The Christmas Party season is upon us. The invitations are already pouring in at Liddle Towers. Among the earliest to arrive was a neatly printed card inviting me to join the Stormfront White Nationalist Community at a formal dinner on 21 December. ‘Black tie. No blacks.’ Another one offered a ‘chance to get truly fucking bladdered round at my gaff… bring a bird and a bottle, rsvp J. Welby, Lambeth Palace’. I eschew them all.
As soon as some forlorn, overweight and past-it sleb, mysteriously overlooked by Operation Yewtree, has been bunged 50 quid to switch on an array of lights vaguely in the shape of a bloody reindeer in our local high street, I do what the adders do at this time of year, and curl up underground in a hole. I know what is just around the corner.
It is not the saccharine puke of those John Lewis ads or the re-runs of Only Fools and Horses that bother me. Nor even the enforced mingling with people I hate. It is the mortal danger presented by the Christmas season. Book yourself a hearse. Do it early and you might get some money off — the kids will thank you for that. More people die at Christmas than at any other time of the year. They just drop dead. Heart attacks and circulatory diseases are the main killers. But cancer, too, likes to get into the festive spirit. You were already obese, before even Christmas came along. Two out of three British adults are. And now this!
So you have heartburn and you step outside after the overheated and tumultuous soirée at Shami Chakrabarti’s pad, delighted to feel the pristine chill of the December air on your cheeks. And you immediately get your head kicked in by drunken members of the Britain First party, who have been celebrating nearby. The Christmas season comes top of the charts for alcohol-induced violence and mayhem. Christmas is top of the charts too for violent domestic abuse. And did you know your wife had a divorce lawyer on speed dial? Oh, she does, she does. The first two weeks of January are the busiest period of the year for divorce lawyers.