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#3 – The Death of Music

Perhaps I have made a mistake almost immediately. Perhaps number 3 should be “When people decide to write long lists of things they hate and then take so long to complete it that North Korea destroy the world before they have even reached #10”. Perhaps the time has come for me to hang up my hobnailed angerboots, put down my gun of vitriol, un-stab the unseen cloud of irritation that seems to cloud my every path.

The truth is, I haven’t been that angry recently. Well, not in any specifically-directed, coherent way, anyway. My recent anger has taken the form more of a general malaise than a focussed spew of tooth-shattering rage. I’m not going to misleadingly paint you a picture of a reformed gentleman, whistling his merry way down the sunny side of a cobbled street, handing out sweets to the young neighbourhood children – partly because this is now an arrestable offence – but still, all things considered, I’ve been fairly cheerful. I almost smiled the other day.

Smile!

“I love Mondays”

Unfortunately, a rule in life tends to be that if you stick your head up above the fog for too long, a seagull is going to poo on your head. In my case, the poo in which I have been recently covered is a musical poo. Not as novelty as you might expect, I’m afraid. It still smells bad. If I put my finger in it and give it a lick, it still tastes pretty awful. And if it happens in the middle of a crowded street, I still need to flee, red-faced, muttering “Oh, for God’s SAKE” under my breath repeatedly. Yes, that’s right. An extremely pooey poo.

I don’t like self-righteous, arrogant pseudo-folk – a subgenre represented by Frank Turner. I have no time for self-fellating, psychological-meltdown teen-idol gibberish – patented by Britney Spears, most “admirably” stepped up a few units of irritation by Justin “phallus-head” Bieber and Miley “chlamydia incubation device” Cyrus.  I am certainly not endeared in any way to sexual-assault banterpop or its sister genre, gangster rap…e (see R. Kelly, Robin Thicke and an all-star cast of angry, tracksuit-wearing miscreants shouting bad “poetry” loudly in to microphones at staged parties, while surrounded by gyrating crack-whores with dead, dead eyes). And as for One Direction… I’d rather vote Tory than ever hear of them again.

cameron cunt

“I will shoot Harry Styles right in the face if you vote for me.”

What has happened to the world? Generations of youth swept away on an unnervingly quickening tide of time, to be replaced with the musical equivalent of join-the-dots. The legacy of the 60s and 70s – The Beatles, The Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Hendrix, Dylan, The Kinks, Clapton – through the 80s and 90s, glittering with gems as bright as Queen, Jacko, Sabbath, Metallica, Nirvana, Soundgarden, The Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, anything Dave Grohl has ever done, and, of course the mighty and transcendental Toto… all this has been confined to the archives, sealed away in a cage somewhere in a library (what’s one of those?) to gather dust, as our ears are overrun with dirge until, in an evolutionary change fitting of a very bad horror movie, the children of tomorrow are born without ears as our genes realise that deafness holds a much higher chance of survival than being constantly exposed to the brain-melting musical acid that is known today as “Nicki Minaj”.

the children

Maybe, somewhere out there is an adolescent who will read this. If that is you, young “Hashtag Dollar-Sign LOLington-Smythe”, please read my words of warning. Go back to the roots of your ancestors and write something with actual music in it. And guitars. Guitars are good. If you don’t, you will be personally responsible for humans ceasing to have ears. And what’s worse is that this mass ear exodus will almost certainly result in our once-essential and seemingly-benevolent, flappy bits of head skin retreating to the sea to form a master race of giant, amphibious ear people, and they will surely have their grim vengeance on the world that has forced them to swap being squashed up against pillows for the bed of a litter-filled ocean. When this happens – and it definitely will – the only sound left will be the sound of this grumpy old bastard saying “I told you so” (except nobody will hear it, because… oh, right, you get it).

 

I fear for you all.

