Wiping your bottom on Christmas elves? Bah! Humbug!

### Lauren Clarke

**Every year you cannot fail to notice that one special month. The month when the temperature gets colder, when the streets are lined with hanging lights, and when every day is part of a countdown to Christmas Day. I am, of course, talking about the month of October – the month in which the country seems to think that the 25th December is suddenly more imminent than it actually is.**

A celebration which is already stretched out painfully to three days – Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day – to ensure the utmost amount of turkey is consumed, is stretched out that little bit more by the wonderfully capitalist society in which we live. As soon as the last true rays of the summer sun have been vanquished, all the shops’ attentions turn swiftly away from brightly coloured ‘summer displays’ selling fake-tan, bikinis and sunglasses – morphing almost miraculously into a green and red, holly-covered paradise of Christmas instalments.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that our retinas are bombarded with this perpetual display of crimson and evergreen, shops seem to think it’s ok to inform you what is a gift for ‘Him’ and what is a gift for ‘Her’. I find it deeply patronising that all a woman could possibly want in her stocking is a pair of straighteners or some hideously vile ‘limited edition’ perfume released by the latest B-List celebrity. I’m also certain that not every man on the planet would be enthused to unwrap a new razor or Jeremy Clarkson’s latest chronicle of offensive viewpoints come the morning of 25th of December.

A casual perusal of the shops on a Saturday afternoon any time after November 1st becomes impossible. There are those parents with the bedraggled hair and crazy, twitchy eye who are sprinting between shops looking for that over-priced toy that their child has seen on the TV and demanded, after assuring them that it’s “definitely-nothing-like-that-other-identical-toy-I-already-have-because-this-one-is-purple-and-lights-up!”

{{quote the mothers who pre-ordered their organic, free-range, magic turkeys push an empty trolley round the store just to laugh smugly at those who did not think of this cunning Christmas scheme }}

In every supermarket there is a skirmish for the last-remaining turkeys and Christmas puddings, while the mothers who pre-ordered their organic, free-range, magic turkeys push an empty trolley round the store just to laugh smugly at those who didn’t think of this cunning Christmas scheme.

What’s worse is that Christmas seems to infiltrate normal, everyday objects, transforming them under the guise of “Christmas Spirit” into ‘limited edition’ Christmas paraphernalia. The most perverse of these was a named brand of toilet roll who decided to cover their bog roll with the faces of hundreds of smiling elves. I, for one, have never looked at my toilet roll and wished it to be more festive. However, for the extra £1 on the price-tag it is just a clever ploy to entrap overly-zealous mothers who wish to ensure the bums of their families are also getting into the “Christmas Spirit”. Oh well done capitalism, you are a clever one indeed.

“Oh look,” I hear you cry, “another cynical comment on Christmas, how original!” Let me assure you, I’m not going for originality here. I’m merely highlighting that somewhere in between the mêlée that is the run-up to Christmas, it seems that ideas of giving and charity which underpin Christmas have been lost in a sea of Brussels sprouts and wrapping paper. My hatred of the Christmas build-up stems from a childhood trauma.

Picture this. My eighth birthday, stood in Tesco’s buying my birthday cake. A muffled announcement from some spotty teenager over the tannoy informing me that there were “only 124 days left until Christmas,” encouraging all to part with their cash as soon as possible on an assortment of gifts for their families. Please note that my birthday is on the 2nd of September and even my younger self was aware that this was taking the piss.

So you all go forth – you part with your hard-earned cash on things which you know will be discarded by the recipient within the year. You drink a little too much mulled wine at the Christmas party and make a fool out of yourself. Go on – wipe your bottom with paper covered with the faces of tiny smiling elves, because at any other point in the year “Come on, it’s Christmaaaaaas” and “I was just getting into the Christmas Spirit” just don’t wash as excuses.