An occasional series of things that get right on my tits
No.5: Over-decorated houses at Christmas
Now, I enjoy the festering season as much as the next man, but what in the name of blummin’ hairy arses is the point of hanging thousands of lights on the outside of your house so that it looks like an accident at a nuclear power station? Fine, it’s a pursuit that brings pleasure to thousands of mentally sub-normal people, but then so does Michael Jackson.
On the third week of November, I spotted my first, a house near the station in Dorchester looking like Picadilly Circus on a bad hair day, and the spirit of idiocy has send dozens up ladders to wire themselves into the national grid. Why? Why? In the name of the Son of God’s birthday, WHY?
Bad taste, bad for the wallet and bad for the environment - the little disc under the stairs must be spinning round like the clappers, what with all those lights, and at least four televisions round the house tuned into “America’s Dumbest Criminals” on Sky One, while granny is gainfully employed shoving 50p pieces into the meter. I have enough trouble finding a spare plug for the Christmas tree without going a whole month without the stereo, how do these jokers manage it?
Very little to do with the meaning of Christmas, and more to do with the American Santa-isation of our culture, where these decorations go up at Thanksgiving and don’t come down again until Easter.
Bah. Humbug. And I don’t care. Where’s my bloody present?
Lyle hates them too.