Christmata.

Not everyone approaches the sexual act the same way.

Whilst that is playing on your mind, i'll switch tack over to the topic at hand, so fluidily that you, the reader, will probably not even notice....Many different factors affect a persons approach to the Christmas festive season; there are generational nuances, class variations, chronology of childhood/adulthood, religious inclination....mental health condition....(the same thing?)

This year was not the Christmas that I expected. Traditionally or at least in recent years, I have spent the build up to Christmas combining working hard to earn an engorged December pay with having a good deal of holiday remaining allowing me to make the holiday period predominantly out of office. Mix this with work Christmas parties, friends parties, seasonal decorations and general good cheer and you have a heady mix that makes that 4/5 day return to the family embrace a warm and upbeat engagement, feeling insufficient in it's fleeting nature.

2009 however and from the off a few pieces were not quite in place. It was like a football missing a talented left winger or a talismatic captain, they can adjust and utilise momentum to flounder through a few matches but ultimately they will fail. Tottenham without Modric, United with Ronaldo, Chelsea without Drogba, Hull without Bullard....

An extended metaphor for those dulled into a coma by the football reference:

Buzzcocks without Bill Bailey, Quinticenssial Englishness as a media presence without Stephen Fry, Mr T without the A-team (see world of warcraft adverts currently on TV), Knight Rider without Hasslehof....

And to reverse the metaphor for indulgence:

Father Ted with chisled good looks, Indiana Jones with CGI'd monkey's...in fact...George Lucas with access to modern technology.....etc.

Back to the point,

I hate my job, it's about as financially productive and as valuable a use of my short life as it would be to post your Gold to those Gold buying companies currently on TV or dressing the concept of time up as a five pound note and swallowing it, then burning your faecal matter a day or two later, having spent the interim time period whilst it worked it's way through your bowels attempting to insert your own elbows into your anus.

I spent my carefully saved holiday days attending interviews for equally as unsatisfying jobs, didn't have the money to enjoy the process of purchasing gifts for others, exploring Christmas or buying luxuries like fucking travel cards.

It weighed on my mind and whilst i made Christmas happen, I didn't feel it.

There was the family event, the big day, a gathering of an extended network of blood line, all under 5ft 9 inches, they gathered stumpy and present laden, ready to save the 'day'.

'You're what, 29 and i'm giving you a stocking filled with presents?' barked my father at 10am Christmas day, after literally dragging me out of bed by my disgruntled foot. One swift reprimand for my pitiful career and several forceful suggestions that i'm a 'bit different' and my illusions of the family embrace healing my wounds like a crying child gripping it's mothers arm, were shattered.

In 1718 BlackBeard made his last stand, staving off inevitable defeat with 25 pirates and a ten gun ship named the Adventurer until he was killed in a gruelling hand to hand battle with his opposing captain.

In December 2009, I made a last stand, staving off an inevitable pitt of despair with an illmanned sense of Christmas cheer and a pen knife with pliers attachment that i recieved as one of an entourage of inexplicable gifts.

However, BlackBeard had his head swung beneath the bows of his enemies ship as a warning and as a sign that the most fearsome scurge of the seven seas had finally been defeated. Christmas 2009 would have no such victory over me, scurge all who like the point to be presented quickly and without going around the houses for the sake of pure indulgence.

Here we are in January 2010 and I am sat at my desk wearing a colourful jumper and a cheery grin, albeit eyes so puffy that they look like Charlie Brooker just got angrier, but i'm chipper.

The long and the short of it is that (like BlackBeard), I had a fucking good time. I enjoyed the incredulous sense of disbelief when I was handed an Ed Byrne DVD, I enjoyed being told that know one in the family understands me and that i couldn't have a lift at 7pm in the evening to go 8 miles, because, 'we are not a taxi service'.

I enjoyed it because it was unique to my breathren clan, absurd and exemplorary of a technically functional British family with absolutely no idea how to communicate and learn from each other.....except, they are and they do, they just haven't a clue how to express it so frustrate each other to the point of utter disbelief which marvelously, no longer comes to a head by way of explosive row....

in fact....

this year....

