Ah, Christmas Day. No murderiles to make. And with no bakeries open, the pub's shut,

and with no coffee shops, whose electricity I can abuse, nowhere to go. Ah, yes, it's

a time of rest after a busy year. With nothing to research right or edit, and more importantly,

either in a yagobarm in juiced coma, dribbling neat whiskey, snoring like a B2 bomber dropping a

payload of z-bombs, and popping off fiery body burbs like an Iraqi oilfield. Ah, what a classy woman.

It's my day to enjoy as I see fit. None of this obligatory, oh well, it's Christmas, so we

must make ourselves feel as miserable and knackered as possible shit. By paying as brisker

visitors you can stomach, to those inherited inebriates you can barely abide. By eating rich

inducing foods, you wouldn't contemplate putting even near your gob on any other day of the year,

such as sprouts and cranberry sauce. I risk my case. By wearing flimsy paper hats,

whose only purpose seems to be to soak up your head sweat and then fall apart in six seconds flat.

And then to spend the remainder of what should be a lovely day, by cooking, cleaning,

arguing, avoiding the religious guff, the royal speech, and then heading off to find batteries for

the kids' toys. Will I say balls to that?

That's why I spend Christmas day by myself. Families hog the other 364 days of the year,

but Christmas day is mine to enjoy exactly as I want to. There's none of this,

where I want to watch Frozen for the billionth time that week.

My Christmas day is spent doing exactly what I want to do with no compromises.

I won't spend Christmas day drinking white russians in a tigger onesie whilst watching zombie movies.

I won't spend it cheering up two friends who were going through marital problems.

I spent one giving out presents to the homeless, as there are actually people in the world who

actually look forward to receiving socks. One Christmas I saved trapped horse, and another I spent

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