Second year of marriage, but the first Xmax Eve I had to work,
although my wife told me how much togetherness on the Eve meant to her. I worked reluctantly and came home to my wife and neighbors on the street because an adjacent building caught fire.

At least she didn't mention this in the divorce suit.
( tromboner cherophobia is my kind of fun, Wed 23 Dec 2015, 17:01, Reply)

Santa’s Dead
As you so enjoyed the last one, here's another festive poem for you!

MERRY CHRISTMAS SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETIEEEEEEZE!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Santa’s Dead

Remove the ivy from your door
Tell the children Christmas is no more
Take down the decs, the tree and holly -
‘Tis NOT the season to be jolly.

No mistletoe kisses for plain Jane -
She’ll be singing a mournful refrain.
No presents under the tree for Mark -
He’ll be weeping softly in the dark.

Christmas crackers rot in their boxes
Mince pies thrown out for the foxes
Carol singers struck down with laryngitis -
Everyone knows what a sad sight that is.

Children cannot be consoled
Parents wretched, tired and old
Everyone trying to get into their head
The sad news: FATHER CHRISTMAS IS DEAD.

The church bells toll a funeral sound as
Santa lies lifeless in the ground,
His reindeers slaughtered, their carcasses raw –
And the elves won’t be found until the next thaw.

Santa’s dead, on Christmas Eve
Santa’s dead, the whole universe grieves
Santa’s dead, now his grave is filled in
Santa’s dead - AND IT WAS ME THAT KILLED HIM.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Wed 23 Dec 2015, 15:00, 4 replies)

I missed our work lashup.
The girls were apparently dressed incredibly inappropriately. I am a little disappointed by that, but since I'd have had to take the mrs, I guess I wouldn't have got that much perving done in the end.
(immadme, Wed 23 Dec 2015, 11:57, 4 replies)

I once had christmas day working in a gold mine
It was a completely normal working day, other than the fact the caterers were forced to wear christmas hats. they servered up pork burgers, the 20th day in a row we'd had dishes involving pork mince. I'd heard rumour they got a deal on cheap bulk pork mince. At night we got pissed at the wet mess, but we did that every night of the week as there was absolutely nothing else to do in the godforsaken desert. No tv. no radio, no internet. beer and well used porno mags were all we had.
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Tue 22 Dec 2015, 14:31, 3 replies)

little festive pea
Presents

supposedly my best gift ever
or so my mum says. it's not exactly your average gift, but she still talks about it.

one year, when i was about 11 years old, mum came home from the shops in tears. she'd just been out to buy the christmas food, but somebody else had obviously been looking for a bargain and had mugged her and stolen her purse. she reported it to the police, who were, of course, no help whatsoever.
seeing my poor mum so distraught, i had a bit of a brainwave: i'd go carol singing! the few posher streets in our area were always good for a few quid, so i donned my parka and set off, towing mum's shopping trolley with me. fortunately, she didn't notice me taking it.
through the freezing wind and slushy snow i trudged, peddling my dodgy vocal talents from house to house. after 2 hours, i decided i'd had enough and called it a day. when i counted up my takings, the total was a little over £50. i was delighted! scurrying as quickly as i could, i made my way to the local supermarket, where i filled the trolley with festive treats, including a fairly decent sized turkey. every last penny went on shopping, from bread and milk to toilet rolls, everything i thought we'd need. feeling very pleased with myself, i towed the trolley home in the growing dusk.
i arrived home to see mum still red-eyed, worrying about how she'd cope without the food money. i showed her the trolley full of goodies and explained what i'd done.
i didn't expect the waterworks that followed! mum absolutely sobbed her eyes out. in my tiny kiddy brain, i thought i'd done something wrong.
she gave me the biggest hug imaginable and kept right on crying.
we had a great christmas that year.
that was 25 years ago, but she still talks about it.
(Fri 27th Nov 2009, 21:33, More)
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 22 Dec 2015, 14:30, 9 replies)

My Nan
When I was about 8 we had a family gathering on Christmas Day in our kitchen. I was tying to talk to my Mum but my Nan was getting louder an louder until I snapped and yelled "NAN SHUT UP!" .. needless to say my Dad sent me to my room.
(Swafty, Tue 22 Dec 2015, 10:48, 4 replies)

Three wizards and a star baby
mental
( Two Hats 🎩🎩, Tue 22 Dec 2015, 9:41, 4 replies)

Dr Who is a kids program and men in their 40s who watch it are paedophiles
Source: BBC News
( $$ ✅, Tue 22 Dec 2015, 9:17, 5 replies)

My Christmasses alternate between England and Poland
And since my Britannic parents live in the middle of fucking nowhere, hours from an airport, train station or even a bus stop, I usually drive. So one 23rd of December, I bundled the girlfriend, a picnic hamper and lots of presents into my car and set off. "Turn. LEFT" barked my GPS, sounding like an aroused Helga from 'Allo 'allo. "Continue. STRAIGHT. for. ONE thousand FIVE hundred And.