 

Still, at least I’m angry again. Every cloud and all that.

ear attack

“I’m, er… watching you”

 

Simon

 

 

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Facebook buyout sparks mass unfounded cartoon-based hysteria

Facebook buyout sparks mass unfounded cartoon-based hysteria

American Internet giant Google have launched a successful $1tn takeover of Facebook, which will see Earth’s four largest powers combine in a move that has sent fear and reminiscence through the hearts of 1990s children all over the world. The move swiftly follows Facebook’s acquisition of Whatsapp, the world’s most popular time-wasting messenger service, and is thought to be the largest merger in the history of anything, ever.

‘It’s like he’s, y’know, becoming a Capitalist Captain Planet!’ shrieked Martha Atkinson, an unemployed single mother from Bedford.

download

The Power is His!

‘It’s very simple – now that the four corners of the World – Google, YouTube, Facebook and Whatsapp have joined together, the force of these elements will transform me.’ boomed Larry Page, Google CEO, immaculately caped and masked, atop a $35,000 dollar replica of The Iron Throne.

 Experts have expressed concern over the sheer weight of the gold bullion used to make the purchase, stating that ‘polarisation of international wealth to this extent could cause a weight imbalance so catastrophic that the entire area could collapse in to the sea.’ However, retired Facebook creator Mark Zuckerberg remained unperturbed. ‘I recently relocated my private bank to an undisclosed location in Africa in anticipation of such an issue. You see, nobody gives a shit if Africa sinks’ he smiled, casually lighting another $100 bill as he stepped on to his private submarine.

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#1 Walky-Texty Gawp Machines

Allow me to paint you a picture. It’s a windy Tuesday afternoon and you’re on your way home from town. You’ve got a few shopping bags – perhaps a vacuum packed steak for tea, so bloody that it is gradually leaking red middle-class juice on to a new pair of 15% off Converse.

Converse

God, you’re COOL. You’re like that guy from that band.

Naturally, you’re anxious to get back to your semi-detached suburban bubblebox, put some Eric Clapton on your floor-standing speakers and sing tunelessly along to the first three words of each chorus (you silently mouth the other words, because you don’t know them). Anyway, there you are, briskly courting the edge of the pavement in order to breeze past the ridiculous assortment of dawdlers, aggressively obese women in tracksuits and children picking their noses, when POW! You’re unceremoniously shunted in to a puddle that has collected mud, cigarette butts and cholera at the side of the road over the course of the last 24 hours of British drizzle, by some utterly inconsiderate drone. Exasperated, you stare at your damp Sainsburys bag-for-life and then glance up to see that the newest object of your vitriol is none other than a completely anonymous, random bastard who is bashing, banging and bouncing into the rest of the pedestrian public for no other reason than they are BLOODY TEXTING. Or flicking through their Facebook news feed. Or looking at a semi-naked selfie that has been snapchatted to them by Shazza15 (who, it will later turn out, is underage).

video-opdoc-texting-articleLarge

OMG ur so funny lolz…cnt wait 2 c u babe. Stella xxx

Evidently, I am not the only person who is exceedingly irritated by this. In New Jersey, tickets are now being issued for “reckless walking”. The NTSA estimated 1500 accidents directly caused by this in 2010, with a projected year-on-year rise. And, hilariously, an American woman with a BMI higher than her IQ was so distracted while texting that she WALKED OFF A PIER. It’s incredible to watch. These dribbling cretins jolt from side to side as if they are steering themselves with their own thumbs, and, with the irritating “swish” motion now a feature on virtually every phone in existence, the switch of direction has become so rapid and chaotic that it resembles a string puppet dancing. Or someone accidentally slipping on Peter Andre’s hair.

Now, I’m not usually an advocate of vigilante justice (I am), but in this case it seems clear to me that the only way to combat this appalling crime is by legalising instant street beatings. I can’t imagine anything more satisfying than watching – even better, actively participating in – a hungover 19-year-old girl being set upon by every member of the general public within a cat-swing, and beaten to within an inch of her life as a punishment for being too absorbed in Whatsapping her BFF about where to get the morning after pill, instead of just looking where the hell she was going. Bitch.

