BOUGHT shitloads of food in to make sure you’re covered for two f**king days? Chances are you’ll be emptying half this perishable shit in the bin by Wednesday.
Because everybody loves mince pies, right? Well, no. They’ll have one to be polite, but your blind terror at not having enough led you to snaffle up three bloody boxes. The result is you’ve ended up with a cupboard full of dried fruit wrapped in sugary, fat-laden pastry that’s out of date before New Year. Just like last time.
You barely eat fruit the rest of the year, so why have you become obsessed with the idea that everyone is about to develop an addiction to undersize oranges for three days? You only bought them because you thought they’d look Christmassy in your always-empty fruit bowl. The heating is on full and now you’re left with what looks like a macabre collection of shrivelled ginger testicles. More fodder for the pedal bin.
So much f**king meat
There’s the turkey so huge it barely fits in the oven and looks like it could have given a T-Rex a run for its money. Then there’s an army of pigs in blankets. And a baked ham. Ooh, and that charcuterie platter looks nice. You could dump the leftovers in the Serengeti and the lions wouldn’t need to hunt for a fortnight. Instead you’ll have meat sweats for five days and if you see another turkey f**king sandwich you’ll scream. You promise you’ll scale it back next year. You won’t.
There’s six of you for Christmas dinner, and no one will eat more than two for fear of chronic, embarrassing flatulence, yet you still bought a massive f**king stick with 50-odd of the horrible f**kers on. You wedged it defiantly into the fridge, making it impossible to get to proper things like the ketchup and mayo. Take some comfort in the fact that you can at least chuck them in the green bin. Greta Thunberg would be proud of you.
Because when you’ve already ploughed your way through a massive roast, Christmas pudding and a tsunami of chocolate, it’s only logical to squeeze in enough foreign cheese to make Liz Truss’s head explode with rage. Brie, obviously, is essential. Ditto Camembert, cave-aged goat’s cheese, whatever the f**k that means, and the Stilton no-one touches apart from your nan. Three days after Christmas and your fridge stinks like a Frenchman’s jockstrap. Hold your nose and grab a bin liner.
You laughed at pensioners panic-buying white sliced loaves in the pandemic, but now you’re just as bad. White or brown? Best get both, there’s bound to be one picky bugger. And those part-baked baguettes will go well with Boxing Day leftovers. That rosemary and sea salt focaccia looks good too. And on it goes. Come Tuesday you’ll be so carbed up you won’t shit for a fortnight.