SIX.

kilometres."

I don't know why GPS voices sound like that, but those were the directions I needed from my flat in Warsaw to the French port of Dunkirk, where my brit-bound boat awaited. I snicked the car into gear, patted the girl's leg, and set off.

We swept across the flat tedium of Poland in six hours, and had lunch at a roadside stop just south of Berlin. The air was bitterly cold and there was frost on the picnic benches, but the sky was clear and bright. At this pace, it would only be 10 hours to the French coast, or so we thought.

Two hours later the empty autobahn turned into a river of red lights. Three lanes at a standstill, packed solid. I shut off the engine and waited.

And waited. Still nothing moved. People were milling around, walking between cars. I dozed off.

After two more hours the girlfriend nudged me awake. Movement. Not of lights or cars though, but big flat snowflakes tumbling lazily from the sky. We watched, enthralled, and warmed ourselves with tea from the thermos as the black tarmac turned white under a frozen blanket.

We played Yahtzee to stay awake. The car next to us slipped off its handbrake and rolled backwards into a truck, causing a fight that alleviated the tedium for ten minutes. My girlfriend pissed into a water bottle that I'd carved into a rudimentary SheWee. We finished the picnic. The hours ticked on.

Finally, after seven hours parked on the autobahn, the engines around us roared into life. It was now well into the night, and the road was covered in at least a foot of snow. The cars slowly moved forwards, and the needle on my speedo barely reached the first numbers. As a convoy the traffic crawled through the snow at 20kmh. The snow had been a blizzard that swept across central Germany, shutting down the entire traffic infrastructure. We trundled past huge snowdrifts in the eerie flat landscape for two hours before pulling into a service station, freezing and exhausted.

It stopped snowing a few hours later, but only one lane of the autobahn had been cleared. With a few hours' kip in the back seat, I had the energy to plough on, and hit the Dutch border shortly after dawn. The snow fizzled out halfway though Belgium, and we arrived at the French coast at midday, Chrismas Eve, 30 hours after we'd left home.

There was only one more ferry making the crossing before Christmas Day, and that was in two hours. Add on two more hours for the crossing and time to get to my parents, and we finally dragged ourselves through the door of my Dad's house a full day later than planned, filthy and stinking from the journey, half-starved and sleep-blinded. What better state to introduce my girlfriend to my parents, whom she'd never met before?
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Mon 21 Dec 2015, 8:53, 6 replies)

turkey disaster
Got up Christmas morning to discover the cat had taken several chunks out of the defrosting turkey.
Gave it wash with the thinking that cooking it would removing any germs.
Took the bag of giblets out and cooked it.
When I took it out of the oven there was a peculiar smell.
Discovered that there had been a second plastic bag of giblets stuffed in to the neck cavity
Oops.
I didn't tell anyone, it tasted fine and as far as I know no-one got sick
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Mon 21 Dec 2015, 0:39, Reply)

Christmas Suicide
Time for a Yuletide poem to cheer all you miserable sweetieze up!

This was the last work of failed Taunton poet and shelf-stacker Kevin Whirple, whose body was found on New Year's Day 2005 in his squalid bedsit next to a semen-stained copy of Shaven Havens, a pile of purloined Spaghetti Hoops tins, and a typewriter in which rested the tear-spotted sheets upon which this poem had been typed. Aged only 28, Whirple had aspired to be the new Philip Larkin or perhaps John Betjeman, but had failed to break in to the live poetry circuit due to his acute shyness and the shiteness of his poems. And so his final act, before downing his fatal festive cocktail of Domestos and vodka, was to write this poem. Maybe it's just me, but on this evidence I think we lost a great genius far too young.

Christmas Suicide

Sleigh bells chime,
Carol singers sing,
Presents under the tree -
But not for me.

No friends,
Family all gone,
No sex since 2001 -
All alone.

The stark horror of Yuletide!
It’s time for my CHRISTMAS SUICIDE.

