The Tenth Commandment

Yea, pilgrim, it is true, thou couldst be thinner. But, fear not, for thou shall never consider thine weight so heavily as after Christmas. In truth, thou art this fat all year round. Wasteth not money on the gym. Get thee back unto the shops, and lift thine spirits with something nice from the sales.

The Ninth Commandment

But lo, that mattereth not unto thee. For thou shalt struggle off the sofa during EastEnders, and scrapeth the remains of thine feast unto unlevened bread. And thou shalt survey thine snack, and thou shalt fall on thine knees and thou shalt call up unto Jesus: "Yea! Let their be singing in the heavens and on the earth! For here is my Christmas sandwich, and verrily, it is good."

The Eighth Commandment

It mattereth not that the Michaelmas feast is thine favourite of all the meals of all the days of all the seasons that God bringeth. Thou shalt never finish it all. Thine eyes are bigger than thine stomach.

The Seventh Commandment

Doust though thinkest thou hast finished with the Christmas gift palava? Ah, thou jesteth. Thou hasn't even started thinking about wrapping it yet, hast thou? Honestely. Pfft. Thou shalt never get to the pub at this rate.

The Sixth Commandment

When thou munchest on thine first mince pie of the festive period, thou shalt muse: "Mmm, verrily, these mince pies are a bit of alright. Why in the Name of the Lord do we not consume such delicacies all the year round?" Yet, when Auntie Carol offereth unto thee a mince pie on the Day of the Blessed Boxing, thou shalt politely decline, and struggle with an unholy urge to pusheth the pie unto her face.

The Fifth Commandment

Though verrily, if though buyest a book, no matter which book thou buyest, no matter how appropriate, no matter how it pleaseth thee in the shop, and no matter how many goats thou exchangest for it, it has been decreed that yea, it shall always feel like a bit of a cop out when thou renderest it up unto thine kin.

The Fourth Commandmant

And though thou shalt become crippled by panic in the days that leadeth into the new year of our Lord, if thou spunkest thine credit like a mad bastard unto the shops on the eve of Michaelmas, thou shalt feel well smug when thine kin openest the choice gifts that thou hast rendered unto them.

The Third Commandment

And on the last day, f*ckloads of work shall be handed down unto thee. But be calm, because Selfridges openeth until 10pm. Thou shalt purchaseth gifts, although what with the many pilgrims that visiteth at this temple of commercialism, it could well turneth it into a bit of a bun-fight.

The Second Commandment

Thou shalt cometh down with a miserable cold in the morning of the Awesome Shop of Great Misery, and ensurest that thou hast not sufficient tissues, and lo, thine nose shalt run. Thou shouldst probably cultivate a thumping hangover to compound the punishment, for yea, thou art a fool and really shouldst have done the shopping weeks ago.

Christmas Commandments - The First Commandment

Thou shalt leave the Christmas shopping until the last possible minute, kidding thouself that a last-minute dash is cool and verrily, also it is edgy. And thou shalt believe this until, ooh, let us say 2pm on December 23rd, whenst thou shalt realise: "Argh, I am a fool and must cast myself into the screaming belly of hell that is Oxford Street's last late shopping night before Christmas," and lo, thou shalt buy a lot of shite for a great price, and thou shalt weep as thou carriest thine bulky bags of shite on the crowded tube full of Christmas pissheads. And thou shalt curse thineself as thou bangest thine bags into thine shins and thine cheapo carrier bags cut into thine fingers, and thou shalt shout unto the Lord: "Never again! Next year I shall head unto Bentalls in September!"

Do they know it's Christmas time?

There are no Christmas decorations in my office. It just doesn't look right. I am becoming consumed with an almost irresistible urge to dig out my bauble earrings, stick my Santa scrunchie in my hair, cram my mouth full of liquor chocolates, wrap myself in rainbow tinsel and flashing lights, and clamp a Christmas tree to my head.

Going underground

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is not Noah's Ark. It is not the last train in the universe. It is a Victoria line service to Brixton."

Christmas cards

I HATE Christmas cards. They are pointless, and a pest. OK, send them to people you love who live far away - fair enough.

But for goodness sake, don't send them to me. It's not you, it's me. I can't tell you how my heart sinks when I see that cheery little red envelope on the doormat, and realise the process that is about to begin.

I will open the thoughtfully chosen, tasteful, amusing card. I will be touched by the gesture.

I will make a metal note to find out the address of the sender.

I will forget to do so for two weeks. During these two weeks, I will repeatedly remember, forget, and kick myself. The self-loathing will start to set in.

I will buy a very expensive card to make up for my rubbishness.

I will carry the card around with me for two days, battering and ruining it.

I will write an overly-long and jokey message to make up for the battering of the card.

