Wednesday, 30 December 2015

What did you get in your stocking?

I received nothing. I mean...I was given presents, but my stocking wasn't visited. But that's alright with me, given that Christmas definitely isn't about receiving a sackful (just call me 'Butter', because I'm on an innuendo roll). It genuinely is true what people say; Christmas is simply about spending time with the people that you love.  

Of course, apart from spending time with loved ones, we all know that the festive season is also wonderful because you're actively encouraged to gorge in an extortionate amount of food and alcohol. Seriously, I have become so round during the festive period that I could have rolled back up to Manchester. In fact, that probably would've been better than the sweaty, sardine train that I had to travel on. Nothing says 'the holidays are over' quite like a stranger using your head as a handrail. I'm aware that I'm not a huge asset to the community, but I still believe that I have more to offer than that.


As a child, I found Christmas Eve terribly exciting. To me, it seemed enchanting that you could lure Santa to your house with the promise of a glass of Chery and a mince pie (which is actually how I still try and lure men to my house, rather unsuccessfully). When I grew up, I discovered that Christmas Eve actually gets better. It becomes better because all of your friends will happily don their favourite Christmas jumpers, and drink too many mulled wines with you. This year was no different. Although, instead of mulled wines, there were lots of Jägerbombs and Beer Pong (apparently we were all absolute fresher 'lads' again).



Personally, I think I enjoy Christmas Eve so much because everyone is home. Even my friend, who moved to Australia nearly two years ago, came home for Christmas. Although her newly acquired Australian accent made it quite challenging to take anything she said seriously (sorry about that). Yet there are downsides to Christmas Eve. When you haven't seen friends for a while, they strangely seem to become that uncle, who you’re never actually related to, and they begin to ask questions about your rather stale love life. This line of enquiry might temporarily make me feel quite ill, because I hate emotions, but it wouldn't normally bother me. But there's something about the festive season that makes you more aware that there’s no one in your life who will dance along to A-Ha with you, and then join you in an adult sleepover.



Given that I was fuelled by rum, baileys, and foolish festive spirit, I decided to take action. This was a catastrophic error, and I'm not exaggerating. Christmas may be about spending time with your loved ones, but it's not about sending them a WhatsApp message at 3am on Christmas Eve. It's not as charming as you think it’ll be (mainly because you’re not Andrew Lincoln in Love Actually). Brutally, you're just drunk, and making things quite awkward for yourself. Disappointingly (even though it’s probably for the best), your declaration will not be taken seriously, and you will just be called a silly sod. It turns out that no one will chase you barefoot down a cobbled street just to kiss you. Who knew that life isn't actually like it is in the movies?



As a child, waking up on Christmas Day is magical. When I grew up, I discovered that waking up on Christmas Day is actually rather painful. Normally, it's just a hangover that I have to suffer through. This year, I had to suffer through the shame of admitting that I rather liked someone. As if that wasn't enough, I also had to suffer the judgemental looks from my father when he came downstairs at 7:30am. Apparently, finding your daughter, in her Christmas onesie, fully conked out on the sofa, whilst Alan Partridge's Alpha Papa is blaring out from the telly, does not fill a father with festive pride. His blatant disappointment only increased when he discovered that I'd drunkenly eaten all of the pork pies and sausage rolls, again.



Christmas: I love you. But, unlike Wizzard, I'm ludicrously happy that you only happen once a year.