I wrote this in December 2015 and never hit ‘Publish’. So I’ve hit it now. Enjoy!
December is a funny time of year. You feel like the entire population breathes a collective sigh of relief; the year is over, the next year is about to begin, you can drink with complete, reckless abandon and stuff pies into your mouth in public and people cheer you on from the sidelines.
There’s the Christmas party, where the cliché of “oops I slept with the CEO in the back of his Merc while his driver looked the other way, then I went back to my bedsit and threw up on all the clothes on my floor” does actually seem to happen regularly. Not on my account, of course. Yet many a tale doing the rounds seem to suggest that this – and much worse – becomes the case every December.
Coming back from my own work do last night – not sober but not having thrown myself at my female boss – I actually laughed out loud to myself at the scenes of destruction I saw around me. It was every scene from ‘Booze Britain’, freshers week at Uni and christmas work do horror stories combined. I saw someone eating chips out of another person’s hair, whilst wearing reindeer antlers. There were people who had slipped in to what might be a forever coma, people throwing up and large crowds of red-faced bankers off their richtits on coke and chanting ‘Away in a Manger’ like they were at Wembley. It was complete entertainment, from start to finish.
Red wine has ravaged my looks and dignity these past two weeks. Christmas in the city is more drunken than I had imagined. There’s the constant pressure to go out and be sparkly and drink all the drinks because “IT’S CHRISTMAS!!!” Well no, it’s Christmas in three weeks and right now I’m picking myself up off the floor after falling out of tube upon exit.
But I do love the consumption. Except I’d love not to feel so shit inside and out, during and after. It’s quite odd that you spend the whole of December stuffing yourself to the brim then January wanting to rip out your insides and order new ones on Amazon Prime for a real swift delivery. You want to feel fresh and you want to feel fresh now. Dry Jan is becoming such a thing that the streets are actually empty. People stay inside shivering, panicking about the month they spent eating meats stuffed inside of other meats, with chocolate for breakfast and red wine on tap. Of course, there are those that go the other way, really wanting to continue the decadence to try and forget that they have a whole year before they can shamelessly do it all over again. A friend said they intend to have Wet Jan, where you drink more to get over the misery. Not sure if it’ll work. I’ll ask her to report back in Feb.
I must go now, I’m going away for the weekend and I need to buy reindeer antlers for the birthday boy and red wine for the train journey; because it’s Christmas.