No, Diego, No.

It’s time for number 7 on our “10 Things I Hate About Yule” countdown, Children’s Christmas television.

Just this morning, I have heard every Christmas song ever written, most of which were sung by that dancing douche of a dinosaur, Barney.
The Barney Christmas episode is a crime against humanity, but nothing could compare to the terror which followed.
I have, in one day, seen Santa’s sleigh pulled by a llama (Go, Diego, Go), a stuffed donkey (My Friends Tigger And Pooh) and Pluto, Mickey’s lifelong canine companion (Mickey’s Clubhouse) and, inexplicably, the only animal in his world which CAN’T bloody talk.
What sort of message is this sending to my Children?

ME: “Well kids, what are you asking Santa for this year?”

DAUGHTER: “I’m asking for a bike, Daddy”

SON: “BEN 10! BEN 10! CHOO CHOO!”

ME: “Uh-huh, uh-huh. So, do you think you’re going to get those nice

presents that you asked for?”

DAUGHTER: “Oh yes Daddy, we’ve been ever so good”

SON: “BAM! LOOK, FIRE! BEN 10!”

ME: “Don’t burn your sister son. So, you’ve been good, but I still don’t

think you’ll get any presents kids”

DAUGHTER: “OH NO! Why not Daddy?”

SON: “WABEESH! NEEEEE-OW! DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA!”

ME: “Because Santa is an ineffectual tit who can’t get from A to B without the aid of assorted fictional characters, to be honest, if he gets four feet from the North pole without banking into a snow drift and freezing to death, i’ll be surprised”

DAUGHTER: “D-D-D-DAAAADDDYYYYYY!!!”

SON: “EXPLOSION FUNNY! BOOM!”

Screw kids TV, time for “Muppet Christmas Carol”

You may call me P.

Picture, prey, a purulant putz and his pusillanimous pursuivant, a puissant pair as pleasant as a purulent pudendum.
Though promise and pledges were proffered, this polychracy (for they are no psephocracy) seems bent on ptochogony.
Their politics, preposterous! This piffling party shows a predilection toward pseudomania and pseudosophy.
Protest proudly and without pudor, for this parliament plans only to purloin and pilfer that which pertains to your future plans.
Periculous though my proposal may prove, my purpose is now plain.
I shall bring pain and persecution to this piacular plutocracy, which seeks solely to pinguefy with pennies from our pockets.
Pardon my pleniloquence, for parrot like I prattle, so it remains only to add that I am pleased to meet you and you may call me P.

(Many thanks to http://phrontistery.info/p.html)

I’m buying a dog.

Bringing you number 8 on my “10 Things I Hate About Yule” countdown (soon to be a three hour E4 special hosted by Jimmy Carr.)

8. Christmas Cards

I awoke this morning to a terrifying sound, the sound of letters falling
from my letterbox, to the doormat.
This would be enough to induce fear any time of year, due to the likelihood of bills which I would really rather not pay, but during this festive season there is an extra element of dread.
Having retrieved the pile of envelopes, I checked through, bill, bill, bill,
“To The Occupier”, bill…and there it was, a poorly handwritten, red
envelope with a gittish little Santa stamp in the corner.
Now, Christmas cards are a delight to receive, when they come from someone you give half a damn about, but last year we had nearly 200 cards.
I don’t know 200 people, certainly not 200 people that I like.
I opened the envelope, was nearly buried in an avalanche of not-so-festive sodding glitter and then read the hurried scrawl within the card.
At the bottom of the card, sure enough…
“Love Mike & Barbara”
Who in the name of Kris Kringle are Mike & Barbara?
I don’t think I know a single Barbara, except Windsor and she struck me off of her Christmas card list after “the incident”.
Checked with the wife, no clue who Mike and/or Barbara could be.
So now, we’re stuck with a card from someone we do not know, with no return address.
This is fine by me, I wouldn’t send them a card if I knew their address,
hell, I wouldn’t give them a Christmas card if I had a spare in my hand and they walked through the door.
Not that it would matter, because I wouldn’t recognise them, BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHO THEY ARE!
But of course now my wife is, on an hourly basis, popping up with questions like “Perhaps you went to school with a Mike or a Barbara. Did you go to school with a Mike or a Barbara?”
I…what? Possibly! I neither know nor care!
SHE’LL OBSESS ABOUT THIS UNTIL NEW YEARS!
You know what, next year Mike and Barbara, don’t bother!
You send me a Christmas Card, i’m giving you the black spot.