A cure for Christmas…

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Hear that massive klaxon? Yes, the one borrowed from a James Bond villain’s lair (after Shir Shauun has kicked a few henchmen in the jewels and quipped us out of an apocalypse).

Yes, the one that sounds like Mr Toad parping down a country lane in his gas-guzzler, hellbent on amphibian anarchy. Yes, the one that has graced scores of Carry On films, lest the urban sophisticate hooter gags pass us by. Yes, that klaxon, which signals the sound of hypocrisy.

Not the hypocrisy of squalid self-enrichment that now passes for government (we’ll come to that later; a light skewering might prove medicinal). No, the hypocrisy I speak of comes wrapped in tinsel and smelling of cinnamon and cloves, a mulled self-righteousness that will for some prove cloying. I have to exorcise it somehow as my long-suffering partner would rather cut her ears off than endure any more bile.

This whole talking up Christmas thing that preoccupies me in my day job at this time of year?

To me it is but a rancid lie. An effrontery. A sham. And for all the good it has done us (or will do us) it should take a long walk into the wilderness and not come back until it serves any purpose at all.

It’s too easy to write off cynicism around the festive season as fashionably Grinchrist, just another word salad of bitter aloes and chopped regrets (in a sentence which is itself a word salad – who needs Zuckerburg’s rehash when you have this level of meta going on?).

However, viewed through the cold prism of objective analysis, can anyone say there is anything to formally celebrate this December?

The charge sheet grows longer even as I write – an increasingly corrupt parliament in London with a serial liar in No.10. Hot air at the climate conference, and the prospect of a diminished health service limping into 2022, While ideologue vultures rub their wings in anticipation of a collapse and the chance to ambulance chase our society into a US model? Hyperbole? Nope. It’s like watching the slow death of an old friend - very, very, sad indeed. (Note to The Ed’s lawyers, it’s all in the public domain.)



Worse still, there’s a kind of torpor that accompanies it, or more accurately, a stupor. The drooling acceptance of the pig-headed amongst us across these isles who:

1Vote for the politicians and causes that have steadily chipped away at the now desiccated glue that once bound us together

2Refuse to accept the consequences of their choices.

3Get all antsy when you take them to task with er… facts and that. Such stubborn pride: It hasn’t just gone before the fall; it’s sitting on top of us as we plummet headlong ever downwards.

Dark mutterings indeed, sorry folks I can’t indulge in vacuous boosterism and toxic positivity like our clown-in-chief; it’s the placebo of those doomed to fail, mercury as a cure for the shepherd’s disease.

What I do concede is that wallowing in misery does no good either. So maybe, the best policy is to find some middle ground, pitch a tent on it, and start working on an escape plan. Maybe even one that plays Jingle Bells. Worth a try I suppose.

I’ll start with some simple remedies for this malaise, homemade poultices to draw the poison out you might say, before condemning me to obscurity as just another amateur ranter who needs to wake up and smell his expensive keep-up coffee. Or, you know, get a life.

Without further ado then – Nurse, The Screens! And bring the rubber gloves while I perform a self-exorcism. Dr Montgomery prescribes the following for this despair:

Proroguing of Boris Johnson

Whether your political sympathies lie with the blue, reds, yellows, oranges or greens, surely in the name of the wee man above, this rogue of a Prime Minister should be prorogued? Enough is enough. Let’s salvage what little remains of the UK’s reputation as a democracy.



Prince Andrew to be ‘retired’

Another ugly bauble to be cracked this Xmas is the on going absurdity of sweatless scandal magnet Andy Windsor being allowed to stay on, in his new roll as the lesser-seen royal. Time to lock him in the attic with his golf clubs for good. Or make him take a job at that Pizza Express.



English football to be wound down

Bread and circuses never endeth. Maybe that’s the problem. Only by being forced to confront reality without distraction, will we make any progress as a species. So, cheerio EPL! You’ve had a good run. But the final whistle has to go. Grounds to be turned into allotments.



Christmas ads to be pay per view only

Finally, in an act of supreme self-destructive hypocrisy (see opening para), I call for an end to Christmas adverts - especially the bloated reindeer corpse that is the annual ‘John Lewis’ effort. We have been infantilised, sold to and patronised enough.

Now, that didn’t hurt at all did it? In fact, I’m starting to feel better already…

Is there anything to formally celebrate this December?

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Dark mutterings indeed, but I can’t indulge in vacuous boosterism and toxic positivity like our clown-in-chief

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