Monday the 20th tomorrow, which means – second half of November – it’s the official start of the Christmas Party Season. I hate Christmas parties.
I mean, I hate all parties, but especially Christmas ones. Standing around getting drunk, making stupid smalltalk with people you don’t know and won’t see again (or much worse, recognise if you do); all to an uncomfortably loud wall of wailing that’s just the right pitch to make you totally inaudible – it pushes me over the brink, generally within five minutes or so, because the effort of interaction is critically more than the benefits to be drawn from said interaction.
And I really hate the dancing. I’m never the one doing it, obviously; if all you need is physical exercise to music, then visit the gym with your iPod on, ferchrissakes. When the rhythm of your life beats to a different drum than the masses – and especially a different drum to, say, a hip-hop mash-up of Dancing Queen and Under Pressure – I resemble the Spirit of Christmas Past mooching next to the dancefloor, daring anyone to approach and be enfolded in my darkening sobriety. I am to dance parties what diarrhoeac rats are to punchbowls.
More than that, I hate the way every Sunday newspaper is taken over with ‘ideas’ for everything from cute chocolate log mini-hamburgers to DIY plum taffeta ballgowns ‘cut on the bias.’ (I challenge any fashion journalist to actually explain what a ‘bias’ is.) WHAT THE FUCK IS IT ALL FOR, PEOPLE?! I mean, has anyone, anywhere in the British Isles, ever actually made a Heston Blumenthal recipe in their own home? NOBODY HAS EVER DONE THIS. Can I have my colour supplement back, please? No: I’ll have to wait until January, and even then the content will be diluted with wheatgrass enemas and detoxifying weekends in Gloucestershire, for ‘those of us who over-indulged this festive season’.
I hate the way Christmas Media has to show us everybody else having a good time, too. Apparently you can’t take a step in Hoxton without tripping headfirst into the ‘innovative subculture of London’s east side’, which seems to be playing revolving host to a panoply of ‘left field’ party ‘experiences’ (any party these days must, compulsorily, have the word ‘experience’ glued to its ass-end of an invite.) These parties, usually featuring edgy art assemblages of razor blades and green jelly, are all the talk of the season, where Dita von Teese and Amy Winehouse ‘spin the decks’ and MC impromptu crypto-burlesque performances in the VIP alcove, Peaches Geldof and the 3AM Girls scribbling furiously to make the morning edition. (How did Peaches Geldof make it big, anyway? I mean, she’s called Peaches! Has she got a sex tape out or … what? Has she got a famous parent or something?)
And in the same vein (preferably a scarred lunar landscape of a vein with crystal meth and barbituate-soaked heroin recently inserted with an HIV-splattered shank, if I had my way) I hate the endless meaningless brand extensions of THE SAME FUCKING CONCEPT. I mean, vodka. How many ways can you dress up vodka? Two hundred varieties of vodka in the London market and maybe a hundred well-known ways to mix it; that’s TWENTY THOUSAND WAYS TO SERVE THE SAME FUCKING SPIRIT. It. Is. Just. Fucking. VODKA.
(And – let’s – not – even – get – STARTED – on – those fucking ‘Santacon’ twats. They’ve assaulted me with their hideous jollity at Bond St two years running now. This year, I swear, I am taking weapons.)
Worse still is the way so many people DO like Christmas parties. Or at least pretend to. Maybe they’re just desperate to prove they’re part of the in-crowd, liked and admired, instead of just keeping at bay the silent watching blackness of their own futures. Party nights in London: a sea of frozen false smiles and compulsory jollity. Oh, look, there’s another fucking nude person on rollerblades. How wacky, how extreme. Isn’t everyone having a good time? YAWN.
And that’s what I hate most about Christmas parties. The way nobody ever invites me to any. Fuck the happy-clappy frozen-smiling lot of you.