Category Archives: 10 Things I Hate About Yule

I’m free. Free!

Well hello there, bet you thought i’d forgotten about you huh?

Over the Christmas holidays, I found myself snowed in with family, in the village which broadband forgot.

Seriously, if you’re going to go and stay with family members when snow is on the cards, pick a relative born post 1845 who doesn’t think the Internet is something you catch temporary office workers with.

In the run-up to Christmas 2010 I was introducing you to “10 Things I Hate About Yule”, we got as far as number 7, I believe.

Well, I will be bringing you the rest of that countdown shortly, probably, why should you miss out just because I was trapped in a place where the wheel is still regarded as cutting edge technology.
Of course, I could save it until Christmas this year…well, we’ll see.

Also coming soon, my thoughts on being wheelchair bound. It didn’t go well.
I didn’t honestly believe you could crush someone under such a small pair of wheels, ironically he’ll never walk again…

A final note before I go and kick a bag of kittens, i’ve been nominated for a Shorty Award in the category of humour.
Don’t know what’s so funny about the fountain of vitriol that is my blog but if it makes people chuckle and I get shiny baubles out of it, i’m in.

So vote for me. Not a request. There’s a button to the right, somewhere…

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”


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”


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?”


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”



Screw kids TV, time for “Muppet Christmas Carol”

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!
You know what, next year Mike and Barbara, don’t bother!
You send me a Christmas Card, i’m giving you the black spot.