Merry Whatever Doesn't Offend You.

To wish or not to wish. Chances are when you wish someone a Merry Christmas, said person is not a Christian or a big fan of this Jesus person anyway. Might as well say Merry Capitalism, as most Conspiracy Theorists would agree. I, for one, don't give a shit if you wish me a Merry Christmas. I will not be offended, being a person without faith in anything, and it will just be one of the many things my brain will process and store into that Don't Know, Don't Care, Not Worth Giving A Shit About Right Now space. I honestly do not care. If Merry Wishes were given to me out of the kindness of someone's heart or, more likely the case, something the staffs of TESCO has to say as per the daily morning briefings leading up to the fucktarded mayhem that is Last Minute Christmas Shopping, I'll take it. Or, like for myself, for lack of a better thing to say out of awkwardness when leaving the the doctor's after my son getting his second lot of jabs on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, and have a good evening. Like I care, because it in no way affects me but I will just say it anyway so as not to come off as the social retard I actually am. No, really. Even if the person were to ramble about her husband's mid-life crisis after that I'd just sympathetically nod and worry about how on Earth are we going to survive until the next pay day when we have spunked hideous amounts of money on dinner for this one night and gifts for the children that they will be grateful for for the next ten to fifteen minutes upon opening them. The next day they are just going to open the kitchen cupboards and moan about there being fuck all for when The Munchies hit anyway.

What am I going to tell Kai about the meaning of Christmas? I don't know, mate, I don't do Christmas growing up. I just jumped on the bandwagon because presents and getting shit-faced on chocs and sweets appeals to me. There is no God but there is Santa, according to Daddy. Look, Santa ate the mince pies and left a fuckload of glitter all over the carpets. Guess we are all going to look strippers all the way to Easter then, my child.

I do get a kick out of  telling Jaz's other children that Christmas is not really Jesus' birthday anyway. His real birthday was on the 11th of March and the 25th of December is actually one of the many Pagan holidays the Christians took and made their own. Give the Pagans credit where it is due, I say!

Okay, it may or may not be the 11th of March but that is like saying the first sighting of Unicorns may or may not be during the Ice Age.

Fact is Pope Julius I declared Christmas on 25th December to convince the Roman Pagans to convert to Christianity because that the day Pagans celebrate Saturnalia to honour the God of Agriculture. An agricultural bloke is worth honouring, me thinks.

But who cares? I don't.

Just have a good holiday, rip open a lot of gifts, go mad with sugar rush, have a traditional family row, chuck roasting pans about in retaliation. It's just another day anyway. Do whatever you want with it. It is the end of the year and if you partake in Christmas you will definitely be skint as fuck, no matter what your household income is, so just enjoy the ride while you pork out on that obscenely massive dinner and harbour hate for your family members.

For me I am just glad that this year Jaz and I are no longer homeless. We have a home and if I want to kick shit up I am entitled to it. Men love when bitches go crazy during Festive seasons.

Why I'm thankful this Thanksgiving.

I am thankful that England does not do Thanksgiving. I am thankful for Google for explaining the reasons behind the holiday, because I am an ignorant Non-American like that.

Holidays and festivities in this day and age really have got little to nothing to do with religions and with each holiday that I spend with Jaz and his kids I am reminded of the fact that these kids couldn't care less about the significance of the days except for the promise of sweets and sneaky swigs of alcoholic drinks for the teenagers when the adults are pissed and have passed out on the living room settee. They don't care that Easter Sunday is the day to mark the Resurrection of Christ in the 4th Century when it was actually, originally a Pagan holiday to celebrate Ostara, named after the Teutonic Goddess of Spring and Fertility Eostra. The name Easter was derived from the Goddess Eostra and therefore the eggs were symbolic of the fertility that the Goddess brings. Really, I prefer this to that of the Christianity point of view. If we are going to with fiction, might as well go the whole bloody way.