Texting While Walking

You’re going to get punched in the head, love.

Other similar crimes include unnecessarily walking three abreast down a narrow street, suddenly stopping without warning, standing in doorways and genocide.

You have all had fair warning. Next time I come to town, I’m coming swinging.

tumblr_m17cue3MKF1ro2ryjo1_500

‘But on my way, I’m going to be doing this… if you get hit, it’s your own fault…’

Simon

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My Room 101 – A Labour of Hate

Before I begin, I would like to draw your attention to an EXTREMELY IMPORTANT WORD. Please remember it for later.

Atrocity – /əˈtrɒsətɪ/ a.tro.ci.ty (noun, countable)

1. Appalling or atrocious condition, quality, or behaviour; monstrousness.
2. Behaviour or an action that is wicked or ruthless
3. The fact or quality of being atrocious

When I find myself tuning in to the immaculately coiffed reporters of doom, gloom and celebrity gossip that are “The Newsreaders”, they often use the above word when referring to war crimes, terrorism and British weather.  They are, of course, unarguably (and equally) correct in their usage of the word in all three instances. However, in doing so I can’t help but feel that they overlook the need for its continued and everyday usage, for the sad fact, ladies and gentlemen, is that I experience atrocities EVERY SINGLE DAY. I only need to step out on to a road to find my senses bombarded, beaten and bullied by tiny little atrocities, living openly like bacteria upon a vast array of breathbags, brain-morons and all-round irritating little cretins worldwide. Put quite simply, I am having a clandestine hate-affair with the whole world.

ANNOYING
Simon was never readmitted to the Halitosis Anonymous group

Stop reaching for that straitjacket, Mother. I realise that not all of you are going to have been immediately convinced, which is precisely the reason that I have decided to start a little (ish) project, entitled “Room 101 – A Labour of Hate”.

It would appear that the “blog” section of this site is swiftly being transformed in to a personal crusade to win a place in your hearts as your second favourite hate preacher (after Abu Hamza – he is definitely more cuddly), so I may as well go the whole hog and embrace this as a fact to be celebrated. Taking the idea of popular BBC TV series Room 101 (but with a twist), I have decided to write 101 short pieces, each addressing a new atrocity – not a “Trevor McDonald atrocity”, but one that you yourselves may encounter from day to day. Perhaps this collection of musings will serve as a warning, so that you can be ever-vigilant of the unspeakable crimes that lie a matter of feet from you – on the other side of a supermarket shelf, round the corner of a crowded street, or on Track 9 of that utterly appalling CD that you’re about to cram nonchalantly in to your pocket noise-maker. DON’T DO IT!

Or perhaps you could simply upload pictures of your own faeces-covered rear end and then use this section (or any other) of my blog as virtual, pixellated toilet paper. I would be delighted with either outcome.

Hug Me!
                                    “Hug Me!”

Expect edition #1 of my anger-filled ranting to follow forthwith. Oh, and here is some appropriately rage-filled music, courtesy of a man who has spent his career being outwardly furious at being named after a river that flows through Nottingham: Trent Reznor.

Simon

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BP 180/110 and Counting

Somewhere, deep within the bowels of my brain – a metaphor that might go some way toward explaining why I talk so much shit – lies a switch. I like to think of it as being incredibly difficult to flick, kind of like a bogey with legs. Unfortunately, I have been reliably informed that I am wrong.

