LinkedIn Facebook Twitter RSS Feed

In which I try to make a point . . . all over your mum's face!

Right. It's been ages since I last made a post about anything specific. Or relevant. Or, I don't know, sensible.
So I have decided to address you, the many fine readers of this now possibly world-famous blography, about my Christmas holidays. Feel free to imagine me wearing a deep red smoking jacket, seated in a wing back chair in front of a roaring fire, occasionally sipping from a glass of fine port. It will certainly elevate me in your minds from the terrible, tortured, unshaven, misshapen, possibly-chocolate-stained jabba the hutt that is my existence.
Imagine this, but with glasses and a bitchin' hat.

So, anyway, readers, how was your Christmas?
Uh huh . . . 
Yeah . . .
Ha! Seriously? . . . 
No, really, keep talking. I can totally hear you through the screen, dumpass. Leave a comment.
Anyway, back to the important subject at hand: Me, my Ego (fully deserving of the capital letter) and the vigorous repeated stroking thereof to let forth glorious, sporadic and breathless bursts of brilliance. Straight into your eyes.
Picture unrelated.

My Christmas was pretty shit. Not the family, or the horrible weather, or the work, or the loneliness.
It was the presents. But not even the presents themselves. It was the process behind the presents that pissed me off.
You ever hear the phrase "It's the thought that counts"? Well this situation was the opposite. No one had a clue what to get me, so they just threw in a tried-and-trusted, can't-really-complain sort of gift. Like chocolate. Or a swift kick to the throat.
My presents were as follows:
2 Hoodies,
A DVD that I had seen already,
A Belt that I had asked for,
€20 voucher for Newbridge Shopping Centre,
From "Santa" in all his wonderful, obese, all-knowing glory, I was given: Socks and a box of flash cards with "Interesting Facts" on them.
Now these, you will agree were not bad presents. I didn't even have to fake smile! I didn't even get a book, which was nice, considering the last three years have yielded about 30 books in total. I read them all. The parents insisted I couldn't use them as toilet paper or kindling until I did.
The problem is that I'm not out of contact with these people. Every time I meet them, they always say "How's the archery?" or "You're dong some designery course, aren't you?"
Eh. Fuck it, close enough.

So they know that I enjoy: 
Design, in a nonspecific sense,
Computer Games,
and the fact that I'm leaving in less than a month to go to the continent for a few months of work experience.
How many of those gifts fall into any of those categories? Certainly I enjoy wearing clothes. Money is always welcome. A twenty quid voucher to a place I've never been to, in a country I won't be back in until a few months before it expires, whereafter I will be at the opposite end of the country, not so much.
I realise it is hard to buy gifts for people my age, but come on! Was "He enjoys not having cold, wet feet" really the best they could think of?
I realise I appear petty and childish here, but all I'm asking is that, the next time you go out shopping for a present. Think. What do you know about this person? If this still draws a blank, then just ask someone who does know. An thoughtful, educated guess that's way off will always be much better received than a lucky stab in the dark. (Incidentally, stabs in the dark are almost never well-received as presents).
 . . . 
Fuck it. I'm done. See ya next time. Go fb message a friend or something . . . 
Craig out.


Post a Comment