A misanthrope is not just for Christmas…

All you out there full of the joys of Christmas take heed. For all the good cheer and mindless commercial excesses there are a load of folk whose preference is for cynical, misanthropic griping. I like to think I am one of those. Cheerily grumpy, is how I like to put it. We deserve respect!

Christmas is a difficult time of year for those with a contrariness bent. Be kind to us by not sending us cards. Please don’t ram the fact that you are as excited as a toddler by the whole dreary regularity of a festival that is way too excessive. Don’t get me wrong, I like excess – it’s what I’m good at – but come on now people, give it a rest.

humbug-scroogeIt’s not enough that I have to listen to f*****g carols from November onwards. Even in my local coffee shop I’ve been Bing Crosby’d to death for weeks now. I’ve even taken to walking in there with my own dirgeful music in my ears just so I don’t have to witness the excess of saccharine. If I wanted saccharine with my coffee I’d go for that sweet and low shit.

They do say that Christmas is for kids. Well if it is can they not do it quietly and at home? I am graceful enough to concede that inside the walls of a person’s house you can celebrate Christmas with all the abandon and carefree jollity of a rabid elf on ecstasy. But in the workplace? It spanks of too much desperation. Stop it, I say. Stop it right now.

And another thing, while I am embarking upon this rant, if someone doesn’t find Christmas a thrilling sherry-fuelled joy then stop calling us miserable. Let’s celebrate our diversity here, folks. I think you will find that the miserable bastards of this world (and I am one) at least have the temerity to be grumpy all year round. We don’t spend eleven months of the year in one mood and the last month ‘ho-ho-ho’ing like we have some sort of seasonal bi-polar thing going on. We are quietly and undemonstratively level-headedly misanthropic ALL YEAR ROUND. You’d have thought the regularity of that would have pleased people. But, oh no, we’re miserable bastards for not wanting to put on a paper fucking hat.

That said, have a great Christmas!


PS, done 100,000 words now, if any of you b*****s are interested…

Scene 3: The Badgers threaten.

Cue some jazzy intro music. Perhaps – no, definitely – a saxophone solo. And some maracas. Yes…that’s about right. Actually, the maracas are rubbish. Lose the maracas. Marimba? Surprisingly nice.

Mood funky – check, panning camera panning – check. Fade into…

mannekenpis-brussels-belgium-filipfuxa-shutterstock_39608626-600…The man sits at the desk, staring at the piece of paper in front of him, anguish writ large upon his face. Suddenly he wonders why he has started the scene in the third person.

Irritated, he gives a terse shake of his head. That should sort it, he thinks.

I stood up, crumpling the paper angrily, and threw it with the abandon of an overtly sensual basketball player throwing a ball whilst dead. It missed the basket.

I paced, my mind a whirl, or a whorl or something.

The paper I had discarded had printed upon it (with some sort of typeface and ink magic) a telegram. It said the following:

Sir stop Sir Kenneth Badger is dead stop Now we will have our revenge upon you stop

I’d known Sir Kenneth for thirty years. His death had shaken me to my rabid and infertile core. And on top of that, suddenly they were after me.

If I’d been any sort of a man I would have thrust out my chin, found some cloth and girded my loins, then stood with my noble feet apart and a grisly look in my eyes.

But I wasn’t just any sort of man. I was the man who brought the world to it’s knees after the interview of the century. Sigh…THE INTERVIEW OF THE CENTURY. So long ago it haunts me yet. With Kenneth’s passing I was the only one left who could stop the inevitable. But I was old. So old.

But age changed nothing. I needed to save Belgium or the world would end and it’d be my fault. And the Badgers were after me.

Cue pause for melodramatic sting and fade to a justly vapid green.