Aaah, Christmas. The only day that it’s acceptable to drink alcohol and eat pringles for breakfast (besides birthdays, friend’s birthdays, hangover days and Sundays). I’ll be honest; this will probably be the last post I ever write, because if this Christmas goes anything like those previous I will have already watched The Holiday at least thrice, and if I have to be subjected to Mr Napkinhead anymore, I’m going to poke my eyes out using pine needles from the Christmas tree.
Christmas eve at work was full of women asking for my opinion on their outfits. I have a few issues with this. Firstly, if someone needs to ask a shop assistant if what they’re wearing is nice, it’s safe to assume that when it comes to fashion they’re already a lost cause, and the outfit in question usually tends to be pretty weird. This means I have to lie to them, because they’ll buy the clothes regardless of my opinion and I’ll forever be remembered as that bitch who told them that their ass looks like a bag of apples in those jeans. However, my capacity for telling lies is quite poor, and usually comes out like this:
Them: “Does this dress look alright on me?”
Them: “So it doesn’t make my boobs look weird?”
I’m an incredulous liar. My voice always rises at the end as if I’m answering their question with a question, thus the sincerity of my answer is always jeopardised by my inability to just indulge customers in what they want to hear. I just find it hard to tell fifty-year-old women that they look good in a corseted top covered in metal studs.
Which brings me to my final point: I’m a terrible dresser, I have no sense of style whatsoever. Studded corsets might be really in fashion right now but I wouldn’t have a fucking clue. I mean, Madonna’s still wearing one, but she’s a bit senile now, isn’t she. (That’s a rhetorical question – when she started doing the splits in her pants at 52 years of age we all knew she was fucking nuts.) Why are they asking for my opinion anyway, I’m having the same problem as them. My combination of black leggings and black socks with my sneakers makes it looks like I’m wearing long-johns. I often wear my underwear, then my tights, then another pair of underwear over my tights. I wore thermal vests way longer than the average child. Last year I started a petition to get Stuart Anders to bring back the slap bracelet. Sometimes I look at Helena Bonham Carter and genuinely like her outfit. I don’t know how to pronounce bandaux. Last night after dressing in a hurry I looked like the lovechild of Wednesday Addams and Avril Lavigne. Sometimes I buy clothes based on their practicality. PRACTICALITY. I am obviously in no fit state to give fashion advice.
About 2am Christmas morning I thought it was high time I started wrapping my presents. After many years of Olivia trying to guess what I’ve got her for Christmas, I tailored this label especially:
This is what I opened on Christmas day:
All in all I think my family have judged my presents pretty well this year as I have had an abundance of sweets and underwear. Therefore I plan to spend the rest of the Christmas holidays sitting in my undies eating flumps. So yeah, deal with that image. I hope I finally made those of you that are hungover vom like Regan MacNeil in a Christmas hat.
Anyway, I hope everyone has had a marvellous Christmas day. I hope you were all hungover as fuck. I hope that fat bearded guy came into your room last night and emptied his heaving sack into a sock with your name on. I hope you have all eaten so much that you’re genuinely worried the turkey may explode out of you, Alien-style. Have a good time with your families; even if you can’t bear to listen to your granddad talk about how Christmas pudding significantly changes his bowel movements anymore, or struggle to take your Great Aunt’s criticisms when she tells you that you’re looking healthy and that in her day, girls with fuller figures always kept their hemline BELOW the ankle; because they’re usually the ones that give you the most money in your card.
If you’re dreading the thought of boxing day activities like interacting with a load of relatives that you don’t know, just think of me: I’ll be at work, picking large piles of clothes off the floor because people have NO RESPECT FOR THE SALE RAIL. See, now pretending to know who your cousin Dave is doesn’t sound so bad, does it?