The telly taunts me
With how life should be:
Couples – hugging
After Christmas shopping;
Families – happy
Round the Christmas tree;
Children – at play
O the Joy of Christmas Day!

But not for I.
I can’t even cry.
No Christmas decorations,
Just piss and desolation.

The last Christmas card I had
Was from my mum and Dad
In 1997,
But now they are in Heaven.

Christmas Day for me
Is abject misery
So painful I can’t endure it,
But neither can I ignore it,
So Christmas Eve sees me
With beer and vodka and whisky
To get my whistle wet
And make me forget
That tomorrow I will wake and see
No presents beneath the Christmas tree
That I don’t have.

Santa hasn’t been!
Santa hasn’t been!
Although I don’t believe in him,
SANTA HASN’T BEEN.

I do not want for much,
Just the merest human touch;
But I’m denied all this.
Dare I dream a kiss
Beneath the mistletoe?
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh –
A perfumed neck, excited eyes,
A promise, soft, compliant thighs,
And Christmas consummation?
No – for me, isolation.

So it didn’t really take me long to decide
On a SPECTACULAR Christmas suicide!

Full of hate and booze
I might even make the news!
But as I will be dead,
I won’t give a shit.

So now, as Winter encroaches,
My lonely death approaches,
But weep not for me.
By my own hand it shall be.
I’ll drink beyond my fill
And take a lot of pills,
And to make really sure.
I’ll lock the door.

And then for the last time I’ll close my eyes…
But, wait; what’s this – doubts arise;
Doubts which give me room for pause,
Maybe there IS a Santa Claus!
Maybe this Christmas will NOT be shite
And everything will be all right!
Maybe, if I pray to God above me,
I’ll meet somebody who loves me!
Someone loving and happy and giving,
So maybe – just maybe – life IS worth living!

LIKE FUCK IT IS.
Goodbye.
And a very Merry Christmas to one and all.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sun 20 Dec 2015, 17:36, 8 replies)

It's A Wonderful Death
Oooh! Time for my annual festive pearoast!

ENJOY!

My many fans will no doubt recall that, in one of my incarnations, I once held a senior position in a large corporation. They will also remember that I once had to tell someone that they were going to be made redundant, just before Christmas. Here are the details:

www.b3ta.com/questions/sayingtheunsayable/post1830292

Now for the sequel. A heart-warming tale of Yuletide love and goodwill. Read on, gentle cunts, read on, and prepare to be entered by the true Spirit of Christmas.

The date: Christmas eve, a month or so after I sacked Bill (not his real name. Which was John). The scene: a cold, frosty urban winter’s evening. A chill wind is howling around the concrete and glass canyons of Plutus Park. Above, a deep black sky with a shining canopy of twinkling stars, that neither know nor care about the antics of the creatures moving about the face of the Earth like the blind, helpless worms that they are. Below, the icy passageways empty save for a crisp packet being blown down the cavernous concourse between the gigantic edifices of Babdastard Bank and Ultracaust plc.

But what is this? In the vast coldness and cold vastness, hearken! Voices, voices merry with merriment! A woman laughs, the sound a tinkle of Bacardi being poured over iced gold. Her male companion (me) joins in, a chuckling avuncular baritone so charming that Prince Charming himself would pooh his pants upon hearing it. Hearken! And viddy well: down the corporate canyon between Babdastard Bank and Ultracaust plc, people, happy festive people, well-wrapped against the winter chill, stepping quickly, their expensive shoes striking the frosty paving-slabs with precision and confidence, the sound echoing efficiently around the concrete enclave. Four people; two couples: myself, my then consort, the sexy Stephanie, and two of our friends, David and Samantha. We are making our way through Plutus Park to a fancy restaurant sited on the far side thereof; we have just spent a merry hour in the pub, and are well refreshed and looking forward to a slap-up Christmas grill. We – me, Stephanie, David and Samantha – could not be happier. It’s Christmas eve, we are with the people we love, we are about to deeply indulge in sensual pleasures (and I’m not just talking about food, you know!), we are bollocking bastard rich, and we fear nothing. Ha!

As I walk beside her I gaze down into Stephanie’s face. Her cheeks are reddened by the cold air, and her dark eyes gleam like the stars in the heavens above. I give her gloved hand a squeeze. She squeezes back and I imagine that hand (sans glove) around my erect penis, wanking it slowly yet determinedly and lovingly until it shoots out pumping great squirts of creamy jizz. I kiss her, my tongue exploring the inside of her mouth which feels excitingly hot against the cold winter air. We then walk on, catching up with David and Samantha, who are also holding hands, and also thinking about having sex with each other. Of course, by now I am nursing a prodigious erection.

