Text 768, 77 rader
Skriven 2004-12-13 23:08:06 av Greg Sears (1:153/307)
Ärende: Seasons greetings
=========================
      C   h   r   i   s   t   m   a   s       T   i   m   e

It's Christmas. Yup, it's the time of year when the booze sales go up,
the work rate goes down, and everyone has a damn good time.  So can
someone please answer me - why is it always such a bloody anti-climax?

It's usually about December 12th when it really hits you - "hey guys,
it's Christmas!  Why didn't anyone tell me? Oh yeah, I saw the toy
adverts on the telly, but they've been there since June!  Wow,
seriously?  In 2 weeks, it'll be Christmas?  Yahooo!  Where's the beer?"

And that 2 weeks is the best 2 weeks of the year.  Suddenly, the air is
full of the sound of carols on the radio (Carol's what?), everyone's
happy and jolly, and you can't wait for the big day to arrive.  You
didn't even mind shelling out wads of cash for the families Christmas
prezzies this year.

If you're at school or further education, suddenly you're free to go!
It's down the pub every night, all your friends there, and you're all
having a great time!  Everyone's dead  friendly, the bar staff are being
pleasant, and you sit and think to yourself "why can't they be like this
for the rest of the year?".

You're dashing around the house, putting up decorations.  The place
actually looks half decent for once - no drab walls and dull corridors;
everywhere is lit up with the glisten of tinsel and fairy lights.

Christmas Eve arrives, and you can have some real fun winding the little
kids up about Santa Claus ("Sorry, kids, he got a dodgy tin of SlimFast
a couple of weeks ago, and he's been in Greenland General ever
since...").

And then one day you wake up.  You're first natural instinct is to, of
course, go back to sleep.  But there's something there, something
pulling at your consciousness, saying "Oy!  Wake up! It's Christmas
Day!"

So you leap out of bed.  OK, not with as much enthusiasm as you used to
be able to muster, but you still bound down the stairs - hey, who knows,
perhaps the prezzies this year will beat last years dismal offerings?

So you leap into the living room, and the first thing you notice is that
the glass of milk and plate of biscuits has been consumed.  When you
were young, this was the conclusive proof of the  existence of Santa.
SOMEONE must have eaten the biccies, no-one else was down here, so it
must have been Santa, QED. What I could never figure out is why my
father made me leave out a pint mug of McEwan's ale...  I thought Santa
was into the odd brandy, myself.

OK, quick glance about the room.  And there they are: the family
presents, all nicely wrapped, with lovingly stuck-on bows and gift
labels.  Some caring relative spent ages carefully packaging your
prezzie up; so what do you do?  Yup, rip it all off again!  Never mind
the paper, it's not too important (unless you want to be a tight-arse
and use it to wrap up next years prezzies), let's see what "Santa" has
delivered YOU this year.

And it's NEVER, EVER what you wanted. You wanted a Porshe, they get you
a book on "Classic Cars".  A new monitor? Nope, a packet of festive
screen wipes. A hard drive?  10 branded blanks. But don't look
disappointed, you don't want to appear ungrateful, do you.  Just keep
smiling, saying "oooh, it's lovely, just what I wanted" and thanking
everyone.  Bet you wish you hadn't shelled out all that dosh on their
prezzies now, huh?

Still, there's always  Hogmanay...


   *                       *
  ###  Merry  Christmas   ###
 #####  Happy New Year   #####
   =      I C E-man        =

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