Failed hobbies

At a stagnant point in a Westerner’s life, we will start to feel an urge. Not quite a like a sexual burn or intense craving for tapas but a dull throbbing that stems from a fleeting curiosity.

A curiosity born from an image on TV or a hair-brain idea inspired by a social superior.

It’s that inkling to do something we’ve always wanted to do… Ever since childhood… Or realised mastery of said pastime would attract members of the opposite sex.

Soon enough the inkling spills over into a gushing torrent of cash expenditure filling a river of thinly justified purchases:

• Electric guitar,
• Case,
• Amp,
• Leads,
• Pics,
• Spare strings and
• “Super-mad panty-dropping electric guitar shredding techniques FOR DUMMIES” book + CD.

Remember how fun Guitar Hero was… Imagine rocking out for real. It only took a month or two to master those Guitar Hero songs.

While a shiny-red electric guitar looks great in the lounge room, attaining mastery requires coordination beyond any measure we are prepared to practise for.

The guitar’s ornamental value is quickly overshadowed when friends continually ask for a rendition of Metallica’s Master Of Puppets . It is soon stashed in the garage and out of sight.

After resigning to the fact that playing music maybe isn’t our thing, puny arms or fat thighs start playing on the mind.

We’d always wanted to join the local gym. Though we never really had “time” before but since our last relationship breakdown there isn’t much keeping us occupied.

“But why pay for one month of gym membership, when paying for a year is so much cheaper,”  the hot girl/guy trying to sell the membership says. “Plus you get two 30-minute personal training sessions free!”

Finding motivation becomes hard when that hot trainer stops telling you what to do. Not wanting to pay the exorbitant fee for ongoing personal training, we try to wrangle a friend to hit the house of fitness too.

Since they just started a new relationship there isn’t really much point.

Soon Master Chief and X-Factor seem more appealing after work than a cross-trainer or weight bench and 10 months of the one-year membership wastes away like a bank loan on a broken-down car.

At least we still have that fashionable gym pass on our key-ring.

As pointless years fly by the garage and spare room becomes a shrine to lost interests and failed hobbies.

Surfboard, diving gear, electric juicer, Wii Fit board, treadmill, exercise bike and rusty weights from a once-expensive home gym all serve as reminders about the last flavour of the month.

Maybe we just haven’t found what we are really into … How about all that DJ equipment that’s been advertised lately?

Chicks always dig a mad DJ…

-M.Radcliffe.

Internet dating: The real mirror for society

When university funded intellectuals want to know what makes society tick they tend to refer to surveys, economic data or focus groups.

But if you want to bleed an un-cut artery of sociological information, look no further than the now socially acceptable world of internet dating.

Nothing reveals more of what people think of themselves than being forced - for fear of looking boring - to write blurb on what makes them tick and what they enjoy doing.

Based on the most popular dating sites, Australian society in 2012 can be summed up as the following:

“Easy going” 

No matter where you look a dating website, everyone is “easy going”.

We know that even genuine easy going people can become strung out and spiteful during the courtship process.

But it makes good sense to describe yourself as easy going, given that no one will confess to being a bitch or a total pain in the arse.

“Down to earth” 

Oh yes, they’re a very down to earth crowd those looking for romance by the desktop light.

No head-in-the-clouds types whatsoever. No lofty ambitions or snooty attitudes. They like to keep it real.

And of course that fat/ugly chick or younger guy who just tried to contact them was shooting way out of their league.

“Love hanging with friends” 

We all have friends, so given the friendly nature of our contact with them it goes without saying you would enjoy the time spent. Otherwise they wouldn’t be friends at all.

Some might suggest those trawling internet dating would be suffering a severe friend shortage but I’ll give the benefit of the doubt.

“I like going out”

When attempting to attract a date on the internet it is not in your interests to own-up to introversion and a preference for cats/video games over human company.

“I’m really outgoing”

Obviously not outgoing enough if you’re trawling RSVP looking for “the one”.

“I’m kind of shy at first but once you get to know me”

You’ll be lumped with all their problems, baggage and tantrums. Buyer beware.

“My family are the most important thing in the world to me”

Why would a potential mate care about this?

A potential suitor scanning internet dating profiles is going to assume the candidates have and amicable relationship with their family.

“Random road trips”

My informants tell me this is a recently popular addition to the standard internet dating profile. Apparently they can’t get enough of jumping in the car with friends and driving someplace.