As we draw level with our friends, a sad, croaky, hoarse voice rends the air. ‘Spare change?’

My erection melts away like an icicle dipped in hot tomato soup. I stop. I turn and look down.

There, huddled against the wall of Ultracaust plc, is a pathetic, shivering figure, pale and stubbly, shrouded in stinking rags. Its eyes stare up at us, hope gleaming within their reddened, hollow sockets. ‘Spare change?’ repeats the creature again.

My first instinct is to destroy. To stamp, to smash, to rid Plutus Park of this fucking lump of shit. How dare this abject, wretched turd, this worthless, hopeless failure, have the temerity to address us, its superiors? How dare this foetid smear of whore’s cuntbutter dare to puncture our jolly Christmas mood? And fuck ‘goodwill to all men.’ This is not a man; it is a worm. A worm to be crushed underfoot, scraped against the kerb, washed away by the rain and forgotten forever.

We have all stopped and are all staring down at this putrid germ, all thinking the same thing. But then I recognise the figure shivering within its foul coverings of piss stinking rags.

‘Bill?’

The human-shaped object attempts a smile; it is ghastly and wretched, and I clench my fists, wanting only to punch the cunt’s teeth in. ‘Yes, Sir,’ gurgles the thing. ‘It’s Bill. Remember me?’

‘Oh Bill,’ I purr in my best Bond villain voice. ‘How could I ever forget you?’ I then turn to my dear friends, David and Samantha, and my gorgeous Stephanie, who all appear as gigantic gold-plated gods next to this grovelling, base insect. ‘Do go on,’ I say. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

I hunker down next to the creature. I am trying not to burst out laughing. ‘Well, Bill, how’s things?’

Bill looks up at me with fear in his eyes, eyes which, to my disgust, emit hot little tears which steam gently in the Christmas Eve chill. His broken, wretched face then folds and creases and a choking sob is emitted from between his cracked, flaking lips. I am about to stand and start administering the kicking when the miserable being seems to master itself, and speaks:

‘Well, after losing my job, things went downhill. I started drinking heavily, spending all my redundancy money on alcohol. I began losing my temper and beating my wife and children. She kicked me out, and I was going to move back in with my parents, but they both died in a car smash. I begged my wife to let me move back in with her, and she relented. Then my children got abducted, raped and butchered by paedoes. My drinking and violent mood swings got worse, and I started using prostitutes. My wife found out and kicked me out again, but let me back in when she discovered she was pregnant. Then I found out that I had caught HIV off of a prostitute and passed it on to my wife. When I told her she had a miscarriage and killed herself. I then started drinking more and more and I now have cirrhosis of the liver and full-blown AIDS.’

I really have to struggle hard not to burst into laughter. ‘Oh well,’ I manage to say. ‘Never mind. It’s Christmas.’

At these words Bill’s face cracks completely and he lets out a howling wail of deep soul-crushing woe. It is the sound of a tiny thing completely at the end of its tether, the sound of profound and inescapable despair.

I decide that I have to do something.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ I say, putting my arm around the quivering mass of useless flesh and bones. ‘Don’t be like that! Tell you what – you can come and stay at my house for Christmas. Tonight you can have a nice long hot bath and get into some cosy clean clothes, and then have a slap-up Christmas Eve supper. I’ll put you up in the spare room – it’s very cosy and the bedsheets have just been changed. And then tomorrow – Christmas Day! – I’ll make sure you have the best Christmas you’ve ever had!’

The wretch gazes up at me, a dim gleam of hope igniting in his poor little eyes. ‘Really?’

I chuckle good-naturedly. ‘Yes! In fact you can stay with me for as long as it takes to sort yourself out. And in the New Year I’ll take you to see my doctor friend, who will be able to cure your liver disease and AIDS.’

A shadow of doubt passes across Bill’s grimy, tear-streaked face. ‘Really?’

‘No, not really, you stupid fucking cunt.’ I stand up and kick him in the face. He yelps as blood courses freely from his now broken nose.

‘You feculent speck of stinking excrement!’ I spit. ‘Did you REALLY FUCKING THINK I WOULD HAVE A PIECE OF SHIT LIKE YOU IN MY HOUSE? AT CHRISTMAS? OR AT ANY FUCKING TIME?’ I bellow.

Bill blubbers and howls and tries to mop up the bloody, snotty mess that used to be its face.

