As I sit here, all alone in my grubby little bedsit, wearing the same pants as last Monday, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and beer cans, listlessly tossing myself off to the Gavin & Stacey Christmas special, I can’t help but think that things could be different next year if I made a few small changes. I’ve tried to sketch out a couple of New Year’s resolutions on the back of a packet of snouts, but I can’t seem to focus on anything other than James Corden’s jiggling tits. Can you give me some pointers on how to get out of this small rut in which I find myself?
Unfortunately, at some stage you’re going to have to accept that no matter what your good intentions may be, you’ll never ever break your Christmas routine, because these things are set in stone. Take my granny, for example. Every single year she buys me and my sister something cheap and highly inappropriate, such as a gollywog, shouts obscenities at the Queen until her teeth fall out, then promptly falls asleep in a chair for the next two days. Or my Uncle Steve, who always turns up halfway through dinner accompanied by a shaky alcoholic lady called something like Candice or Zillah whom no-one else has met before, causes my mummy and daddy to have lots of quiet arguments in the kitchen, then punctuates his departure early Boxing Day by either vomiting or urinating into the Christmas tree. I’m sure all of us would much rather spend our holidays doing stuff other than wafting the smell of geriatric bowels with a Radio Times or picking sick off the Quality Street, so I suggest you stop wallowing in self pity and thank the baby Jesus that you didn’t actually have to spend Christmas with James Corden.
Hope that helps!