...It lead instead, to me attending a 'body pump' class that was fronted by a stunningly beautiful blonde woman who was seemingly considerably stronger than I, with my father. A unique way to vent your Christmas frustrations and find a bonding point that welded a generation together in the ridiculous, found sanity amongst the body pumping insane, welded the family middle class in the face of 'them lot with accents' and caused me a serious long term knee injury.

A week well spent.

Prim, proper, front, centre and plastered.

The life of a professional in 2009 is tough. There is a shrinking economy putting jobs at risk and an ever growing number of higher education graduates emerging from the university womb ready to steal your job eager as beavers. The pressure to be perfectly turned out and to thrust oneself into the working day with the enthusiasm of a child at Christmas tearing into presents has never been so great. It is paramount that the succesful professional exeed targets, arrive early, leave late, innovate the generation of new revenues and skip lunch.

How then does one cope with the diminishing returns, growing work loads, increased expectations carefully balanced against the cessation of chocolate rations and job loss whilst fitting in a vibrant social life and general pressing life administration issues such as gas bills, short haul holidays, relentless drinking and 'girlfriend time'?

Well, i'll tell you:

Last night (sunday), i strolled to my local Tesco in search of a few bits and pieces with which to negotiate a succesful dinner, perhaps a glass of wine and a film before hitting the hay allowing for a comfortable 8 hour sleep pre the working week.

Unfortunately the Tesco extra in question only has room for a limited choice in stock. Missing are loose vegetables, all vegetarian protein options save for Quorn Sausages, they have no cheddar, no beans, no pasta, in fact the missing list is endless. They will however always have in stock, Chippati flour, pot noodles and heat magazine.

In the face of such odds and to negate the demoralising effects of trawling through the proverbial wellington boot in a fishing net that consituted my options, i bought a bottle of wine and 8 cans of lager.

On the journey home i saw a local tramp sitting looking dejected with his head in his hands. Presumably he had taken his last £2 into tesco to buy cider and returned with a bag of Chippati flour instead.

So, to wind down my Sunday and prepare for the week, i put on an episode of the frankly fantastic 'Band of Brothers' and opened the wine. 6 episodes, 1 bottle of wine and 5 cans of lager later...otherwise known as 2:30am, i crawled into bed.

The morning alarm hit me like a mallet in the face. Standing in the shower using my shoulder to prop myself up the moment to get out and get ready arrived when my knees buckled as i fell back to sleep standing up.

Having forgotten to dry clean my only suit, which incidentally is actually a dark blue blazer and a pair of dark blue trousers that do not match and were purchased seperately, i was forced to rumage through a dusty bag to find a worn old pair of brown work like trousers i used to wear in part time jobs.

Running an iron over the scrumpled heap that consitutes my now off white shirt, i glanced in the mirror to decide upon how necessary a shave was. Was it necessary? Very. Did i do it? No.

Once in the office of course a staunch professional facade is vital to overcome the undoubted look of horror on the face of the office manager when he casts his eyes over my lacklustre appearance. ....(I look like i have been shot with a stun gun but concluded that work is more important than my health).

Unfortunately one of the office conversations is weaving its inexorable path toward idiocy within earshot.

Office idiot: 'Oh i love spandau ballet, you know, Goooold and True, so good'.

Other office idiot: 'Is that Ross Kemp?'

Office idiot: 'No Martin Kemp'

Other office idiot: 'What else have the written?'

Office idiot (who LOVES Spandau Ballet): 'Oh those are the only two i know'

Thereafter follows 20 minutes of singing these two songs untunefully to attempt to illustrate who she is talking about.

This saps my enthusiasm, so i have a cup of tea to help mask the smell of alchohol, google 'giant rats' discovering that a man in china has caught a rat the size of a cat: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/china/4688453/Giant-rat-caught-in-China.html and then write this load of twaddle to help waste some time before lunch.

Luckily i have 3 meaningless phone calls lined up to make after lunch and a host of points of interest to explore on Wikipedia.

Those graduates don't have a chance.