Missing: A leap year that was supposed to follow 2011. Claims to be the bringer of doom.
Seriously, what happened to this year? Before I even got the chance to practise writing the date with a twelve at the end (we all practise this, right?) I look up and it’s November. The only reason I know this is because everyone has a moustache. If they didn’t it would just fade into the blurred obscurity of the other ten months we’ve had so far. Maybe that’s why Movember was invented. To preserve the identity of the eleventh month of the year. That’s right cancer, you’re just a cover story.
I know that time is perceived to be quicker as we get older but this is god-damn ridiculous! When I’m 55 (I’ll never make it) I don’t want to turn around and say ‘Jesus Christ, that was a bloody good one night stand’ and be referring to a three month relationship. Sex is short enough as it is. When people in their 70s get busy, it must be about as meaningful as licking a stamp. No wonder they have problems with erections. I’m going to stop here.
This has all left we wondering if we ever get our time back? When we die do we get a chance to revisit the moments in our lives that went by too quickly? Like some kind of kickass level select feature. I know where I’m going. I’ve written down important dates just in case. If you see me looking for a pen you know I’m having a good time. If I’m not, you should probably raise your game a bit, Tom Stembridge. It’s nice to think that there is something after death. The amount of chemical and electrical energy released by the brain at the point of death suggests something might happen. I don’t want to just think of me hanging there in my socks with only the Dyson for company for the rest of eternity. There must be something more. Wait, am I getting deep? On the internet? No, can’t be!
So, just to sum up, this year has gone by really quickly, and I am not an asphyxiophile. I’m off to listen to INXS. Here’s a picture of a horse!
Dear Mr Lewis,
I have never frequented one of your retail establishments. I’m sure you do nice stuff. However, I’m not what you would call a ‘normal’ dresser, so I have no need for things like jumpers. I hear you sell things like furniture and I think that’s really swell. People always need chairs.
However, this is not the subject of my letter. No, I am writing to you because of this man:
This man was born in around 4BC (talk about a slight oversight in the calendar department). His birthday, despite nobody knowing when it actually was, has become an annual celebration called ‘Christmas’. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It takes place on December 25th.
That’s right. December 25th. Christmas Day. Not November. Christmas DAY.
I know I should be writing a stern letter to Mr Cola, as I realise you were not the first to capitalise on the commercial appeal of the most magic time of the year. But do you know why I’m writing to you? Not only do I love Christmas, but I happen to love music too.
I take it you’re not a fan of music. If you were, why on Earth would you make it a habit of over-extending the Christmas period and destroying good music in the process in your advertising?
Last year you basically raped Morrissey. Nobody knows if Morrissey would have actually enjoyed the shafting you gave him or not, maybe you told him you’d stop world sausages and he went along with it; I didn’t enjoy being exposed to it. This year you are going to be cornering Holly Johnson of Frankie Goes to Hollywood fame in an alley and showing him a different Power of Love.
I’m here to beg you to stop this. Stop it now. I cry every time Christmas spills out of December, for too much Christmas ruins the magic. But then when I’m forced to hear you and your overwrought covers of classic songs sung by some waifer-thinly voiced folk singer that are designed to make housewives and general saddos cry and then go out and buy three more tins of Roses; it makes me feel physically sick. And the only time I should feel sick at Christmas is when I’ve devoured an entire pyramid of Ferrero Rochers.
By all means advertise. By all means advertise for Christmas. In December. But for the love of God please don’t subject us to songs that are only there to serve as a reminder that we live in a world where consumerism ruins everything and good music is hard to find. It’s a sad enough place that we live in. My Mum won’t even buy me a fur coat for Christmas. Actually, do you do fur coats?
Dan Whitell (not a 16-year old female singer doing a shit Dan Whitell cover)