It’s quite an understandable addition. After all, it’s not like people have anything else to do except get in the car and go to Wollongong.

“Just love relaxing with a DVD”

Forget surfing, rock-climbing or needlework. Today’s savvy internet dater achieves far less strenuous entertainment.

Besides, after that trip to Wollongong who can be bothered doing anything else on the weekend.

Would you like to date people like this? Don’t look on RSVP.

In the interests of filling an awkward void in the “About Me” space people rattle off copious amounts of generic information.This reveals nothing about themselves and everything about the group as a whole:

Their lives are boring.

It may be that some internet daters have cracking personalities but given the limited information squeezed out on most profiles, it seems people pretty much just exist.

Nothing fancy, flashy or interesting. Just living. Like a lump.

The fact that they most likely work and therefore pay taxes could be their one saving grace.

-M. Radcliffe

Save the date.

WE’RE ENGAGED!

Alliza Coote and Joey Jo Jo are getting married!

On February 29th!

We are ever so exited!

And we would just love for you to SAVE THE DATE!!!

Invitation to follow.*

*You’re not actually invited so don’t go dress shopping or dry clean your $100 suit just yet. The couple would be eternally grateful if you would not make any plans conflicting with their own.

For some reason those who are newly engaged feel a bizarre urge to place unnecessary strain on the postal system by dispatching hundreds of save the date cards to friends and family.

The pragmatic in our society would rightly view this confusing waste of paper as sexed-up junk mail, knowing a save the date card is not an invitation but a precursor to disappointment.

After the Global Financial Crisis, budgets are tight. And when numbers for the wedding reception need to be squeezed; Great Uncle Bert is in… And you’re out.

Good thing you saved the date. I’m sure the happy couple are frightfully sorry and will surely send a card apologizing or offer some compensation…

…Or not.

So why send out such a dubious piece of cardboard?

A proper invitation allows for solid planning by guests, a save the date card offers a flimsy pretense at best and deliberate ambiguity at worst.

Save the date cards may be driven by the vested commercial interests of card companies or just the crazy antics of a bridezilla-to-be. Probably both.

Drawn-out narcissism aside, there is no reason not to send a legitimate invitation to your nuptials. Wedding venues are be booked many months or years in advance.

No one can rationalize the design, purchase and sending of save the date cards when a similar process will be repeated for the proper invitations. With a few names omitted.

Some may reason the entire process offers entertainment for a bored bride to be. They may call that money well spent.

I say take up knitting.

Next time a save the date arrives in your mailbox, put it where it belongs: in the rubbish.

M. Radcliffe.

Think you hit it off? Think again champ.

Ever been on a date?
Did things go well?
Good times?
Fun conversation?
Flirting?
Maybe a goodnight kiss?

Only never to hear from them again.

She/he ignored your calls, texts and haphazard Facebook messages.

It all seemed so good, you really hit it off. Only to be left with cold indifference, unanswered questions and self-doubt spinning around your pointless brain.

What went wrong?

You want answers. You demand answers!

But the answers never come. At least, never the real ones.

A police interrogation, complete with intense light and phonebooks, may get answers. But the fluff-free truth would taste like a nasty mix of shock, anger and depression.

You had the wrong shoes/pants/shirt/dress.

You weren’t as hot as their last boyfriend/girlfriend.

You were boring.

You talked about your ex.

You came across as a prude.

You came across as a slut/player.

You responded to a text, call or Facebook message mid date.

You once went to the circus. That’s right, years ago her best friend was fondled by a clown. Now she has a low opinion of circuses and those that go to them.

Not “The One”.
You’re just not, ok. Tough titties!

While indifference may be cold and unanswered questions are frustrating you don’t want the soul twisting truth delivered bluntly down a telephone line.

"I can't believe she didn't return my calls."

People may wish to turn rejection into some kind of negotiation or bizarre attempt at self-improvement.

Unfortunately you won’t learn anything from:

“You have a hairy top lip that scraped on my face when we kissed. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to kissing a man.”

“I didn’t realise you were carrying so much extra weight.”

“My ex came around last night and now were kinda back together.”

When confronted on this issue a group of my informants ranted passionately about “just wanting to know” so they could “do something”. Not unreasonable, just unrealistic.

Once the rabble subsided a lone girl spoke-up:

“Don’t listen to them Max! They say they want to know but that’s bullshit. No one wants to know the real reasons.”

