Says it all really

Fuck Christmas Carols. Fuck Secret Santaand fuck his bran tub. Fuck Christmas doos from work and their fucking inedible slop at £50 a fucking head. Fuck patronising and meaningless Christmas messages from the boss thanking you for another great year at work when your mortal soul is at breaking point with the spirit crushing banality of your toil. Fuck The Metrocentre.Fuck putting up the Christmas decorations at home and at work. Fuck bewas with legs like gas bottles tarting themselves up as some kind of Miss Santa vixen. Fuck the office lush pissed out of his/her head and making a cunt of themselves. Fuck me for allowing myself to be roped into Christmas drinks after work. Fuck rip-off Christmas taxi fares. Fuck Clayton St., which just looks so fucking depressing at Christmas time. But not as depressing as the fucking Gate. Fuck The Gate. Fuck Eldon Square. Fuck Slade. Fuck John Lennon and his climate controlled wardrobe for his fucking fur coats singing Merry fucking Christmas, War Is fucking Over- Imagine hypocrisy. Fuck packed, hot and unhappy bars all over NE1. Fuck The Queen.

Fuck creeping Jesus types harping on about the real fucking meaning of Christmas. Fuck people saying they got nowt for Christmas when they were bairns. Don’t be so fucking jealous and take your beef to your fucking parents who probably drank all their wages and fucked you off because they never wanted you to be born anyway you self pitying wortless cunt. Fuck worrying about homeless people for one day of the fucking year and then fucking them off for the rest of the year. Fuck the inevitable heart-breaking tragedies that always occur at this time of year. Fuck smug cunts telling people they did all of their Christmas shopping online this year. Fuck Wizard. Fuck that “wish I was fucking well at home for Christmas” shite when we’re all climbing the fucking walls by Boxing Day. Fuck glow in the dark reindeer horns worn by inadequate women screeching their way from one hell hole bar to another. Fuck the whole enforced jolliness of it.

Fuck A&E rammed to the rafters with glassings, stabbings and other manner of extreme, drunken violence. Fuck feeling a bit funny, maybe a bit like some kind of fucking weirdo for fucking loathing Christmas. Fuck The Pope. Fuck the tedious tale in the Daily Mail about some school / council / government building etc banning Christmas decorations. Fuck gut-wrenchingly pointless Christmas cards. Fuck Christmas wrapping paper. Fuck Gift Vouchers. Fuck the whole charity push. Fuck the media telling the slack-jawed saps there is going to be a shortage of brussel sprouts and thousands converging on super-markets like a swarm of trackie-bottom wearing locusts. Fucking losers. Fuck talking about the mythical perfect Christmas back in never-never land yesteryear shite. Fuck Christmas Trees. Fuck the oily smile and the phoney handshake from the cunts you work with who have been piling knives into each other’s backs all year round. Fuck phoney German Christmas markets selling tat and sausages. Fuck the sausages as well.

Fuck stories about daft cunts getting themselves into a boatload of debt - for “the children”. Like “the children” would rather have some low quality consumer tat but get evicted by March and have a mother with a nervous breakdown. Daft cunts. Fuck Nigella Lawson telling gimps how to make a Christmas cake. And how to use goose fat. Have you sen the size of her arse? Her old man was a fucking cunt. Fuck him as well. Fuck organised fun. Fuck the nonsense of “its better to give than receive”. Is it fuck! Unless they are talking about anal sex. Fuck that cunt doing his hilarious David Brent dance in the office after a lunchtime sesh. Fuck not having the bottle to twat the cunt when he’s making those Gervais grunts when he’s spinning his arms around. Fuck getting sick of the whole shittiness of it on those tortuous nights out from work, pretending to go to the shit-house but taking a detour out the back door and either (a) text your mates to see if they want to go AWOL from other nightmare nights out or (b) straight home. Fuck semi-concerned TV reporters from Regent St. whining on about retail spending and the fucking sales. Fuck the people who go and sleep outside shops so they can get a cheap sofa in the sale on Boxing Day.

Fuck miserable cunts on two-bob fanzines spreading their misery via the internet when you know a couple of wins around the Christmas and the lightweight cunts are necking anything they can get their short-fingered mitts on and trying to nail the border-line boiler from accounts.

Holden Caulfield