I will get the address.

I will write the address on the envelope in a different colour biro from the name.

I will return the card to my bag for more battering, until I remember to buy a stamp.

Christmas morning: I will wake up and rummage blindly in my bag for painkillers to hush the hideous, screaming pain in my head. I will find the card. It will probably have someone's mobile number on it. The self-loathing, amplified by the hangover, will become unbearable.

Christmas lunchtime: My mother will discover me crispy and naked, covered in strips of bacon, surrounded by roast potatoes, behind the turkey in the oven.

Hmm...

Why do old people stuff their coat pockets with carrier bags?

Grrr

David Blunkett is resigning due to allegations that he fast-tracked his lover's nanny's visa application. It really fucks me off when politicians are hounded out of office for being slimy, corrupt shaggers.

What sense is there in sacking one corrupt shagger who is good at a job, only to replace them with another corrupt shagger who hasn't been caught yet? The world is full of people having affairs and acting dubiously - and you can bet that the people who are so determined to get him out of office are just as bad. Now the country is going to lose a politician with talent for no real reason - preposterous.

I don't even LIKE David Blunkett, but I don't see why the country should have to put up with a sub-standard home secretary because the last one was stupid enough to get caught shagging some silly, manipulative, slack-moralled posh bint and speeding through her nanny's (legal) visa application.

No, I don't agree with his behaviour. He should be humiliated for it. But his punishment should be to carry on in his highly public role, not to slink off to the back benches with his tail between his legs.

Amazing new telescopic eyes

I am, so the saying goes, as blind as a bastard, and have been since I was about eight.

On Monday, the optician told me that I am EVEN BLINDER than EVER BEFORE. I am now -5, which is -0.25 further down the scale. Not that it makes much difference to be honest, it's still all like - blerrrrrr, fuzzzz.

Anyway, she gave me some new prescription contact lenses and I LOVE THEM. My world has suddenly become crystal clear with hints of a hitherto undiscovered fourth dimension - I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that it's not the lenses at all, and actually, someone slipped some kind of hallucinogenic mushroom in my mid-afternoon cup of Delicious Creamichoc.

It's possible that fellow Londoners have been somewhat perturbed by the sight of a scraggy-haired brunette peering down tube tunnels, along platforms, up at skyscrapers, across the river, and giggling gleefully to herself. If anyone has witnessed this, I can only apologise. I'm sure that in time, either the novelty will wear off, or the conjunctivitis will come back.

So... hi!

Well, this is very exciting! My first post. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing, but I have been told that setting up a blog is a piece of piss, and that a retard could do it. Ooh, straying into controversial territory already.

So, welcome to this post on this blog that I think I just built.

If you are reading this, it probably means that you are Andrew and you are here because I told you to read it. Hi, Andrew! *waves*

If you are reading this and you are NOT Andrew, well, you probably got lost somewhere. But hey, it's cold outside and it's not a great time of year to be wandering about. Why not come in, sit down, have a cuppa, and I'll tell you all about why I have decided to set up this particular forum of communication.

You see, my friend Andrew, otherwise known as Drew, is in New Zealand. He's writing a book and I kind of want to keep in with him, because I reckon it'll be quite good and boy, am I going to be pissed off if I just spent years of my life looking at him eating economy pasta in the same goddamn jeans, only to lose touch just when he hits the big time.

No sir. There will be none of that.

Andrew, otherwise known as Drew, is a blogger himself. You may know of him. He's been slacking off with it a little recently, what with the book and all, but I'm not going to complain about that because, like I said, no point falling out with him now.

So, it is very difficult to share all the pissy little details of your life when you're in different time zones, but Andrew is my friend and I need to share the pissy little details of my life with him.

Yes, I could email, but this looks prettier and, who knows, maybe you'll get a kick out of it, too.

To be honest, I was going to set this blog up two months ago. That's when he left, you see. But I never quite got around to doing it, and to be honest, I make out like I'm a great friend but I'm actually arse bastard lazy.

So, why now, I hear you cry, you lost little internet surfer person somewhere in Pontyprith. Would you like a macaroon, by the way?

Well, I found out that some of my friends had arranged to go out without me. And my reaction was to messenger Andrew so he could send back one of those smileys that's like -huh!, and rolling its eyes. But then I realised I don't have messenger anymore, and even if I did, Andrew is in New Zealand and is therefore probably asleep, or maybe creeping around someone's parents' house with a hot actor from Saturday Night Fever (hi Chris!).

And I thought, you know what would be nice. It would be nice if, tonight, when I am asleep and it is daytime on the other side of the world, if Andrew could read about these people who forgot to ask me if I'd like to join in, and think: "Pfft. Tossers."