Why all I want for Christmas this year is temporary deafness.

It’s that time of the year again. A time of peace and goodwill, or as everyone with a mental capacity higher than that of an 8 year-old knows, a time of shameless consumerism, needless binge-drinking and casual family violence. Not that any of that bothers me particularly - not to say that I’m a material guy, all I need is four wall and adobe slats for my girls - it’s the inevitable onslaught of stagnant festive music that leaves me considering taking a leaf out of Van Gogh’s book of self-mutilation. 

I swear to God, if Olly Murs opens his mouth one more fucking time, I'm taking the other one too

I’m a tolerant man, more or less, my latent fury at the deplorable state of public taste is usually kept in check because I can avoid it if I see fit. I can give the worst offenders of Birmingham’s nightlife a wide berth but the second the clock ticks over to the 1st of December it all goes wrong. Suddenly, Wizzard is spewing from every High Street shop’s speakers, the Pogues fill out my peaceful hometown’s pubs and every club in the country closes only after some god-awful charity farce. It’s the fact that it’s unavoidable that really upsets me.

It puts the lotion on its skin or else it get the hose again

Now carols, I know where I stand with carols (we’re cool Jinglebells). I’m more than happy to be that drunk at the back of Midnight Mass howling along to Auld Lang Syne and forcing parents to answer awkward questions. But good luck getting me on board with Slade after last orders, you’ll die trying. I’d honestly rather give Susan Boyle a sensual foot massage.But somehow, year after year, rooms full of corporate executives see fit to fuck with carols too, press-ganging any female singer-songwriter who qualifies as the hot new thing to butcher some Yuletide classic. Like when that harpie Mariah Carey did whatever it was, whenever it was (spoiler alert: it wasn't long enough ago), though it did surprise me that she was willing to spend time not chasing strangers away from her eggs. 

But as my therapist keeps telling me, I need to think more positively, and there is a silver lining to this sadly-predictable annual ear-fucking, just. For every slack-jawed yokel or self-righteous 'altruist' that buys those charity singles every year, we get a little closer to that most clichéd Christmas wish, world peace. And when we finally achieve this (spoiler alert 2: we won't) fucking Band Aid or whoever would at last have nothing to bitch about. But knowing the Spirit of Christmas pretty well (we staged a Beer Pong tournament in Greenland a few years ago, it was all over the news I'm sure you saw it), they'd find a way.

I'm sorry Doctor, but I just can't shake the feeling that you're moron.
Uh-huh, and how does that make you feel?
Like tearing Bob Geldof's throat out?

William is a papal bull in the Chinashop of public opinion, currently facing charges following the loud, hilarious libel of a shopping centre's Father Christmas.