‘You are a worthless, useless, hopeless waste,’ I explain. ‘You are a sad, sorry little turd, waiting only for the flush. WELL HERE COMES THE FLUSH!’ I reach down and box his ears, knowing well how much it will hurt in the cold air of this frosty Christmas eve. I then kick him several times in the stomach, and consider pissing on him, but my erection would make it difficult to urinate. Instead I spit on him. ‘I hate you, I gob on you, FUCK you!’

It’s high time I left this mess and returned to my loving friends. I start to walk away, but hesitate. I can’t leave this unfinished.

I turn back to the snivelling, sorry wreckage of the thing that used to be Bill. ‘I can’t allow you to remain here,’ I inform it. ‘Spoiling the frontage of the Ultracaust building like this! What if one of the shareholders sees? Come on!’

I haul the thing to its feet – it feels like a sack of spuds – and shove it along the concourse. ‘Now FUCK OFF!’

Bill obeys mutely and begins to stagger away. He seems to be finding it difficult to walk, so, in a show of Christmas goodwill, I offer him my arm. We walk together for a while, Bill silent, me humming Christmas carols, until Bill mumbles that he is tired, so very tired, and needs to rest.

We come to a halt in the middle of a bridge over the railway, and Bill leans heavily on the stone parapet. In the distance, I can see a train approaching, and I come to a decision.

‘Would you like to die now, Bill; or would you prefer to wait for the complications of AIDS or cirrhosis to kick in?’

Bill says nothing. He merely stares into the night, shivering, his breath misting the festive air.

‘Only, the latter option would involve a protracted, painful, ugly and undignified death, during which you would have ample time to think back over the catastrophic failure of your miserable existence. Best to end it all now, quickly, and relatively painlessly.’

Still Bill says nothing. The train draws nearer. From some nearby hostelry, the merry strains of Mariah Carey’s festive hit ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ can be clearly discerned.

‘So, Bill, which is it to be? Quick death now, or horrible long-drawn-out death later? Hurry up and decide, the train’s almost here.’

Bill mumbles something, but I can’t quite make out what it is. ‘Sorry?’

A whisper issues from the beaten lump, a whisper colder than the depths of winter. ‘Death now.’

The train is getting closer, closer. ‘Death now, what?’

The whisper comes again. ‘Death now, please.’

Closer and closer. ‘Death now, please what?’

Bill turns to look at me. There is nothing in his eyes. No fear, no hate, no pain, no broken heart, nothing. They are empty of life. He is already dead. ‘Death now, please, Sir.’

‘Okey dokey.’ I grab him round the middle and with one big heave pitch him over the parapet. Just in time! There’s a sort of wet crackling thump, and the air is rent with the piercing shriek of the train’s brakes. I sigh. A messy delay for all those poor passengers, but something to talk about over their Christmas eve suppers.

I walk away, and catch up with my friends David and Samantha, and my gorgeous lover Stephanie. We go on to have a lovely evening, and later, I fuck Stephanie, and spray my semen all over her face, hair and tits.

Merry Christmas, everyone! And a happy and prosperous New Year.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sat 19 Dec 2015, 12:15, 9 replies)

I don't do a family Christmas anymore. we never really did anything extravagant when I was a kid.
Now I live in Manchester Im less inclined to travel home.
Last time there was a half arsed dinner with some sort of orange flavoured chicken and tinned veg (I know).
Father stayed on the internet. Mother sat leafing through puzzle books and the BBC news channel played in the background.
I booked into a hotel on Boxing Day.
( GeordieJay Bummers are deaf, Fri 18 Dec 2015, 11:32, 6 replies)

A Christmas Rhyme
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Jack frost nipping at your nose.
Snowflakes drifting from a quiet sky,
Ice puddles freezing children's toes.

Christmas is a winter wonderland
With a wintry chilly breeze.
Unfortunately though, not this year
Cos it's se-ven-teeeeeen degrees.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Fri 18 Dec 2015, 10:51, Reply)

Alone in a manger on somebody's lawn
the forty watt Jesus glows through until dawn.
The soft glowing Santa looks down where he lays
the forty watt Jesus aglow in the hay.

Alone in a manger in somebody's shed
the forty watt Jesus still rests his glass head.
The tinfoil stars and the plastic reindeer
keep watch over Jesus the rest of the year.
( Wanderer, Fri 18 Dec 2015, 2:22, 3 replies)

Have a corporate kinda Christmas
it's the phoniest time of year
Laugh and be hearty at the Christmas party
and kiss your boss's rear.

