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.