, drunk and having to watch your mother run around shouting about hot flashes and overdone mince pies? Nothing, there is literally nothing jolly about any of it. So now, my fellow Grinches, join me in slandering the most sparkly of all holidays you hoe, hoe, hoes.

Family feuds are a plenty.


Is there any other time of year when you're forced to listen to your Grandmother's thoughts on your future life plans? Well probably, but she really comes alive at Christmas, I bet. When else are you forced to humour your Uncle's 'polite' queries about your love life or, let's face it, lack thereof? Christmas is the seasonal equivalent of cramming everyone irritating in your life into a sardine can and then throwing said sardine can into a tub of sweet wrappers and aged tinsel. I just can't.

Christmas shopping is like some sort of black magic torture. 



I realise that some of you freaks out there actually enjoy the art of shopping. The pushing through seemingly millions of prams and toothless grandmothers walking at the pace of a stoned snail, only to get into an over lit cubicle of torture and have a lovely little gawk at your cellulite. Christmas though, well Christmas shopping is shopping on a whole new, excruciating level of pain, except with more slow walking imbeciles and less patience. Oh what good clean fun!

Because thanks so much but you really shouldn't have. 


I appreciate the gesture, I really do. But quite honestly, what with all of the drinking that happens around December, the last thing I need to be doing is dropping a casual fortune on random bath sets that nobody actually needs or indeed, wants, and the same goes for anything you give me. You know it's thoughtless. I know it's thoughtless. Let's call it quits?


Because Christmas ended once Santa turned out to be a big, fat, scarlet lie. 


I still haven't forgotten the day I found out about the world's best-kept lie. To say that I was crushed would be a vast understatement. I felt like the (apparently fictional) loser reindeer who can't fly. I felt like that stupid little bulb on the fairy lights that fucked things up for the rest of the fairy lights. I, I.....*Sighs*

Because Christmas jumpers are everything that is wrong with the world. 



Ahh, the 12 pubs of Shitmas. A time when dressing up in a polyester jumper covered in balls seems like the best way to tackle copious amounts of alcohol and yet another rendition of 'Driving home for Christmas. Here's an idea, why not just drive home for Christmas and leave us, like right now? Kay thanks!

Because food is great and all, but now my pants don't fit.


Tins of Roses coupled with entire animals and more beer than an October in Munich equals one thing and one thing only, and no, it's not joy. Christmas won't seem quite so magical come January when sweatpants are all that fit me right now and you're shelling out another portion of your overdraft on a gym membership that you'll use for three weeks max. Oh, they'll see me rolling alright and yes, they'll also be hating.


Because one Christmas drink suddenly becomes a month long hangover.


One night out here, 24 pubs there and then, before you know it, you're nothing but a bloated prune lying in the tinsel-lined gutter, sad, alone, fragmented, alive.

Christmas songs on Spotify are the reason I just can't even.



So there I was last night just casually listening to Adele and hating life enough as it was, when suddenly, from nowhere, the Christmas songs began. In November. Without my permission. What is the fresh hell I ask you?

And as for Christmas films?


I'm just going to go ahead and vote a big fat negative on that one WORLD.

Oh and now, to really end things on a jolly note, I'm also completely and utterly skint.


What with all of this socialising in sweaty, overpriced pubs, buying useless crap for people who would rather you just made them a cup of tea, and racking up a wardrobe full of tight, sparkly dresses that will never fit all equates to one thing and one thing only. Debts and deaths of my former joy. See you in January bitches, Ima sit this one out.

Alison Keogh
Article written by
Alison decided to follow a sensible career route and chose to study Media. She happens to think of herself as a kind of Irish Beyonce after four Coronas, which usually results in her being deserted on the dance-floor by her loving friends. Her horrifically short attention span seeps into many aspects of her life, resulting in her half hearing important facts and hating people who walk at a leisurely pace.

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