Christmas shopping is so depressing. What am I supposed to get? How do I part my way through the constant barrage of ugly human traffic? How do I prevent buggies and young children trampling all over my feet? How do I remedy the hatred for Christmas in my soul? I’m just not sure.

Christmas is an ugly commercial monster which only grants most of us two days off work, but still it assaults us with months of abuse via irritating television adverts, immoral marketing ploys and dancing polar bears. The most irritating thing about Christmas in England is that it is all about snow, presents and parties and nothing about religion. Not that I care that much. Jesus and his poxy birth date overshadows my own in falling five days afterward, rendering it impossible to arrange any form of celebration for my aging carcass. The irritating messiah stole my thunder two thousand years previously. Also, the fact that I had to wait twelve months of the year before I got any kind of present or money as a kid, further nurtured my Christmas humbug sentiment.

In fact my hatred is coming along nicely with those extreme liberals who suppose that we should ban any type of religious celebration in order not to offend the highly diversified British population. However, what I’ve come to understand is that Christmas and the reference to it as ‘religious’ are no longer mutually inclusive. Christmas spirit is dead; the high street has created a faux Christmas hell bent on decimating our own pain thresholds. God speed the New Year.