The switch to which I am referring to is embossed with the word “RAGE”. We all have one. Mine is either faulty or the size of a fist. A really angry fist with the word “hate” tattooed across its furious knuckles. In my experience, there are a number of things in life that, completely understandably of course, reach their horrendous little fingers out, insert them in to my ear and jab the switch repeatedly like particularly invasive q-tips. I’ve already vitriolically hammered my thoughts on a couple of these hideous little anger-goblins on to a keyboard here http://simonrichardsonenglish.wordpress.com/2012/11/22/asbo/ and here http://simonrichardsonenglish.wordpress.com/2012/12/11/christmas/. Well, they say that pent-up balls of maniacal aggression come in threes…

Anger Goblin

The Green Goblin of Apostrophe Misuse

‘I’ve got a bike, I can ride it how I like…’

It’s a glorious, sunny day. If you’re reading this from Southern Europe, South-East Asia, Australasia, most of North America, South America, Africa, The Middle East or any country where English is not the first language, this means it’s cold, but it isn’t raining. If you visit RIGHT NOW (just for one day mind), I can all but guarantee you that you might not immediately die from Pneumonia as soon as you get off the plane. Of course, if you’re a Muslim the EDL might stab you, but at least you wouldn’t be freezing cold. Anyway, I’m British, so when I catch a glimpse of the sun I’m practically naked within 5 seconds (strange how an enormous ball of fire can have the exact same effect on the male population as Scarlett Johansson, isn’t it?) and I take to the streets for a delightful little stroll through central Oxford. How quaint. Or it ought to be at any rate, but within two minutes I meet the first perilous obstacle of my aimless little waddle: a ROAD. That I need to CROSS. Fortunately, J.P Knight, and later, Leslie Hore-Belisha came up with excellent  methods of facilitating this: Traffic Lights and Pedestrian Crossings. Comforted, perhaps complacent, I approach one of these marvellous and apparently COMPLETELY UNHEARD OF inventions and press the little button. And, after a little wait, the little red man becomes a little green man and happy little me can cross the little road and potter along happily to…..”DING DING WHAT THE FUUUUUUUU&%*$%&” As if from nowhere, like a ringwraith for the modern day, a lycra-wearing lunatic comes steaming straight through the red light / over the pedestrian crossing, a look of determination on his face seen thirty minutes earlier when trying to cram himself in to an outfit meant for athletes, or at the very least people who don’t resemble the blob from Blade that gets burnt to death by a UV ray. Take note, fatties. Wear anything other than a tent with sleeves and I will come at you with blue lightbulbs.

Bradley

Following stage 8 of the Tour de France, 
Bradley Wiggins removes his yellow jersey
and breathes out

Revenge is a dish best served on foot

It’s like a lottery. A really dangerous lottery only played by idiots. So, a lottery then. They appear from nowhere at speed, swerving unpredictably in front of livid bus drivers, resembling enormous flies evading a swatter. Stopping for nothing and nobody, caught up in the smug complacency that no number plate or other identifying mark adorns their metal chariot with which to locate or fine them, single-mindedly focused on the titanic task of getting from point A to point B without stopping or slowing down, lest their entire being loses its pedally sense of rhythm and spontaneously combusts. I can feel my blood pressure rising just from writing this paragraph. One day I will turn the tables. I’ll casually walk along the pavement in a logical, straight line until a cyclist passes, and then deviate completely illogically in to the road, knocking them from their vehicle. I’ll then beat the absurd engineless motorbike to death with my bare hands and rip its damned spokey-dokeys off (Did I mention that I’m currently imagining myself destroying a six-year-old’s bike from 1989?). That’ll level the playing field. Cyclists beware. Pedestrians are striking back, one broken bone at a time.

Bike

When the police arrived on scene,
Budgie was already dead.

The alternative is that Patrick McLoughlin reads this blog, and makes the following changes post-haste:

  • Number plates on all bicycles, or mandatory identity jackets as seen worn by Colombian motorcyclists
  • On the spot fines for cyclists who don’t follow the highway code / wear a helmet
  • Enable wronged pedestrians or motorists to legally strangle perpetrators to death in the middle of the street while humming the theme tune to Shaft

Job done.