 

Sometimes, you can do everything right and still fail. Sometimes, you’re beyond help and useless with opposite sex.

Either way if it’s  not happening… It’s not happening. Move on.

M. Radcliffe

 

Hard times for the middle class

They will tell anyone who listens about their struggle with the mortgage, kids and bills, coupled with incessant whining about “ends meet.”

They also provide a rich source of stories for the ravenous media pack, a constant point of populist policy from our politicians. Ladies and gentleman I present:

The Australian family doing it tough.

I’m told costs are up. Interest rate rises are hurting. The precious work/life balance is tilting disturbingly towards “work”. And for some reason families “deserve a break”.

You see, I could ignore the river of middle-class tears if they didn’t run like a torrent from every television and newspaper.

Unfortunately the winge-fest fails to elicit sympathy from the boss or the bank manager, so they turn to the government. In the responding orgy of vote-buying, the Canberra Counting House dispenses baby bonuses, back to school bonuses, teenage kid bonuses, a myriad of family tax benefits and a vague promise of downward pressure on interest rates.

But do the billions of government handouts placate the droning masses? No, the complaining continues.

The underling issue is not the pressures of modern life or a dire financial situation. The root problem is the choices our society makes every day.

We choose to marry a person whose idea of saving money was buying twice the stuff at 50 per cent off.

We demanded/purchased a $10,000 diamond engagement ring because, that’s just what you do.

We had the decadent, over-the-top wedding that bore closer resemblance to a formalized open-house party.

We choose to take out a mortgage we could barely afford on a gratuitously overpriced house.

We chose brand new furniture on 18 months interest free and still struggled to pay it off.

And we chose to have kids: one for mum, one for dad, one for the country and one for the mother-in-law who really really really really wanted a girl.

We live in a state where no one is required to take responsibility or pay for the full costs of their life decisions. For a politician to suggest so would be political suicide. As would any serious attempt at dialing back our middle class welfare state.

Look back just one generation and the concept of a cash payment for squeezing out a baby is ridiculous. And middle class family tax concessions are a bizarre government spending priority at best and blatant vote-buying at worst.

Some may defend such policy under the guise of social responsibility and worthwhile economic stimulation. But governments that continually prop-up the middle class for economic prosperity will turn the country into a self licking ice cream. Only to be left with a soggy inedible cone when money from the mining boom runs out.

Strip back all incentives for procreation and babies will continue to be born. The taxpayers, insatiable consumers and narcissistic Facebook obsessives of the future will continue to be squeezed and sliced out of the womb at the same rate.

It will surely ramp-up the incessant carry-on about a tough middle class life and children. But they could be born in immaculate public hospitals, attend well resourced public schools and new infrastructure will mean no more one and a half hours in traffic on the way to work.

This remains utopian, for we now only trust ourselves with taxpayer money and society be dammed, “I’ll sit in traffic and hold onto my baby bonus money, lest the government squander it on mismanaged attempts at infrastructure.”

M. Radcliffe

The unoriginal crime spree.

Most people are guilty of criminal activity at some stage of their pointless life.

It could have been raiding mum’s purse to fund a shopping spree at the closest candy store, stealing golf balls from the driving range or burglarizing your father’s liquor cabinet. And odds are you took someone’s virginity.

Most targets for juvenile crime lack imagination. Chances are you have fond memories of drinking daddie’s bottle of Rebel Yell at the local park. But the unoriginality of the criminal mind persists through the transition to adulthood, with the same old establishments always in the cross-hairs of thieves.

These targets are as close, and as familiar as you think:

Servos.

Service/gas/petrol stations, call them what you will but to your local crim they are Cash Stations. 

The average citizen arrives to fill up the tank, while the average felon arrives to fill his pockets. Unfortunately the idea of pulling a job on a servo hasn’t surprised anyone since 1973. And while the ethnic cashier is expendable, the cash is not. So management, long ago, installed time delay safes to house 99.92 per cent of cash on the premises.

High on adrenalin few crims are prepared to wait over an hour for the safe to open, instead taking register change and several packets of cigarettes in consolation.

Special Self Serve: With the downfall of driveway service and rise of self service, the less aggressive criminal quickly embraced this new concept whenever the needle was approaching empty. With fake plates on the car and a hat on his head, the thief simply serves themself a full tank of fuel before driving away, with nothing to pay.

The TAB.

