Christmas

Isn't it a little early for a Christmas blog, you ask? Why, yes, it is. But since every other bugger seems to think it's perfectly acceptable to bring the festivities forward by, oooh, about 2 months, why should I deny myself an unseasonal moan? No reason at all. So, here I go with my jolly list of things I hate about Christmas:

1. The adverts. I happen to be a fan of adverts, despite having been married to one of the industry's creatives (whose only really decent creation was Grump and, let's face it, I put in most of the work on that one.) For approximately 10 months of the year, I can happily sit through adverts and find them enjoyable, or at least interesting in the main. Right up until the bastards break out the poinsettias and grinning grandparents.

2. The music. Those insidious bloody tunes which go round and round in your brain until you'd cheerfully pick up the nearest reindeer antler and stab it through your forehead just to make the noise stop.

3. The enforced bonhomie. The only time I habitually find myself wanting to be friends with everyone in my ambit is after 6 pints, and that's swiftly followed by the urge for a nap. This seems entirely reasonable, and I shan't be changing my position just because some bearded do-gooder thinks I ought to. Unless he buys me 6 pints.

4. People. My walk through Covent Garden becomes ever more annoying. In addition to tourists in their idiotic festive hats, there are also large gingerbread houses to negotiate and strings of German sausages in which to entangle yourself. If you're a dog rustler, this is exceptionally good news; otherwise, less appealing.

5. Work colleagues. Specifically the ones who, by early October, "just have a couple more bits to get." Bully for you. Now fuck off, or at least have the good grace to shut up and let the rest of us continue in denial until closing time on the 24th.

6. The glitter. You can't move through a shop without setting off some cluster bomb of silver and gold glitter. By the time you exit the place, you'll be sporting more glitter than you could shake a figure skater at. And any attempt to remove it will simply embed it further into your clothing and outer dermal layer. Best change your name to Tinkerbell now and save yourself the bother.

I'd like to tell you that's got it all off my chest, but I've barely scatched the surface, so consider this the introductory chapter. An advent calendar of mutterings, if you like, which - like Christmas itself - will span a whole two months. You lucky, lucky people.