It's October, and a lot of people will be thinking that it's too early to be thinking about Christmas. Not me. I'm always thinking about Christmas. Where Eagles Dare, tins of Quality Street, watching the tinsel spin around the room after a gallon of eggnog... you know the kind of thing. Who wouldn't want that every day? Roy Wood was fucking well right. And besides, I've been down the Co-op. It's fucking well full of the shit. After Eights... Roses... Turkish Delight... Matchmakers... you know, all those things with which we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ and our eventual path to eternal life.
Anyway, I'm rambling a bit. Look, I write to you every year, and every year I have one, very simple request. Bring me a fucking Scalextric. I don't ask for much. Really, I don't. Sure, I'm 35 years old and supposedly nowadays I'm meant to be getting grown-up presents, like Drakkar Noir, or hygienic nasal clippers, or a pair of bloody novelty socks that have got lights on the side and play Jingle Fucking Bells or We Wish You A Merry Cunting Christmas, about ten times, before you stick them in the wash or smash them with a toffee hammer after a couple of cans of McEwan's on Boxing Day. I know that's what I am meant to ask you for, nowadays.
But I want a fucking Scalextric.
Don't fuck around with some sort of generic plastic model racing cars on a track, either. Oh no. My grandparents tried that back in 1983, and they soon found out just how wrong they could be. It's a fucking Scalextric or nothing, all right? With decent cars. Formula One cars, or banger racers, or something. Don't fuck about. Just give me the fucking Scalextric. All right?
I feel that, on this occasion, my tone may have strayed somewhat from my normal friendly words of pleading, and this is a lapse for which I can only apologise. On the other hand, if you'd fucking well brought me a fucking Scalextric, I wouldn't have to be so nasty, would I? I'd have my Scalextric, and I'd be happy, and I'd just be asking for other things, like the bloody Dunlop Bridge, or a grandstand full of shit looking spectators that you have to spend hours painting with Humbrol, which ends up running onto the newspaper, and then it gets stuck and you rip it off, and then the paint comes off with it, and you start crying and throw the whole lot against the wall, and it stains, and you cry even more at the hopelessness of it all, and... I appear to have wandered from my main point. But you get the general idea.
Much love and kisses at this special time of year. And yes, I have been a good boy this year. Well, apart from that. But could you blame me?
For some of us it was the Scalextric; for others, the Star Wars figures or the Mr Frosty. Funnily enough I did have the Mr Frosty, and he was ruddy brilliant! But I know that must be a cold steel knife to the heart for those of you who didn't get one. I know how much it must hurt. Well, let's see this as some kind of group therapy for us all. Is there something that Santa never brought you, which you still haven't got, all these years later as a grown-up? Do you flick through the kids' section of the Argos catalogue with a wistful sigh and a tear in your eye? If so, confess it below, and perhaps through sharing the pain we can get through all of this.
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