The C word

So once again months of fret, fury and fierce women in Primark; that magical time of year is upon us. But you don't really need a calender to know that, all you have to do is check your Facebook for a stream of festive bullshit about turkey and Toy Story.

I know this because I'm one of the main contributors to it. VALIDATE ME VIA THE MEDIUM OF LIKES.

I also know it's Christmas because my mother dear has cracked open the annual bottle of Malibu. Only to finish her second glass with a chorus of, "Do you think I have a fat arse William, DO YOU?".

I've now learnt that the response, "Sure it gives something to hold onto, bit of jelly on the plate" was not the desired response.

Especially when it was from me. Whooopsies.

I've also gotten to that stage of the day where I'm so far gone into the festive food carnage that even the Bounty celebrations are starting to taste good. I can actually hear the ripples of my layers of fat as I turn round in bed to plunge my hand into the tub. If a Zombie apocalypse does however happen I'm at a major vantage point, fuck you all and your thigh gaps - I give you a week.

The big C also marks the annual amalgamation of those relatives your bonded to purely because someone in your immediate family is bucking someone in theirs. And those never ending fucking probing questions. I'm pretty sure there are STI tests out there that are less invasive.

"Yes, uni is fine. No, I don't have a boyfriend. Yes, I probably have put on weight since last year".

Somehow I feel the last two are connected...

Alas, the festivities are over for another year and it once again becomes socially unacceptable to have half a litre of Bailies before noon. But when was I ever someone to societal norms stand in my way, "yes I am eating chicken in a library and I'm bloody well enjoying it".

With this I prepare to enter into the festive food coma of no return and wish you the warmest of Christmases. And most likely a fairly repetitive new year. Over and out! xo