So, it’s Christmas then. Bargain.

Look, this year has been a bit odd, and it’s taken me a while to find my stride, but I think I’ve made it. Sure many entries in this blogs were worse than a shit stained copy of Katie Price’s autobiography, but that’s only because I forgot what I needed to be doing; forgot what I’m good at: Complaining. Oh, I complained a lot, but compared to how it should have been I may as well have simply stuck my tongue out at everyone and stomped off to have a good cry behind the shed every week. I think I was trying to reinvent myself a bit; pretend that I’m a normal guy really once you got passed the bile and drying spleen carcasses, but it wasn’t really working for me. All it really did was cause me to churn out page after page of craptastic shite. From now on, I’m embracing my inner git because it’s been a while since he’s had free run of my head.

There really is no reason to fight it anymore, so I’m going to come right out and say it:

I am a miserable bastard!!

So, come 2011, expect less churlish nonsense and sack loads of face melting venom aimed at anything that suffers the misfortune of wandering too close to my personal bubble.

I am curmudeon!! Hear me roar!!

That said, however, it isn’t 2011 yet, so I thought that my penultimate entry should be a little different, a little….umm, nice.

Don’t get used to it.

My Christmas
(with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore (or whoever bloody wrote it))

T’was the night before Christmas
And all was serene
Everyone was calm, content
At least, they should have been

Mum’s running round with paper
With sellotape and bows
Cutting this, and sticking that
And shouting “Pass me those!”

The Christmas lights are twinkly
Well, they used to be
Dads testing each and every bulb
Of the 80 on the tree.

The children running riot
Round the room like kids possessed
Won’t sleep until past midnight
Making mum and dad more stressed

Mum’s down to using magazines
As the wrapping has running out
The sellotape is missing now
So she’s using tiling grout

Dad’s scratched his arms and fingers
There’s pine needles in his hair
Still searching for the errant bulb
Perched high upon a chair

The kids are shouting “SANTA!”
And around the walls they climb
If they run around much faster
They could go back in time.

Mum’s just getting silly
And the cling films now in use
She’s calmed her nerves with Pernod
So her faculties are loose

Dad’s checked all 80 lightbulbs
His hands and arms are sore
It’s about now that he sees the plug
Strewn, haphazard on the floor

The kids have now stopped shouting
At least, that’s the way it seems
Actually its now only dogs
Who can hear their eager screams

Mum’s given up on wrapping
Chucked the scissors in the bin
Put remaining gifts in Asda bags
And has started on the gin

Dad mutters darkly to himself
Plugs the lights in, On they come
Then stomps away dead mardy
And flops down next to mum

The kids have now been put to bed
Though sleep’s still not an option
And mum and dad are wondering
If they could be put up for adoption

Mum sips on gin and hiccups
Dad picks needles from his skin
Why have the kids gone quiet?
Mum and dad creep gently in

The kids are sleeping soundly
Parents think they both look cute
They go downstairs and realise
Their house resembles bombed Beirut

But they quickly tidy, sweep and clean
Put presents round the tree
The house is quiet, calm and still
Just like it ought to be.

‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all was serene
Everyone was calm, content
Just like they should have been.

Merry Christmas. Now piss off.