Let's face it, men just aren't designed for Christmas shopping. For starters, you need the patience of Mother Teresa, just to negotiate the gaggle of hapless consumers with their mile-wide asses (encased in ill-advised leggings and elasticated trousers). You sashay and swerve, but are still unable to thwart them as they limp three abreast down the tivoli-bedecked malls, heaving a cornucopia of plastic bags, containing toys that will be discarded and forgotten before 2010 – and gifts for adults that will only bring their recipients disappointment, disbelief and dejection... and in severe cases: suicide. 

 

I don't know why we don't spread Christmas over the entire year, to alleviate the congestion in car parks throughout December. We should just split the nation alphabetically by surname and have different weeks and months to have Christmas in (as long as it doesn't clash with other traditional gift-purchasing events, obviously).  

 

I'm also perpetually stunned by the sheer effort that women can invest in choosing a Greetings Card. I can barely manage to stifle the tears at the check-out, when I'm told that the limp piece of bumwad I've chosen – that's been liberally splashed with glitter by a lobotomized baboon in a Chinese sweatshop – is actually going to set me back £5.50. To me, the cost alone says that I care, I shouldn't have to cogitate upon designs, rhymes and colours too. I've half a mind to start up a monthly direct debit with Hallmark or Paperchase. That way, I can spread the payments over the year and avoid Anaphylactic Shock every single Birthday, Anniversary, Valentines' Day, or Christmas.

 

Take today: I really, really tried to get into the spirit of giving; I really tried to choose clothes that my wife would actually like (as opposed to the scanty translucent Lithuanian Prostitute garb that I usually gravitate towards), but it all went wrong when I notched up over 20 quid on the fucking wrapping paper alone – And that was my first stop-off. I eyed the the English-themed pubs in the food court furtively just moments later, and thought “No, I can't, it's barely 10am”.

 

“Make-Up”, I thought, in a blinding flash of inspiration. “I've seen women paint their faces on every day, they just love make-up... I'll buy some of that”. But sadly, the Clinique counter at John Lewis was no more of a joyous occasion. There I was, getting my jollies by trying to choose eye shadow and lipstick that if I was thinking properly; would really only suit Charlie Carolli, when the assistant sabotaged my reverie. Whilst using the soothing, yet patronising tones that you might administer to the incontinent elderly, she gently ushered me towards the more subtle hues, intoning: “To be honest Sir, foundation is a fairly personal and individual thing, and I doubt your wife would relish the prospect of being seen in public looking like a Satsuma”.

 

I paid a visit to Waterstone's to try and get a good book, but was pretty sure my faithful wife wouldn't fancy Andy McNab or John Grisham either, and as I can't see the point of a book without spies or explosions I left empty-handed there too.

 

I should have derived a modicum of comfort from the cynical 'Behemoth Retailers', who try to make it easy for men, by putting a load of cheap-impulse-buy-tat, and ephemeral trinkets at the check-outs... You know, the kind of stuff that you just grab thinking, “Yeah, that'll do”. But even in a frenzied and practically hyperventilating state, I couldn't justify the need for yet another monogrammed handkerchief; a photo frame; a risque joke book that would only be read in short, semi-interested bursts whilst sitting on the toilet; or a silver trinket box that wasn't even large enough to hold the butterfly-clips from a pair of earrings, but which still seem to litter dressing tables the length and breadth of Britain...

 

Four hours into this joyless sojourn, my lower back gave in, as did the arches of my feet. Around the same time, my Deodorant packed in too, and I suddenly became aware of the fact that I smelt like a Bingo Hall in Scunthorpe.

 

What happened to my innocence and joy? What happened to my youthful enthusiasm and life-embracing spirit? When did I become such a grouch? Christmas used to be a time for Ginger Ale; From Russia With Love; a confusion of winking iridescent fairy lights; smoked salmon and raw onion sandwiches (in full-fat white crusty bread that was bought from a proper bakery). It used to be a time for celebration, relaxation and for the wonder of families. 

 

So whose lame-ass idea was it to start buying each other 'shit'?

 

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