Saturday, January 1, 2011

bah, humbug!

Ah Christmas time. When for once a year, it is okay to eat 500g of chocolate a day, because it’s a gift, and it would be rude not to. When Londoner’s briefly drop their cold uncaring demeanours to wrangle their faces into a unnatural smile and wish each other “Merry Christmas”. When all people, regardless of their religious beliefs (or lack thereof), gather to celebrate a child that was born amongst animals over 2000 years ago and not even on the same day.

And we only do this once a year?!?!

For the first time I was not celebrating Christmas with my family in typical Shitspatrick style: home made potato salad, backyard cricket, and gifts of unwanted stationary items. Nay, I am in the country that birthed the Christmas spirit itself. My twelve days of Christmas consisted of figs, snow, blizzards, carollers, Regent Street lights, pub crawls, chocolate, Harrod’s, Sunday roasts, and the Walkabout (not typically in the Christmas custom but nevertheless worth a mention). My Christmas day itself was the best; from the moment I awoke at 2am to skype the family to when I stomached the last morsel of food my body could take before imploding at 2am, it was indeed a merry Christmas. I and the Motley Crew of assorted ex-pats I celebrated with cooked up quite a filling (and BMI tripling) TEN COURSE MEAL. I bet you’re rolling your eyes, scoffing. “Ten courses? As if!” you scorn boorishly. Many didn’t believe it could be done, but alas, friends, countrymen, romans, look and you will find the truth:

Course One: fancy pasta of some sort and eggnog

Course Two: Soup soup that tasty soup soup

Course Three: Meat pie

Course Four: Vege pie

Course Five: Mandatory turkey and green salad

Course Six: something....

Course Seven and Eight: More birds........and tequila shots

Course Nine and Ten: Trifle and chocolate pudding

Now I’ve never tried the fabled All You Can Eat Ribs and Pizzia at the humble Royal Mail Hotel, but this is as close as I’m going to get to going through what those poor customers inflicted on themselves. Cold sweats, loss of coordination, loss of ability to speak, decline in morals, increase bowel movements, weight gain, and waking up in the middle of the night screaming “No more! No more!” are just some of the results. Luckily a few days working on the chaotic Topshop Oxford Circus boxing day sales gave me an opportunity to forget my lesser worries of a huge appetite and concentrate on bigger concerns – like if I’m going to make it out alive from the pig pen of angry female shoppers each night.

I’ve also been preparing for my looming travels. I was able to get my Diptheria, Polio, Hep A, Tetanus, and something else shot courtesy of the NHS, but have to pay a whopping 90 pounds for Yellow Fever and Meningitus. And I was pleased to discover that none of them hurt half as much as the haemoglobin needle when you’re giving blood. Now that I’m evicted I’m moving out tomorrow and won’t have a proper address – not that I receive much mail anyway, but just to let you know. OH, and the other night I was lucky enough to score free tickets to Black Country Communion and The Waifs, which was AMAZING. I loved it with every fibre of my being. BCC is a rock supergroup with Jason Bonham (John Bonham's son), Glenn Hughes (Black Sabbath/Deep Purple), Derek Sherinian (just famous because) and Joe Bonomassa (Bloodline). The median age was about 65 and greying mullets and vintage leather jackets were in abundance. But it was mighty craic aaaaaaaaand iiiiiiiiii looooovvvvvveeeeeeeed ittttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt

That's all for now. x

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