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If you have something to say...
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The Blog
Personally, I won't miss Clinton Cards. But if the person who knows how to put speech bubbles on pictures of black 'n' white fifties housewives has some horrible accident, my life will be immeasurably spoiled.
"Going out for a fag, eh?" Boyfriend's brother simpers sarcastically, as I spectacularly fail to sneak out for a cigarette without the usual derision.
You might not quite believe this story, but it is based on real life. The protagonists are three 21st century kids, ages ranging from eight to 14, a movie to be watched on television and a shabby cardboard box. The time: Christmas.
Perfect isn't constant. For some unfortunate women the desire for 'perfect' breasts has had tragic results. Ruptured French implants, leaking industrial silicone around the body is far from perfect.
For those who - like me - prefer their Christmas spirit served in a glass, the holiday season can become synonymous with heavy drinking. Following a hefty few nights over the Christmas and New Year period I once again realised that hangovers were no good for my mental health.
Here's a quick holiday photo postcard from two New York powerhouses - Lady Gaga and Barney's. Gaga's Workshop is Mother Monster's charity pop up within Barney's men's store on Madison Avenue for the festive season. On a street made famous by its Mad Men advertising past, this successful coupling of two iconic brands is an innovative, not to mention thoroughly enjoyable, form of chugging with 25% of all sales going to Gaga's Born This Way Foundation.
On Sunday, at 3pm, Queen Elizabeth II delivered her 60th Christmas Message. In this faddish age of rolling news and viral videos, the Queen's speech remains a changeless monument to a bygone era and this year's message was every bit as insipid, patronising and tedious as the previous 59.
It's cold and it's wet out. That London drizzle, a phenomenon that lies somewhere between fog and sleet which London will suffer from nearly everyday until May has begun to come down. I'm in a queue of around 2,000 that has wrapped around St. Paul's for midnight mass, snaking through Occupy London's first tent city. I'm not a Christian, I left the church 15 years ago, but I've been feeling homesick lately, and find myself here, cold, and wet, and sick.
This latest Christmas was one of the very few where we never played any Christmas music at home, which is no mean feat, as over the years as we seem to have collected a good few listening hours.
The amalgamation of three current events makes this question perhaps more salient than ever. Primarily it's the Christmas period. This is a time of mo...
Since 1983, my Christmas has largely been characterised by disappointment. Back then, the disappointment revolved around an LP-shaped gift beneath the tree which I hoped with all my teenage heart was Michael Jackson's Thriller album.
Swathes of lurid elf-print wrapping paper have been stuffed into a bin liner by your stoically efficient mother. Everyone is feeling fat, unattractive and a bit queasy from the Bailey's sugar rush and you're all desperate to go your respective ways before strained relations snap after three solid days of housebound family time.
Dear David (none of your close friends call you 'Dave', do they?)
In this past year my family and I have been inspired by the courage and hope we have seen in so many ways in Britain, in the Commonwealth and around the world.
I am a huge fan of Christmas. If I had my way, we'd have Christmas at least twice a year, if not more. I even like Christmas pudding. And Christmas cake. And mince pies. (Although not sprouts, I don't get the point of sprouts.)
I will be spending a quiet time at home on Christmas Day. I asked 'Digger Dave', a friend of the late 'godfather of British comedy' Malcolm Hardee if he had any memories of spending Christmas with Malcolm. Perhaps this was a mistake.
