“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” so sang somebody who I do not recall about Christmas. No it is not. There is little doubt that the Grinch belonged to our club. We hate Christmas and that means that it is going to be awful for you as well. In fact, any kind of celebration will result in you dreading the day as it appears and you are walking on eggshells throughout the entirety of the day. What should be enjoyable for everyone becomes a nightmare and it is one of our deliberate creations.
The ghastliest thing about Christmas is the concept of giving. Don’t get me wrong, if you want to engage in giving, be my guest, so long as it is towards me and nobody else. Do not expect me to reciprocate either. Christmas requires effort and we don’t do effort. Writing Christmas cards, shopping for gifts (did you not read the chapter above about giving you gifts?), preparing food, visiting people, entertaining people and putting up with relatives for days on end. No thank you. If you want to put all the effort in to doing this, you can go ahead. In fact, I would rather you did so that I can come in and provide the final flourish to the Christmas tree or sail in and sit at the head of the table with all the food prepared and set out so I can engage in regaling all assembled with my anecdotes about how marvellous I am.
You might think that I might see Christmas as an opportunity to identify and extract new forms of supply. This can occasionally happen but it is not the promise of potent fuel that you might expect. First and foremost, Christmas is for children and they are the black holes of fuel. I might attend somebody’s party on Boxing Day and be engaged in amazing them with some of my standard tales as I aim to seduce them when some rug rat will appear and tug at my target’s skirt. Her attention will switch to little Johnny and my efforts have dissipated as she goes off to find him a slice of cake or take him to the toilet. Some of the games where I hold centre stage at an adults’ gathering become ineffectual as I am annoyingly upstaged by a precocious brat with their rendition of Silent Night causing cooing from those assembled. Alternatively, one of the youngsters attending decides to start crying and thus attention turns to him or her to try and placate and soothe the bawling child. That attention should be focussed on me, not him or her. I find it galling to say the least.
What troubles me considerably is the fixation with a fictional fat fellow in a red suit. Write a letter to Santa. Santa is watching so you had better be good. Visit one of Santa’s helpers. Make some mince pies for him and leave them out. Stop going on about bloody Santa, he does not even exist. I exist but it is hard work trying to compete with Father Christmas. I become so infuriated with the fuss that is made about him and I have yet to work out a decent smear campaign that might bring him down, the jovial rotund chap seems impervious to a good character assassination. I am still working on that though.
I used to get a kick out of telling my younger siblings that Father Christmas did not exist causing them to cry. I still remember that warm feeling that would flow over me as I watched the tears flow from them. The red faces, scrunched up as I pointed out with hard fact after hard fact as to how he could not exist. I was always punished for this but it was worth it. People need to know the truth about certain things.
I think I dislike Christmas so much because it tends to usurp much of my abilities, not something I like to admit but there it is. I am about everything that is shiny and new, I dangle the glittering baubles in front of you to lead you by the nose into my fantasyland. What does Christmas do? It insists on having trees decked out in shiny baubles and bright lights. Houses are festooned with twinkling, glittering lights. Tinsel abounds and wreaths, stockings and garlands demand attention. The radio emits an incessant parade of festive songs; which people would rather listen to than my tales of excellence. The demands of preparation ensure people are too preoccupied with organising all of those things when they should be directing their attention to me. They are ringing friends, other family members and arranging visits. You spend your time saying how you have not seen people for so often and you then divert your attention to them. I have spent all year trying to keep you isolated and part from your networks and Christmas comes barging in ruining my entire endeavour.
I react the only way I know. With disdain, criticism and nastiness. I refuse to participate in activities, I will not help with the preparation, and I do my utmost to avoid having people visit unless I can be sure they will give me the fuel I demand. I am content to attend parties, especially if children are unlikely to be there, this provides me with some hope as I stalk the room sucking up fuel from every available source of admiration. I break gifts; I hide them and turn my nose up at them in order to prompt a reaction. I mess with the controls on the cooker in the hope of spoiling Christmas lunch so a scene develops. I do love the drama of an undercooked turkey. I will try and embrace your sister inappropriately under the mistletoe and then blame her for being drunk. I must admit that despite all my endeavours it is a difficult period to get through. You remain frighteningly cheerful at times and there is too much going on which detracts from the attention I want.
I hate Christmas and I will routinely do as much as I can to spoil it for you as well. You have to work hard to keep it on course. Sometimes it will work and sometimes it will not. There are occasions where the best I can hope for is to sit and sulk and make a mental note of all the things you do during this period that offend me and bring them up once your family have departed and no more friends will be calling round. Alone and cornered I can reassert my superiority and control. I won’t enjoy Christmas so do not waste your time trying to make sure that I do and watch out, because I will be trying to derail it for you. Bah humbug!