A Chistmassy Sunday Dog Parade

Scary Father Christmas

In the spirit of the season, The Sunday Dog Parade has decided to forgo any references to dark and disturbing things inappropriate for this glorious Christmas Eve and would like to suggest a musical accompaniment to the rest of this Yuletide entry:

This week we will focus on festive things like candy canes, tinsel and toy tin soldiers. Not on things like a half-drunk divorced forty-eight year old Santa Claus impersonator sitting in a cold wigwam in a muddy car-park outside a garden centre. There's no need to concentrate on the fleeting sense of shame he feels as he looks down momentarily at the shiny-smooth semen stained crotch of his faux-velvet vermillion costume while awaiting the next child to inevitably remind him of the twins he hasn't seen since the divorce. This man has no place in a Christmas blog entry, this man who just wants the day to end so he can go home to his council flat and watch just enough of Jingle All the Way on ITV4 to feel like he's experienced the season, before putting on a badly worn VHS cassette compilation of softcore pornography he's recorded from years of adult channel ten-minute previews, and then following that up with the deteriorating copy of his wedding video he can just make out through static and teary eyes.

No, instead of talking about that stuff we're going to talk about snow-flakes and angels and the spirit of giving - the warmth of family and just a little bit of booze that spreads through your limbs as you fall into contented food-full half-sleep in front of Doctor Who on Christmas Day.

Because it's the time of year to think about that. Not the time of year to think about the ageing great-aunt in a rest-home who has just enough time between beatings delivered by the kitchen staff to stare at an unplugged Mexican laptop she bought from the shopping channel four years ago, and smile a toothless smile because she knows that her grand-nephews said they would love to talk to her if she would just set up a Skype account - whatever that is. She agrees that the fifteen mile car trip is too far to consider during this busy time with the roads so treacherous, but the important thing is that they would love to talk to her. If only she could figure out how to turn the machine on. The point is - it's her fault she's alone and not theirs. If only she could try harder she thinks, if only she wasn't so tired. So lazy. Then she wouldn't have to be alone.

No! It's Christmas, the time that The Sunday Dog Parade puts aside its cynicism and stops trying to half-heartedly shock its few readers into guilty horror-laughs.

We hope you're all warm and safe and surrounded by loved-ones, wherever you are. Forget about Africanized killer bees stinging your eyelids and armpits. Don't concern yourself with recently severed heads blinking in the harsh desert sun. And don't worry about homeless puppies shivering and moulting in the rain, too dumb to even hide under a burnt-out car for shelter.

That stuff is nasty. It's not Christmas and it has no place here. Instead of that, enjoy the jolly Christmas picture provided above and feel your spirits lift.


No comments:

Post a Comment