Long before the internet facilitated the epidemic spread on online betting, the local TAB provided a bookmaker in every town. Allowing punters the privilege of loosing their money in a local setting.

Unfortunately years of loosing thousands in stolen cash to the TAB prompted a self perceived stroke of genius from the criminal: Hold-up the TAB.

This last desperate attempt at breaking even fails to surprise TAB management, who equipped the premises with sliding counter screens and other bank-like security features.

The TAB never worry over the occasional heist from their establishments, reassured in the knowledge that all proceeds of the crime will soon find themselves back over the counter of the TAB in the next suburb.

Convenience stores.

No matter what time a junkie or thief awakens, this is the one establishment open all hours for convenient thievery.

Weather it be shoplifting processed foodstuffs or holding up the immigrant cashier at syringe-point, the convenience store offers a round-the-clock magnet for criminally minded riff-raff.

Visits to the convenient store occupy the time after the heroin bender and before scoring another hit from Shonky Joe in the alley behind The Tunnel nightclub.

Bottle shops.

The beautiful combination of something the criminal likes: Alcohol. And what the criminal wants: Money. Someone decided the mixture was unbeatable and the trend took off. With the added bonus of abundant cigarettes in stock, why wouldn’t it.

Does anyone bat an eyelid with the local liquor is done-over in an armed hold-up or ram-raid….Again?

RSL clubs (becoming popular).

The local branch of the Returned Serviceman’s League was once a place for war veterans to come together. Now the local RSL is a crowded abyss of poker machines.

Where there is poker machines, there is money. Where there is money there is crime.

The RSL club is an up-and-coming favorite of the criminally minded thanks to lackluster security. This once unusual addition to the newspaper’s crime reports now holds a prized place with the crim who thinks he’s going to hit somewhere special.

The perpetrators may be back sooner than the police think. Cleaning the stolen cash in the RSL poker machines….. The perfect crime.

M. Radcliffe

Celebrities, socialites and the Guide to Vicarious Living

It may have been fascination or respect that drew humans to the first bask in the glow of those holding notoriety.  Our ancestors stood in fear and jealously of the strongest caveman with the biggest club. They bowed down to kings and emperors while looking up to conquering generals. The plebs knew their place and gave respect where it was due.

Somewhere on the road to industrialization a misdirection of respect took hold in our society. This minor directional change cascaded into a bizarre adoration of our betters (real and perceived). As jet travel and high technology settled as norms in modern life, our civilization tore like a semi-controlled rocket car down the information superhighway of unashamed celebrity obsession.

The king’s court jesters – once a curious but lowly life form – slowly rose from the muck, gave its self the sexed-up title of “actor” and went on to command more collective respect than the remaining monarchical families combined.

Society’s obsession did not cease with jumped-up jesters. Instantaneous communication and an insatiable taste for anyone popular gave prominence to the ultimate object of misdirected obsession:

The Socialite.

Sometimes born into marginally important families, these bottom-feeders once loitered near the emperor’s court, desperate for the attention of social betters and a shot at personal elevation. Nothing but contemptible groupies beaming with sexual arousal at the slightest whiff of fame.

The prospect of improved social standing  put groupies from both genders on heat. Giving rise to the saying; If your can’t be one, fuck one.

Some sleep their way to it. Some bottom-feed in reality television for long enough to become one. Sometimes both. The socialite – “famous for being famous” – serves as mere fodder for the plebs misdirected adoration.

When one is truly famous for being famous, it highlights the low depths to which our society has tumbled.

Minor misdirected adoration of celebrities does not lead to society’s unquenchable thrust for “entertainment” news. This arises from so-called “celebrity obsession”. Named so because no media outlet is willing to offend viewers or trivialize swathes of possible page fillers by calling it what it is :

Vicarious living.

The process of living through the experiences and events of another may seem absurd, but chances are you already on the path of vicarious living:

1. Abandon hobbies and pastimes that may lead to self elevation.

Lets face it, you may want to be a big rock n roll or movie star but you are not willing to sacrifice hours of Facebook stalking and other fluffing around in an effort to achieve your dreams of stardom. If you had talent, which you don’t, but if you did… it would make little difference thanks to your short attention span and lack of consistent long-term motivation. Remember that guitar/drum kit gathering dust in a dark corner the garage?

2. Begin to question your self worth.

Sure, you might have good job, lovely children and a great wife. But did you score that winning goal against Colombia? Were you on the ‘A’ list, ‘B’ list or anything other than a waiting list?