Conclusion

I realise that this is going to tally up against me somewhat. I have already asserted in no uncertain terms that riding on a train is definitely what I’ll be doing on repeat in hell (if such a place exists).  I’ve now followed it up by tearing in to bicycles like a live manifestation of rust, but much faster acting. It looks bad, but I’m not actually a mediaeval farmer in disguise. I’m not terrified of the concept of, or even plainly anti-transport. I’m also not the kind of gibbering loon who would demand that the wheel be placed in Room #101. In fact, what I’ve come to realise is it’s not the train’s fault. It’s also not the bicycle’s fault. No. The fault, quite clearly, lies with all of YOU. The people who turn them from innocent little inanimate objects in to wheely whirly nightmares. So, I’m going to suggest that humanity is tossed nonchalantly in to the mythical BBC pit – though recent revelations seem to indicate that an underground lair full of hateful things housed within BBC headquarters, may in fact be more plausible than originally thought. Call in Tony Robinson and Time Team. They’ll get to the bottom of it (and then have to stay there, in accordance with my condemnatory wishes).

Tony

“ARGH! Savile’s got a hold of my leg….”

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“Mum… MUM! I think the planet’s dead!”

I hope that you all appreciate this. I’m hunched over, bottom lip firmly clamped over nose, taking valuable time out from the last day on earth to write about the last day on… yes. Well. My nonetheless valid point is that I deserve recognition for this selfless act. Of course, the painful agony of this is that the earth is about to be eaten by Godzilla, meaning that my long overdue Nobel prize will remain undelivered. Damn you, Gorilla-Whale. Anyway, while rocketing through my bucket list at a speed that would give Morgan Freeman an epileptic fit, I have had time to pause and reflect on the cold hard facts that form the undeniable truth that is the forthcoming apocalypse.

Marlon Harewood's Bad Hair Day 20.12.12

The Mayans

I feel compelled to begin by stating that I have never in fact met a Mayan. However, I have been told that the 21st of December represents the end of a 5125-year cycle in their calendar. This is terrifying news, but it DOES allow me to draw the following highly educated conclusions about their ancient society with some degree of confidence and authority:

  1. Their calendars were ludicrously expensive.
  2. They used rhinoceros horns embedded in to their walls to hang said calendars, which made a mess of their kitchen wallpaper.
  3. They are responsible for most species of rhinoceros being endangered today.
  4. Mayan Teenagers’ calendars contained an eye-watering amount of airbrushed soft pornography.
  5. This resulted in Mayan males having abnormal asymmetries in their wrist sizes.
  6. Mayan females liked to plan things an awfully long way ahead.
  7. Except for counting numbers after 20.12.2012

Hot Mayan Nurses

ARE YOU SCARED YET????? I start trembling and have to hide behind a pillow whilst sobbing quietly in to a bucket of my own sick EVERY NEW YEAR (although I have been told that this is actually affected by alcohol consumption rather than doomsday-phobia). All the same, imagine the state the Mayans must be in right this second, after stacking up 5125 New Years in to one night. I can’t even begin to imagine how one would go about dressing in 5125 different fancy dress costumes at once, let alone sing Auld Lang Syne 5125 times. The mind boggles.

The Music

Whilst there is no denying the quality of both The Beatles and Nirvana separately, the combining of two powerful forces such as these has no doubt confirmed that Armageddon is upon us. It doesn’t matter that 50% of them are dead, or that Paul McCartney has been melted by his own smuggery leaving only a magic singing toupee behind, the facts CAN NOT BE IGNORED. Strongly backing up this argument are musical collaborations such as Madonna and Nicki Minaj, Rihanna and Chris Brown and Iggy Pop and that staggering mountain of wildebeest turd with a dollar sign in her name. The mysterious release of a single called “Scream to high buggery” by Ban$hee on this very date has almost certainly swayed it for me.

Ke$ha is Swamped by Fans

The Guys with the Signs

I mean, they seem so sure this time, right? Undeterred by the previous 74 occasions on which they have been proven to merely be the kind of people who twitch on buses, stare intently at geese and sniff bridges, the placard-wearing brigade have once again taken to the streets in force, sporting everyone’s favourite judgement day slogans:

  1. “The End is Nigher”
  2. “Get your tissues for the second coming”
  3. “It’s not the end of the… OH WAIT”
  4. “I’ll NOT be back”

I’m pretty sure I also spotted a group of students near the back too, but their signs said “NOW will you legalise it??”

