Saturday, December 28, 2013

2013: The Pre-finitosis

   You know the drill.

    The moment the Boxing Day boxes have been returned to their trunk, the true spirit of Christmas departs for another year.

    Yes, the tree is still up, and yes, all those images of Santa and his cuddly minions still gaze down from every mantlepiece and window ledge, but gone is the urge to beam and sway to the soft hum of a Canterbury choir — or rampage through the living room to Slade at max volume with a mystery aunt gripped in a half nelson (and your cock out).

    The elves, the sleigh, the magic and the anticipation are all gone, and if Christmas TV specials continue to be aired at all, they trumpet bleakly either of has-beens or probably-never-will-bes.

    It’s Festive Season R.I.P. for the next couple of days, a ritual gathering of empties and a scrubbling of burst balloons from under armchairs, a time to find dead grandparents behind the sofa and conclude that omitting Hide & Seek from the list of party games was probably not such a good idea after all.

    Now, we look ahead to 2014.  The fairy lights are our runway, heralding a bright new future like the sliver of light twinkling from behind an ajar door invites maniacs.  We toss away our sick bags, prise turkey carcasses from plates, and pluck the fungus from Gramps in good heart: one celebration may be over, but the next is about to begin (only this time, it doesn’t cost zillions of quids in unwanted presents, useless scented candles and excitingly named cheeses so vile not even a rat would touch them).

So, gestate ye all with wonder 
as the year draws its final breaths.
Let us gather on the morrow, 
like gay bums awash with meths.
Let the future be ours for the taking.
Let the past be remarkably gone.
Let our hopes flick flack as acrobats
before a horizon scorched by the Sun.

    Hey — it’s either that or Auld Lang Syne.

    Or Jools Holland and some unknown hillbilly playing a cucumber...

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