Oh dear! This is it! This is fucking it! I fear the inevitable season of complete ruination is once again upon us. Somebody save us! The twinkling nightmare, hungry and bound to bite, comes, shuffle shuffle, with sleazy knocks to spare, offering an ominous roast that’s rare, delivered with care while decked in all but cheer, to our dreadful doors of fractured dreams. Here, despite a withered wreath trimmed to charm, merriment and tones of cheerful candour have since long weakened. This jolly flavour of festive fortunes bears a blind burden in comparison to affairs of considerable weight. Holy hiccups! Not another almighty display of deep discombobulation! Where in the wild name of Santa’s prescriptions am I? This must be a place where the likelihood of escape is impossible. An admirable tactic would indeed be to accept these new magnitudes of bizarreness. To do so, one must find a sensible rhythm, clocking ticks of tock in mind, so that one can tolerate the season of rhymes.

 

        A wave of angered eyes, despite an honourable attempt to evade the erratic bulbs, breached the barriers of my frail figure as I hobbled through the revolving doors of doom. Is this some kind of greasy ambush? Who in the working clauses of home and house installs a rotational entrance of swirling panels? Someone must be unwell. This presentation of pomposity should be prohibited. It can cause some lowlife bastard a serious injury! Anyway, there’s no time! Appear natural. Avoid panic. Fuck! Toes in terrible twist. Striped-laced suck-toys litter the floors of horror, discarded and forgotten, with the intention to stay stuck forever, while sweating a mounting dew of sticky residue onto their chapped crusts of candy. I believe a quick exit is in order. This will not do. We must get out! A collection of disturbed figurines, perched proudly, picking, packeting and potting presents for postage, on top of a congested chimneypiece, have all it seems decided to cock a snook in my direction, and, what’s a great deal worse, is that they’re mastering the troublesome matter of synchronicity. The ability to remain composed has quickly become a very long and very lost friend. Try to, ‘pass as cool and collected... just chill you fool,’ is to this damning day, the worst piece of advice I have ever ignored.

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        This seems like the right time to present an essential piece of insight, regarding the many announcements of merriment, stung to stickers, posters, letters and postcards. It is imperative, for the sake of our collective wellbeing, that we do everything in the frail firmament of our human capacity, to change the letter ‘j’ in the word jolly to an ‘f’ for folly. Yes! Oh my! Flesh-stirrings and tissue-tingles, wobble wobble, are tripping down my slippery skin. Finally, some bastard is making slight sense! Jolly. Folly. Merry. Wary. That’s right! Cautious conduct is the real requirement right now! Nobody, for the living love of everything that’s sound, wants to witness an elderly holiday-devil freak-out prior to the introduction of the accoutrements. Imagine the outrage! An ugly scene indeed. Enough! Goodbye pestering statuettes! May all your artificial presents reach sound shores come the eve we peeve. Wait! What fresh follyhood is this? Hello. An animatronic elf who chops wood. This is it. It’s happening again. Mind if I sideways-shimmy to safety immediately? Dolls on shelves, goblins and elves, canes of candy, I need trains of brandy!

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        Now, it has, after an enormous session of investigation, mind you on levels that can only be described as adequate, finally been confirmed. There is no limitation to how strange and twisted things are quickly turning. The power of anticipation, once strong and sensible, has alas withdrawn its vital responsibility. Toys may talk, chit, natter and chat, but is some-fucking-one listening to what I am saying? All of us may have become fooled. Some by matters recognised as noteworthy, and, others by puppets of Christmas, who, have spared no efforts in their venture to trick you into questioning your otherwise unshakable sanity. Also, the variety of decorations deserve a good flaming don’t you think? I fear measures of safety would suffer from slight corruption, but, with the daring place of fire some fleeting steps away it would, dare I admit, almost constitute a crime not to indulge in the sensible act of some mild combustion. What is certain is that the shifty times are no longer to come, they are already here!

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        ’Tis indeed a peculiar season. We must do everything in our limited power to prepare ourselves! The only way to deal with such an abominable display of barbarity is to get incoherently drunk, or, perhaps, gobble and gigantic selection of sweet drugs, given, speaking of said sophisticated collection, by a terrible throng of troublesome strangers. It is impossible to trust a friend, one must never do, with the heavy task of providing good trips come the hectic holidays. Oh no! Pills come in every colour, bright and blue, green like goo, if one is indeed serious about the collection. Adamant on assembling a silly rainbow come dessert. Plonk! Plonk! How they seem to chase each other when placed in perfect alignment don’t you think? A multi-coloured cornucopia of wild kicks. Oh my! There’s nothing like a psychedelic freak-trip halfway into a seriously stale dinner. Head’s big. Chat’s bleak. Bad aches of mind. Are my eyelids fluttering, blink blink, to the bad beats of these holiday tunes? A talking candle. Not another intellectual gab with the illusive pieces occupying the mid-regions of this lengthy table. Not again! I will not have it! Surely, although nobody will be able to confirm, I am not speaking out loud? Appear natural. Avoid panic. Right.

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        Chunks of funk-fizz fondle the crust of my grimy gob. Another vomit? Not now! Not in these circumstances! Not in front of the kids! The vibrations, however tranquil they seemed at first, are slipping sideways. Salmon must be the culprit! The one who summoned the hideous singers of carol. How can something so sweet end in total shriek? Frosty tips of weeping leaves thaw in light’s bright burn. This must be the epitome of true horror. Wait! Tongue tough from toe to tip. Sweat drips in intervals too frequent to bear. These are indeed a sordid set of emotions to deal with at this time. It’s too early! How many days of this infernal anguish? Three? Four? Time, taking into consideration the intolerable amount of drink and drug, has now become another member to join the long since lost section of friends. What’s this? A sorry swill of holiday eggs, laugh noisily, as they slowly sag to their deserved dooms. This is twisted. They are, despite their bland complexion of face, smirking, and, what is indeed a great deal worse, is that they’re directing their crooked simpers at me. The reason for their clear disinterest in establishing a friendship I assume is manyfold. One reason seems to stick out. THEY ARE BLOODY EGGS! Maybe the pills have kicked in? Or, maybe this is the new real? The new high. Making a new swill of friends with a cool selection of boiled eggs, who, seem to ignore one’s pleasant invitations to buddying relations. Fuck! Once again, with each and every pottering day, we’re becoming less equipped to find sensible sentiments in sound matters.

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        A sharp tooth quick to chew, gobble gobble, chomping on pie while dining with dangerous amounts of drink, having copped numerous glances from the decked tree, sobbing glitter, and who, quite sensibly, is too eyeing the place of fire, while wishing, in the soft swinging of its singing shake, ‘good luck!' Maybe now one is able to think. Eyes are wet. Panic in pursuit. Peripheral imagery in perfect sway. Right.

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        If this abominable holiday indeed carries the weight of a heavy sporting event, then, for the tears torn from loving cheeks on frosty nights, and of course, for the sake of my sanity and yours, a sensible solution, dare one suggest, would be to postpone the annual agony, and commit to a four-year program.