We are miserable sinners; filthy fuckers
Carols From Kings was a bit subpar this year, I must say. Probably the intrusion of Vaughn Williams and a lullaby that was all "Oh, my sweet child, my precious baby innocent lambkin, let me fluffle you in snuggy pink blankets in the name of our little baby Lord Jesus Christ until you develop type 2 diabetes."
There is no excuse for that type of upchuckery, really. Hate Vaughn-Williams. Hate, hate, hate. It's like the aural equivalent of Tennyson. (Yes, I'm aware some people love it, but with me it's like Holy Water on the undead. I back away, hissing and snarling.)
Plus there was a lot of 'Thanks be to God' nonsense after every reading. Did they do that before or was I just not paying attention? Smacks of grovelling to me.
Also there was a dreadful whiff of Smug about the thing. Again, maybe I didn't notice before but then I usually watch for la la la singy time, oh lookit the beautiful fan-vaulting. But I dunno - this year there was a pong of the kind of Smug that has rendered Last Night of the Proms completely unwatchable. There was also a terrible girl who was already wearing rope pearls, elbow length puffed sleeve blouse and knitted tank top in her twenties, giving a reading of Milton while trying to look peppy and happy and oh-so-W.I. Jolly. Doesn't really work, love. Milton was very much a poet of his time - that is, the Seventeenth Century. Lot of people wearing black and being all "Oh Dear Lord Please Don't Burn Us."
I was a little cranky and then blundered into a passle of the kind of atheists who bellow "HOW DARE YOU ASSUME I'M CHRISTIAN?" if you so much as mention Christmas on Christmas Eve. So...arseholes on both sides, really. (Although props to the Christians - they were only mildly smug and annoying. The atheists? Behaved like cunts. For shame, people.)
Unfortunately I missed my pretend-husband Professor Brian 'I'm Too Sexy For My Hadron Collider' Cox on telly earlier because I was cooking. I love you, Brian. You'd make my head explode as soon as you started talking your sexy physics talk, but it doesn't matter because the bits of my brain splattered all over the wall would still go on admiring your hotness from afar.
Call me?
Oh God, the fucking food, people. THE FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD. Due to general brokeassness I'm having to miss out on treating the family to the usual Italian restaurant binge and I'm cooking Christmas dinner this year. And I've unfortunately, lately acquired a reputation as a good cook. This is unfortunate because having a reputation means you have to keep it up, which means ever more extravagant edible craziness.
I bought a piece of prime Aberdeen Angus fillet to make beef wellington...(Yes, gominokouhai, I know, but I wasn't holding out on you to be churlish, honest. It's just that the recipe belongs to a chef friend of the family and you know how chefs are about their recipes. If this bugger comes out okay I'll let you know, because this is my recipe and therefore I can disclose it without betraying the secret code of Chefs.)
...oh, and yeah. FORTY QUID.
Had a lightheaded moment in the butchers there. But I coughed up the cash because it's Christmas and it's the time of year to be a silly cunt with the content of your wallet.
Right - I'm out of here because I am TIRED. See you on the flipside. Have a good one.
There is no excuse for that type of upchuckery, really. Hate Vaughn-Williams. Hate, hate, hate. It's like the aural equivalent of Tennyson. (Yes, I'm aware some people love it, but with me it's like Holy Water on the undead. I back away, hissing and snarling.)
Plus there was a lot of 'Thanks be to God' nonsense after every reading. Did they do that before or was I just not paying attention? Smacks of grovelling to me.
Also there was a dreadful whiff of Smug about the thing. Again, maybe I didn't notice before but then I usually watch for la la la singy time, oh lookit the beautiful fan-vaulting. But I dunno - this year there was a pong of the kind of Smug that has rendered Last Night of the Proms completely unwatchable. There was also a terrible girl who was already wearing rope pearls, elbow length puffed sleeve blouse and knitted tank top in her twenties, giving a reading of Milton while trying to look peppy and happy and oh-so-W.I. Jolly. Doesn't really work, love. Milton was very much a poet of his time - that is, the Seventeenth Century. Lot of people wearing black and being all "Oh Dear Lord Please Don't Burn Us."
I was a little cranky and then blundered into a passle of the kind of atheists who bellow "HOW DARE YOU ASSUME I'M CHRISTIAN?" if you so much as mention Christmas on Christmas Eve. So...arseholes on both sides, really. (Although props to the Christians - they were only mildly smug and annoying. The atheists? Behaved like cunts. For shame, people.)
Unfortunately I missed my pretend-husband Professor Brian 'I'm Too Sexy For My Hadron Collider' Cox on telly earlier because I was cooking. I love you, Brian. You'd make my head explode as soon as you started talking your sexy physics talk, but it doesn't matter because the bits of my brain splattered all over the wall would still go on admiring your hotness from afar.
Call me?
Oh God, the fucking food, people. THE FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD. Due to general brokeassness I'm having to miss out on treating the family to the usual Italian restaurant binge and I'm cooking Christmas dinner this year. And I've unfortunately, lately acquired a reputation as a good cook. This is unfortunate because having a reputation means you have to keep it up, which means ever more extravagant edible craziness.
I bought a piece of prime Aberdeen Angus fillet to make beef wellington...(Yes, gominokouhai, I know, but I wasn't holding out on you to be churlish, honest. It's just that the recipe belongs to a chef friend of the family and you know how chefs are about their recipes. If this bugger comes out okay I'll let you know, because this is my recipe and therefore I can disclose it without betraying the secret code of Chefs.)
...oh, and yeah. FORTY QUID.
Had a lightheaded moment in the butchers there. But I coughed up the cash because it's Christmas and it's the time of year to be a silly cunt with the content of your wallet.
Right - I'm out of here because I am TIRED. See you on the flipside. Have a good one.