A-DOH-CALYPSE

They Killed Sir Patrick Moore

I don’t know who “they” is, but television has recently told me that Sir Patrick Moore was the only man in the entire world to have owned a telescope. Now nobody can see Godzilla coming. We are all surely doomed.

Conclusion

So it’s almost time for me to bid you adieu. The final curtain, the last hoorah. As Edith Piaf, a woman who could be transformed from a midget in to the tallest woman in the world through careful ironing, once warbled: “Je ne regrette rien…”

BUT WAIT!! An epiphany! Maybe all is not in fact lost! Remove the knife from your mother in-law’s throat, put your pants back on and return that Bugatti to its owner very, very quietly. And, for those of you just about to seal the airlock on your cryogenic chambers, first ponder over these three crucial, life-changing facts:

  • It’s already 21.12.2012 in Australia, so even if the end of the world is coming, at least they died first.
  • One of the four horsemen of the apocalypse recently received a six-month ban for the presence of a “prohibited substance” in his blood and is therefore unavailable for selection.
  • Kim Jong-Un’s fingers are too fat to press the big shiny red button on his massive mahogany desk.

FRANKIE DETTORI - DEFINITELY NOT A COKEHEAD

Simon

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‘Tis the Season

Hurrah! Huzzah! Brobdignag! We should all be sickeningly congratulatory, stand around in large circles and laugh heartily in rounds (until the laughter awkwardly fades away like that bit in Austin Powers).

Why, you ask?

“Well, it’s Christmas! You see that?! WE did that!!” Except….

It will come as no surprise to those of you unfortunate to know me that I dislike Christmas intensely. I wake up every December 25th with what psychiatrists specialising in providing an entirely unwanted supportive ear to hormonal teenagers will come to refer to as “an utterly stonking grump on”. Do you remember that time when Fred Durst nonchalantly flung strands of his pubic hair, 15 stone of lard and a dead clown in to a Play-Doh pasta machine and then furiously turned the handle, grinding away until, eventually, the band Staind popped out? Yes? Well, even more miserable than them.

StaindPlay-Doh

I have reasons which conveniently divide themselves in to two kinds:

  1. Poignant and Genuine
  2. Strange

I won’t ruin the surprise by telling you which of these will form the focus of the remainder of this post. Call it my Christmas gift to you all. Don’t thank me.

Drum Roll……………

1) Snow

On Christmas Day, 1941, Bing Crosby, via radio, released a version of Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” so covered in treacle that a morbidly obese man, unable to beat hunger away with his giant back-scratcher until Turkey o’clock promptly devoured it. No known copy of the original broadcast exists. Undeterred, Crosby, who was later scientifically proven to have the most punchable face in human history, re-released it via the eye-wateringly terrible film, Holiday Inn. The following SUMMER. Such was the power of his dream of a white Christmas, that a terrified God invented snow almost immediately after, and that was that. Boy, did HE have egg on his face when he realised that Crosby had being singing about class ‘A’ narcotics all along.

The obsession with snow in this country is ludicrous. I have actually witnessed real adults flapping their wings with joy and utter disbelief when they discover that THERE IS ICE FALLING FROM THE SKY. All well and good, don’t get me wrong. But then, almost inevitably with us Brits, the complaining starts.

“It’s COOOOOOOOOOLD!” “It’s really sliiiiiippyyyyyy!” “My snowman looks like a fat Grand Imperial Wizard and it’s scaring the nice Nigerian family next door!”

KKK Snowman

Chaos ensues. The country literally goes in to meltdown (no pun intended).  People are unable to leave their houses and go to work for fear of the annual plague of Yetis, drivers reduce their speeds to 10mph (whilst still driving three inches from the rear of the car in front) and pensioners all across the UK start dropping dead in protest.

