Wow. I’m so exited for Christmas. The tinsel, the presents, that time-honoured tradition of drinking with my parents, piecing together more about my conception and suffering horrendous ‘I-Know-Too-Much’ syndrome thereafter.
Oh wait. In the time it took me to write that paragraph, it seems Christmas came and left. Quicker than ever.
This is how Christmas works in The Real Real World, and experiencing this truth stings more than wading through a field of nettles looking for your dog.
The Uni bubble was soft and mallowy; students typically finish their 45 word essay 45 minutes before the deadline and have three weeks at home enjoying central heating and home-cooked stews.
But take heed, students, the real world is somewhat less forgiving. There isn’t time for Christmas spirit among postgrad deadlines, spreadsheets and general life-mongery. Hence me finding myself at home, about two or three days after Christmas, wondering where the bloody hell my Christmas spirit went.
Don’t get me wrong, the big day was as great as ever. Instead of just one large beast at our dinner table, we had two - turkey AND beef, supplemented by boxing day ham and day-after-boxing-day salmon because apparently every day between Xmas and New Years warrants a special off-the-cuff creature.
Can’t wait for December 29th Goose, New Year’s Eve-Eve Venison and New Year’s Day Finest Gourmet Horse. Tastes stressed.
We also had our annual gathering of Mandles From All Over (And Some From Nearby) where relatives come to see us, stick around for a bit, and bugger off. We will not see them until December 25th 2011. This is not because they live in areas devoid of communication. We simply don’t care about them enough to bother speaking to them the other 364 days of the year.
Now that I think about it, I definitely don’t know much about the outer-circle of our family. Uncle Keith works for a company (as opposed to what, I wonder?) and lives in a house (that’s based off an assumption. He might have a house-car or a box-hole).
‘Uncle’ John (he’s my auntie’s husband’s brother, so no blood there folks) is on Countryfile next week helping rescue someone from a mountain, but he did admit most the footage shows him with his hands in his pockets while other people do dangerous stuff.
Still, the Mandles From All Over (And Some From Nearby) celebrations are a speed-socialising day of frenzy; quick chats with one here, duck under there and mingle with such-and-such. And since we host, my brother and I are usually topping up drinks, offering a Terry’s Segsation from a large metal barrel or laughing at just the right time. Normally when an elderly racist relative makes wry observations about the French.
I think my favourite part of the festive period is the fallout from Christmas - people wander along the streets wondering what day it is, if the banks will be open, if they’ll receive post or whether there’s something good on telly. And it’s always good spending your afternoons violating a selection box while playing The Sims 2.
Having fack all to do is a rare treat in The Real Real World, so it feels very deserved. Especially when I have to sadly spend my birthday on a BA flight back to London to start work again. THIS TIME IS PRECIOUS - I WILL DO NOTHING!
The trip up was exciting. Despite Heathrow spamming up all week and cancelling flights, I went to Terminal 5 with a spring in my step. While sitting in the departure lounge bar (I managed to sneak in under some flimsy pretence of meeting a relative. Plus, I’m slim, so sneaking is second nature to me) I mingled with some people who were not impressed with the snow.
“Bah! This country!” snorted one man, his jowls quivering with a squelch. “We can’t handle the snow at all!"
“I know!” screeched another lady. I was absent from her contribution as my ears started to bleed from the piercing shriek of her voice, but from what I gathered, she said we needed to spend more money dealing with snow.
“What money do you propose we spend?” I asked, wadding my ears with cotton wool. “What services would you cut so the country can use more grit? For two weeks a year? Sometimes?”
“All I’m saying,” said Screechsome McDinosaur. “Is that Russia cope fine well. They use tanks to clear the road. Tanks!!”
As small children and dogs wailed at her shrill tones, people murmured in agreement. What the piss? We never get snow here, and if we do, we get very little for very little time. If planes can’t fly and trains get a bit scared then so what - we’ll suck it up and get on with it.
Proposing that the country spends a lot of money on a giant Acme-style shovel or a robot that vomits grit in copious loads is ridiculous, pointless and absurd.
Why not invest in a gigantic net so we can catch people who are flung around from tornados? You know, JUST IN CASE?
Or maybe we could spend £Six Trillion Willion putting every single building on a pair of comical stilts that would help absorb the shock from a potential earthquake?
Hopefully there are some more narrow-minded pleb-wankers on the plane back so I can have a good chuckle at their stupid views.
In other news, I’ve secured a cushy internship at FHM for the first few months of 2011. Lots of people applied for the position but I used my sharp wit, unflappable cunning and farcical blackmail to snag the job.
Hurray.
While there, I’ll be doing all manner of strange jobs for the mag, be it getting fired out a cannon, catching a bullet in my teeth and trying to speak Yak. If you have any suggestions for tasks you’d like me to do while there (including but not restricted to sleeping with your average-looking cousin) drop me an email at cmandle0@gmail.com.
And follow me on twitter, where I can be found at www.twitter.com/cmandle
