Come on! Let’s boogey to the elf dance!

Christmas is a weird ould thing. Perhaps deserving of more blogs, if only to rant against it’s multiple annoying features and rejoice at it’s occasional sweet moments. I’ll stick to one for this year.

Our story begins on Christmas eve, if only because I think Christmas should be limited to three days (24 th to 26th) so we can get on with our lives otherwise. Bah humbug.

I made a conscious effort this year to spend as little as possible on pressies for people. Not because I don’t love them dearly, just that Christmas is a huge festival of gluttony, drunkenness, materialism and extravagance and I want little part in it. Bah humbug indeed.

I’m also a bit of a tight fisted bastard too. So the above justification works well either way.

Poor Woodsy got lumbered with a “stringed twanging instrument” that looked quite nice in the Tearcraft catalogue but in actual fact was a piece of wooden trash. A shame, as all the rest of the Tearcraft hall was of the highest quality – mostly annoyingly difficult wooden puzzles to ruin the lives of my friends.

The pressies I received this year were generally of the highest quality. Which left me feeling immediately guilty for all the crap pressies I bought them, social justice be damned… I managed to assuage the guilt by writing nice, encouraging two page Christmas cards and limiting myself to one sarcastic comment in each card. Nice cards. Shit pressies. I still love you all.

So I spent all Christmas Eve playing Santa – without the beard, suit, sleigh, reindeer, or Nintendo Wii. It was more of an excuse to call round mate’s houses and drink a lot of nice coffee.

The evening was a further regression, as around 15 of us former school friends (who I’m honored to still have as real friends) got together to watch the Muppets Christmas Carol and sing along badly with all the songs. Such good times.

Christmas morning is (and ever shall be…)  spent in Knocknamuckley with the family and the kids who get to bring one toy to chruch. And we stay for communion and understand that the COI certainly do at least one thing well.

Lunch is a feast of turkey, ham, spuds and the like, with Mum’s side of the family, and we make the same jokes about who does the washing up, and we all marvel at how much we’ve all grown up. All the family idiosyncrasies that make no sense to anyone else, but in fact make it all so wonderful.

In the end I spent the evening in the girls house on the G-road playing sing star with the local alcos. I have rarely been happier.

Less of the humbug then, one might say.

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