When I reached the zenith of my days of rebellion, having sacrificed the chances of a top rate education, and squandered more opportunities than you could stuff a hippo with (or ”than with which you could stuff a hippo” for those of you whose education was not squandered (twats)), and sat around typically watching Tom trying to decide whether getting out of his chair would ultimately benefit the cause of love and peace, I was of a cheery disposition, and optimistic that the world was going to be shaken by the new consciousness that we were experiencing.
Well, we didn’t end war, greed, poverty, misery. We weren’t part of a giant leap in evolution whereby mankind discover the mysteries of the journey within and resolved the arcane questions of the meaning of life. We didn’t manage to convince anyone that it was important to care for the planet, at least until it was too fucking late.
I am not sure how much I thought it likely that any of these changes would come, I suspect that like most of my friends I enjoyed being part of a distinctive rebellious minority (at least until it brought us to the attention of the drug squad) and took delight in the derision with which we were greeted by the straight world.
But one thing that I thought would definitely change would be the obsession with tradition.
I fucking hate tradition. I fucking hate tradition with a passion bordering on the psychotic. I really, sincerely hope that you all have a lovely time today, and every other day, but if your enjoyment involves any of crackers, silly hats, the fucking queen’s speech, brussel sprouts, saying “and all the trimmings” (FUCK OFF) then please do not invite me to be part of it. In fact, shove it. The same goes for your new year celebration and the fucking Scottish song (they only fucking composed it so that they could laugh at the rest of the world looking like twats singing it, there’s not much to be cheerful about if you are born in Glasgow for fuck’s sake). And most of all your fucking weddings with your fucking silly clothes, twatty speeches, bollocky confetti and whatever the fuck else some twat has decided is essential so that you can spend 3 million pounds on fucking dross. Thank you for your kindness, but I will not be attending.
What kind of deep rooted insecurity in humanity is it that makes it impossible to enjoy themselves without repeating meaningless rituals? “Oh, it’s a tradition! Dorothy choked on a chestnut the last two Christmases, so we’ve got to fucking force them down her throat until she turns blue, it’s a tradition”.
So, today, as you sit around your Ikea dining table having devoured a manky poultry carcass with “all the fucking trimmings”, and you are so amused by finding a coin in your food that you think your lungs are going to turn bright purple and explode, take a look at Uncle Norman, with his silly green fucking paper hat, playing with the fucking silly bit of plastic that was in his cracker and drooling down the new cardigan that Santa brought for him, and instead of thinking “It’s nice to see him enjoying himself” ponder on whether it would be possible for him to look any more fucking ridiculous than he does at this moment. You don’t have to upset him by saying it out loud, but pause for a second and think to yourself “You dozy looking old cunt”.
I hope that this helps.