Have a corporate kinda Christmas
and chase that extra pay
Because you know that it's your cash flow
that makes the holiday.
( Wanderer, Fri 18 Dec 2015, 2:16, Reply)

My dad.............
.....burnt all our presents one year. He gathered up the wrapping paper from his & mum's presents, shoved them in a bag, took them into the garden and set fire to them. Trouble was, the bag still had my presents in it. Seventy quid's worth of camera filters!
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Thu 17 Dec 2015, 18:25, 5 replies)

Christmas is not all it's cracked up to be
Families fighting around a plastic tree
Nothing on the TV that you'd want to see
And it's hardly ever snowing
The way it's meant to be
Like in White Christmas year after year
Bing Crosby, Bing Crosby,
Are you listening to me?

It doesn't often snow at Christmas
the way it's meant to do
But I'll still have a glow at Christmas
because I'll be with you

The Christmas message was long ago lost
Now it's all about shopping and how much things cost
It's meant to be goodwill as well as synthetic fun
and what is this year's festive number one

It doesn't often snow at Christmas
the way it's meant to do
But I'll still have a glow at Christmas
because I'll be with you

Not my words Michael, but the Pet Shop Boys
( GeordieJay Bummers are deaf, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 17:05, 5 replies)

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Jack Frost nipping on your nose
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir
And folks dressed up like Eskimos

Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe
Help to make the season bright
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow
Will find it hard to sleep tonight

They know that Santa's on his way
He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh
And every mother's child is going to spy
To see if reindeer really know how to fly

And so I'm offering this simple phrase
To kids from one to ninety-two
Although its been said many times, many ways
Merry Christmas to you
( broadsword now that's fresh, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 12:44, 3 replies)

Family Ex-mas
As much as I was fond of my ex's immediate family, I found Christmas with his aunty, uncle and cousins... well "uncomfortable" shall we say? It should have been quite enjoyable - they had an amazing house, were very generous and jolly most of the time, but there was a weird tension of competitiveness and parenting choices that I couldn't help thinking would make for major issues in the future.

The youngest son had been conditioned into cheating at family games. Any time he overheard an answer and repeated it he would be praised for being a clever boy. There was no questioning the fact that he'd answered with an obscure song title from before he was born or even any suggestion that he might have just been lucky at guessing. Though I am no behaviourist I couldn't help feeling that this might generate some "win at all cost" mentality that could get him in trouble in the future.

The daughter was likewise praised for her singing voice, which might have been good if she'd have put some effort into training it. Instead she was deemed a natural and encouraged to go on a TV show to showcase her skills. Although there was no suggestion she should try to develop her vocal talents, there WERE areas that she was deemed to need help - her mother mentioned that she had recently sourced her some "slimming pills" to help her manage her weight. This (again in IMO) seemed to be setting her up for a future of over-estimating her talents and being over-critical of her appearance - a perfect storm you might say.

The eldest son was a bit of a stoner kid and the best of the lot, but he basically just kept his head down and allowed the madness and judgements to wash over him. In many ways I don't blame him.

As for me, I survived the ultra-competitive minefield of festive games by teaming up with the Grandad. We weren't ever going to win, but at least no one was shouting "HA!" aggressively in our faces when we got a question wrong.
( e.m.m.y. foxtrot uniform charlie kilo india tango, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 12:38, Reply)

I'll be abroad for the festive period so we had Christmas at my mum's house last weekend instead
I swear it gets earlier every year
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 11:44, 1 reply)

See how we yawn...
at your bile and your scorn
It’s a beautiful day
Peace on Earth has been played
Make a noise with your toys
and ignore the killjoys
'cos it’s cliched to be cynical at Christmas.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 10:22, 1 reply)

Humbug
I use to write porn for a 24 hour text message service. I'm a man, but I'd pretend very convincingly to be a woman as I replied to men paying premium rate charges to text a woman that didn't exist in the hope that their feeble cocks would eventually see some daylight. Basically, I was fuelling their wank fantasies.

Christmas party day, they told me to man the computer. Whilst they ate, drank and were merry, I tossed about 500 men off, via the medium of SMS. Crying. Alone.
( $$ ✅, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 10:06, 4 replies)

It's not as funny as it used to be

( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 10:02, Reply)

manolith touched a dog on the christmas bumhole

(AEthelfrith of Bernicia, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 9:49, Reply)

Fuck Christmas

( Bartleby A dead man on vacation, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 9:45, Reply)

My wife gave birth to someone else's baby.

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 9:07, 5 replies)