Yes, the kids do not care about the origins of Easter and neither do they care about the Greek Mythology side of it. They just want to know where the hell in the garden Dad will be chucking the last bit of clue. They have got to find it quick before the Sun melts the chocolate, if it is possible for anything to melt when forced to face the wrath of The English Sun. From the price of the chocolate eggs at Morrison's, Tesco's, Budgen's, ASDA, no one seemed to give a shit about the real reason behind the holiday either. They just want to rob parents off their money and induce Type II Diabetes in children, just so that they can post self-righteous posters in the town centre about fat kids and WHY ARE YOU LETTING THIS HAPPEN TO YOUR KIDS, PARENTS?

The same can be said for bonfire night, or Guy Fawkes' night. Do the children know who this Guy Fawkes' person is? With Google at their fingertips they are too busy looking up the lyrics to Rihanna's songs, guitar tabs for Chop Suey, or Youtube tutorials on How To Stuff Your Bra With Socks. They don't know and when asked it is usually answered with 'It was something to do with the Parliament House, innit? Like, something to do with bangers and fireworks, innit?'. Or something to that extent. Innit? They just want to take 50 quid off their parents and go to Londis round the corner and buy 50 Pounds worth of bangers and fireworks that they will randomly let loose in their back garden weeks after bonfire night until you jump when you're trying to eat your dinner. Crisps, soft drinks, lollies, booze and that random unattended kid that looked suspiciously pissed in that corner there.

What about Halloween, then? We spend the whole of our children's lives telling them to not accept sweets from strangers and then on that one night, we doll them up in all sorts of vulgar outfits and tell them to go out on that cold, Autumn night, clad in nothing but a tutu, a corset and devil's horns, at the age of 10, to get some sweeties. What is Halloween, I asked one of Jaz's girls? 'It's because the Americans do it, innit?' They come home, up-end their baskets filled with Monster Heads and even money because some poor random old English woman opened her door and had to be reminded yet again, year after year since Halloween was brought to England, that she either had to give them sweets, or money so that they can buy sweets or they will set fire to a bag of dog shit outside her door. Because children these days are raised to believe that it is all right for them to demand such things off strangers. Never mind that the whole act itself could be a catalyst to something that ends in tears for the children. And if the kids get told off, the parents would come steaming in and exchange a few harsh words with that person that don't wish to have anything to do with them fucking kids outside on the streets, off their faces on a sugar rush and yanking each other's devil's tails off. I'm just going to sit here and wonder how on earth am I going to get the faux-spiderweb, cotton-wooly shit off the carpets when all is forgotten the day after.

Christmas? What about Baby Jesus? Oy, who gives a shit about Baby Jesus anymore now, innit? I want my fucking JLS concert ticket. Never mind that I have been behaving like a spoiled little shit for the whole of the year and I punch my siblings regularly but it's your duty to get me something for Christmas because you're my parent, innit? No, you're not my child so you can fuck right off. One whole bloody day and half getting Christmas dinner done and the table is set but all they want to do is steal their siblings' presents because theirs weren't as good. A few strands of hair ripped, new jumpers torn, a few uncalled for Fucks and a few swift hard slaps at the dinner table and the Christmas mood is all fucked. Is this our last supper yet? Then you'd look at the family dog, happily chewing on his Christmas bone while watching the Christmas special on the telly, you wonder... Why?

So, I am thankful that we don't do Thanksgiving here. Thankful that there is not more festivities-induced garbage on the telly. Thankful that we just have to deal with Christmas and then spend the next few months yelling at our kids when they want a bag of sweets at the shop because we are fucking skint and go fucking suck on your stupid iPod then, you thankless little shit. Thankful that we don't have to obligingly buy sweets for the kids for Thanksgiving just to 'Spruce it up for the kids' and then spend hours yelling at them to bloody go to bed already. Thankful that we won't have to deal with friends of our teenagers who magically turn up wherever food and booze run free and then spend the next morning screaming 'Who the fuck sicked up ON the washing line?'

We always spend the day after so fucking angry that we forgot the day before was meant to be something so fun and joyous. With that, I am thankful there is one less shit to face.

I am thankful that those aren't my kids that kick shit up. I am thankful.