I’m feeling mental…Senti-mental

sixfeet

Last Christmas. Good times

As we await the end of the world, at least there’s still this. When I’m sitting in my dinner on Chrimblas Day, ready to stab a sibling with a wishbone and carefully keeping an eye on the volume of alco-liquid that will get me to bedtime, I will be humming ‘Fairytale of New York’ in my head. Best watched/listened to alone as adding one other person makes it feel like some kind of formal Irlanda ‘salute the flag’ event. If heard in a pub, it provokes a selfish reaction as you scowl at some pissed-up tit in a Chrimblas jumper, wanting to tell him, “I remember when this came out you little prick. You probably think the Killers are legends. Go to Arnotts for your Chrimblas music you dick.”

Anyways, It’s about the only thing worth looking forward to at Christmas. Everything else disappoints, except functional alcoholism. In this awkward time when people are worried about ‘other’ people saying Happy Holidays, taking the Christmas out of Christmas, worrying about a war on Christmas, just remember one thing: nobody is actually doing that. If someone says Happy Holidays to you, you can say Happy Christmas to them. They don’t care. Nobody cares. Muslims don’t care. Buddists don’t care. Evangelical Ewoks don’t care. Scientologists don’t care because they want your Pass Card. I don’t care.

There is no God. No evidence of its existence. No evidence that it doesn’t exist. No one knows. Nobody actually knows. So, if someone says Happy Christmas to you, you’ll probably go Happy Christmas back, despite you both dropping your religious education aged 12 and only go to a church for a wedding or a funeral. You say ‘bless you’ when someone sneezes. That embarrassed person usually mutters ‘thanks’ through soaking hands. They don’t actually think that your ‘bless you’ means that you are an ordained priest or are a dark wizard with healing powers. Fuck that and fuck you. Giving me a cold I don’t fucking want.

I once heard Ronan Keating singing this song. He won’t be doing that again.stretch-macgibbonxmas

Killing in the name of a Christmas fairytale

Sometimes a munki goes on faceybook and joins the various stupid groups they provide to keep your brain in an oh-so social setting. Makes Munki angry, wanna throw poo. Munki not care for “Terry Henry and his Hands of God” or “Stop police death squads killing Slum Rhinos of Rio de Janeiro.” Munki just want to join shit.

This one I kinda like (see yellow thing to right) though, coz it’s got a decent outcome. I know they could have picked The Pogues “Fairytale of New York,” or Barry Manilow’s “Jesus built my Hotrod,” but to put on my Mr Burns hat, there is something delightfully subversive about one munki and 350,000 other people being stupid enough to buy a single (that most of us have) in order to stop the insidious X-factor corporation from getting another Christmas No.1 with a song so bland that it will raise George Hamilton from the dead.

The fact that somewhere deep inside this silly facebook group, sitting in a small air-conditioned portakabin, with two ham sandwiches and two-litre bottle of TK, a small chinchilla eating a packet of Monster Munch and Declan Nerney’s “Greatest Hits” playing on a small ghetto blaster with broken Graphic Equaliser (What’s that? say the young folk) are penniless Zach de la Rocha and Tom Morello, IS slightly irritating. This is no reason not to go along with this.

On Sunday the 13th December, idiots all over the globe will purchase/repurchase Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name Of.” This their first and pretty much best song will put another crease in Simon Cowell’s already over-strained head. Like any junkie, the botox will have to go somewhere. I suggest his jumper. Anyway, for 99c or whatever it costs, Stretch Macgibbon is pledging allegiance to this ridiculous club and will purchase this great song.

Am I a fool? Are flash mobs really that cool? Did Kate Jackson just walk through my sliding doors, a knife between her teeth, blood streaming from the sides of her lips, humming “Cocacabana”?

Stretch gotta go. Katie go crazy as a fox! Put that down!

And for proper Christmassy things, the tale of a drunk, Matt Dillon and Ewan McColl’s daughter, in fact exactly like the story of Jesus.