3. Identify a void in your life.

Kids and a partner may be pleasant but they are not the most unique of life’s experiences. You might be a player from way back, ladies all over you, unfortunately nobody’s been famous for that since Casanova. You could be the hottest piece of action in town, men falling at your feet pleading for some notion of acknowledgment, but soon a girl younger and hotter will come along and you will begin whining about a “man drought”.

Perhaps you desperately wish to fit into the categories above. Either way you found something missing in your life.

4. Find someone who is everything you wish to be.

Preferably famous as you will want regular media updates of how much better their life is compared to yours. Follow them on Twitter, Facebook, in the “entertainment news” and trashy tabloid magazines. Relish anytime they are seen taking the kids to school, emptying their garbage, or are showing a muffin top. This means your number one celeb is “just like you”.

5. Diversify.

Celeb Number One won’t always be there with a constant stream of updates to feed your vicarious existence. Branch out and expand your base of obsession. Plenty of celebrities are not only better than you, but also have everything you ever desired.

Be mindful of up and coming talent to add to your collection. Fresh faced thespians, mistrials, and bottom-feeding socialites are in never ending supply. As your mortal years tick by faster than you thought, obsessing over young celebs is an essential elixir of youth in one’s vicarious lifestyle.

6. Abandon all hope.

If you haven’t already… Getting to the heights as your favorite celebs was never really possible for you. A few months or years of living through them should have killed off any drive you once had to reach the heights of stardom or notoriety.

Now you should be suitable nestled in a rut of apathy from which you will never emerge. Soothed and content in your vicarious life.

M. Radcliffe

758 ways to please your man with top celeb fashion and make-up tips during PARTY SEASON!

Including:

“Every love question you’ve ever asked”

“Fat guys better in bed?”

“What your sex fantasys really mean.”

Human beings are curious creatures, with a burning a desire for knowledge, learning and understanding.

Yet for millennia females of the species lacked the benefits of a formal education. Eventual incorporation brought with it a curriculum containing needlework, cooking and walking around with books on their heads. The womens’ liberation movement led to the eventual joint education system of today and the modern status of educated women in a world where knowledge equals power.

Unfortunately some things just aren’t taught in school and a lack of knowledge left a power vacuum filled with glossy magazines. The likes of Girlfriend, Dolly, Cleo, Cosmopolitan and Madison saturated newsagents answering burning questions like “Are you about to be pashed?” and revealing the “Top 10 stupid mistakes of smart women”.

The information void filled… Total empowerment was complete. But for the magazines, absolute power corrupted absolutely. No longer content to provide “Top celeb fashion tips”, the gloss began churning out headlines like:

“What he thinks of your orgasm noises”,

“What your star-sign says about your bedroom antics”

and everyone’s favorite “Anal sex! Why he wants it so much”.

Open one of these girl’s magazines and you are initially struck with page after page of sexy models. A cruel irony that the media is blamed for eating disorders by lack of ‘real women’ imagery, when many a young lady shells out $8.95 for the privilege of glossy self esteem destruction.

On your quest for the juicy articles promised on the cover you must trawl through a jungle of advertisements and shameless advertorials. Into a foliage of endless fashion spreads, twisting vines of trashy jewelery and crazy Amazons pushing a plethora of make-up.

Your jungle trek complete, you emerge at the raunchy article and pour over the contents on a high speed collusion course with disappointment. A couple of loosers talking about ex-girlfriends, common sense applied to common situations and writing exactly what young ladies want to read. Your orgasm noises are either spot-on or too quiet/no-existent, each sexy prediction on the Zodiac is generalised enough to correspond with anybody’s behavior in the sack (real or self perceived) and he want’s anal sex because of mass exposure to porn and continues to crave it for the feeling of power.

For all the best intentions a bunch of syndicated articles now holds sway over a generation of ladies, look no further than the expanding blob that is Cosmopolitan magazine. With Cosmo: Bride and Cosmo: Pregnancy. Hang around 20 years for the exciting new magazine Cosmopolitan: Menopause and the first info packed issue:

“It’s officially: Lawn bowls season!”

“Top ten tea cosies”

“Can your friendships survive a change of bowls club”

“374 knitting how-tos”

“Stupid caravaning mistakes smart women make”

“Cameron Diaz: How I deal with hot flushes”

and,

“Inside the mind of a guy on Viagra”.