So my message about snow to you all, as you shield yourself from a barrage of suspiciously yellow-coloured snowballs hurled by the children across the way, is this:

It’s all Bing Crosby’s fault.

Bing

2) The “family meal”

Q: What’s the blandest, dullest, most depressing kind of meat in the world?

The answer of course is Andy Murray. But we can’t all eat him. Oh no. So, we use an unbelievably complex mathematical principle to calculate the optimum number of drunk, hat-wearing lunatics that comfortably fit around a dinner table, add seventeen, then sit in anticipation of the world’s second blandest, second dullest, second most depressing kind of meat, Turkey.

Turkeys were introduced to Britain by William Strickland upon his return from America in 1542. This was during the reign of King Henry VIII, an exceptionally fat man, who was pant-wettingly excited about the fact that turkeys were bigger than geese. He started eating them and, being as he was in no way an enormous pain in the posterior, he never once threatened death upon those who did not support and facilitate the breeding of these animals. ALTERNATIVELY…

Henry VIII

So here we are, picking disdainfully at our turkey while frantically clock-watching, beads of anticipatory sweat dripping from our brows as if our very juices are trying to make a break for it and save themselves, when things take a dramatic turn for the worse. How wrong D:Ream were with their 1993 prediction, because, that’s right, it’s time for Christmas crackers. I can’t adequately describe a cracker in a way that fully portrays its unbearable crapness. Fortunately, Wikipedia can. I would like you to read the following while imagining it being narrated by the blandest, dullest, most depressing kind of meat in the world:

‘A cracker consists of a cardboard tube wrapped in a brightly decorated twist of paper, making it resemble an oversized sweet-wrapper. The cracker is pulled by two people, and, much in the manner of a wishbone, the cracker splits unevenly. The split is accompanied by a small bang or snapping sound produced by the effect of friction on a chemically impregnated card strip (similar to that used in a cap gun). One chemical used for the friction strip is silver fulminate, which is highly unstable.’

Brilliant.

But wait? What’s that inside the cracker? Is it…. a joke??? Could things be looking up???

HILARIOUS joke

What follows this is laughter so forced that it can only be replicated on any other day by attending a Russell Howard stand-up routine. Not to mention the fact that I was absolutely positive that the answer to that joke was “Chuck Norris”.

Fortunately, I have a solution to this part of “The Christmas Problem”, the instructions to which are below:

  1. Unfurl “joke”.
  2. Pretend to read it, concentrate very hard on Russell Howard, and then make laughy noises.
  3. Instead of reading it, pretend to read it while instead telling a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT JOKE that is ACTUALLY FUNNY.
  4. Apologise to your grandparents.

Works every time. I call it “How not to be invited to your own house on Christmas Day”.

3) Jesus

Let me get this straight. I’m eating turkey, wearing a stupid hat and sitting twelve centimetres away from my Grandmother’s cleavage because there was once a story of a wizard baby who grew up, drank too much and enjoyed a “bit of a dabble” with a prostitute? Who does he think he is? Angus Deayton?

Angus Deayton

Two Weeks Later…..

Margaret, mother of two, has given up. The strain of Christmas has ripped her soul in to tiny, tinsel-covered shreds. She’s had more visitors than she could shake a stick at, and they have harassed, demanded, niggled, gibed, annoyed, baited, bothered, badgered, hassled, heckled and hounded her in to submission. Not only that, but she’s had turkey sandwiches, turkey risotto, turkey stir fry, turkey stew and turkey curry. Turkey is actually coming out of her eyeballs. She even called the President of Turkey to see if he could assist. He could not. Defeated and a shell of a woman, she wearily trudges across the new lino that was given to her as a present by her dreadful Mother-in-Law, opens the bin and…

“What about the starving children in Africa, Mummy?”

Spanking

The moral of the story is that Christmas also directly causes child abuse. I rest my case.

Simon