Christmas is an annual event in which people are forced to play charades with their racist relatives. It is commonly misconceived as the birthday of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, who has appeared in many popular Hollywood films, such as The Matrix and Con Air.
My favourite thing about Christmas is watching the expression on my dog’s face when he opens his presents. Last year I bought him a GoPro Karma drone with a Hero 5 camera and he loved it. He said it was a huge improvement on his previous model, the DJI Phantom, and then he licked his castrated ball scar. He hasn’t once played with it, but for just £1199.99 I still think it was a bargain.
Christmas isn’t just about presents, however. It’s also about upholding age-old traditions, like trying to stay conscious while watching Doctor Who. Last year I made my family watch Room, Lenny Abrahamson’s drama about a woman who is kidnapped, kept in a shed, raped, and then gives birth to her capturer’s son. I thought it would be festive.
This year I plan to show them The Iron Lady, the female equivalent to Marvel’s superhero film, starring Glenn Close. It should appropriately prepare them for a four-hour debate on whether it’s okay to slaughter Northern people if they touch you with their filthy hands.
When that’s done, I’ll probably go off on one about how the whole holiday is just a cynical ploy to keep Take That on the TV and make us hate immigrants.