It may sound bleak, but the future is just the present repeating its self.

They came offering knowledge and insight. Now the glossy girly magazines stand as an enduring testament to female empowerment gone horribly wrong.

M. Radcliffe

The falsehood of the free pass.

We all have innate carnal desires on our favourite celebrity, leading to at-length descriptions of all the nasty things we would love to do with Miranda Kerr or how we would let Hugh Jackman put it anywhere he wants.

Through the untamed tendency of divulging too much information with our romantic opposites, the urges are shared with those they shouldn’t be.
With sharing comes understanding and with understanding comes compromise…

Enter the world of celebrity free passes.

A thumbs-up from the significant other to have it off with a sexy celeb of your choice and enjoy no repercussions in the relationship.

Robyn gets to jump Matt Damon at the first opportunity, while her boy Wayne gets a piece of Sarah Michelle-Gellar (provided he can get his member anywhere near her).
So confident the plebs are in choosing extra-relationship activities based only on a movie and a few gossip mag paparazzi shots. Assumptions of personality and mannerisms replace an actual meeting with the hot object of their desires.

Not for you!

Get over yourself sweetie! No fame: No chance.

Some may dismiss the celebrity free pass as harmless, funny or some kind of joke. But if their significant other were to be caught in coitus with Hugh Jackman, pulling out the hypothetical free pass would not amount to satisfactory defense. Imagine walking in on your boy doing Megan Gale doggie-style, turning to you and saying “Relax baby, it’s a free pass remember.”

See if your partner will abandon any notions they are deserving of celebrity status and give you a realistic free pass. She gets the hot tradie down the street, you get the cute checkout-chick at Coles.

The celebrity free pass evolved from society’s celebrity obsession, where the next hot star results in another free pass and after several years you’ve become the slut/man-whore you always denied you were.

Celebrity free passes: A sense of freedom you don’t really have.

M. Radcliffe

Christmas… Tis the season to be spending, stressing and mass consuming.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me:
Twelve unwanted presents,
Eleven babies crying,
Ten wives a-leaving,
Nine lads a-drinking,
Eight hams a-wasting,
Seven shows a-sucking,
Six aunties fighting,
FIVE GIFT RECEIPTS,
Four crappy bon-bons,
Three food failures,
Two overdrafts,
And a partridge in a pear tree!

Things build two weeks out with multiple trips to the local mall in search of not just THE perfect gift, but MULTIPLE ideal presents. Plebs spend big on younger recipients, purchasing a plethora of toys, the fact that working adults are inclined to buy whatever they desire throughout the year stretches the search to Christmas eve and culminates in the inevitable purchase of a gift voucher.

Mass food acquisition commences one week prior, turkeys, hams and lambs are crammed into the refrigerator. Knowing the mother-in-law may privately scoff at a ready-made pudding, the ingredients to make one from scratch are bought in bulk. With overloaded trolleys churning through supermarket check-outs, extra-terrestrial observers would assume we are preparing for hibernation or stocking nuclear fallout shelters for a coming apocalypse.

The onus placed on Christmas by otherwise secular individuals’ spills over into a mad clamber for face time with the family’s youngest members. In a simpler time this had little effect on the day’s proceedings, but in today’s world one marriage is never enough and an insatiable desire to breed with each new marital acquisition, leads to a complicated Christmas day:

“Drop the kids at the ex-partner’s house.

Take the new partner’s kids to his parent’s.

Then drop his kids with his ex-wife.

Retrieve my kids from the former in-laws.

Take the kids to my parents.

Somehow find time to cook a ham.

Make sure our new baby has enough formula and nappies for the day.

And

Collect great auntie Martha from the Living Heaven nursing home.”

As the television tells us, “Christmas is a time to share”, “…a time for family” or “…a time for giving”. If that’s what the TV says, that’s what is going to happen!

The behavior of the plebs in the lead-up to Christmas is marred with stupidity, stress, over-shopping and illogical craziness. This time of year, grown adults take on the persona of a 13 year-old at a Justin Beiber concert crossed with a compulsive shopper and a strung-out air traffic controller.

Every incremental interest rate rise produces a national outcry, the cost of electricity generation unleashes a torrent of winging with each news cycle and rising grocery prices prompt angry wails and insinuations about supermarket price gouging. But in the sprit of Christian festivities, secular families release the purse strings and the money pit becomes bottomless.

M. Radcliffe