Well, thank Lucifer that’s all over.
All that December 25th is missing is Bill Murray, a piano, some ice sculptures and a Groundhog.
And, while we’re on the subject; what actually is Christmas Spirit? More importantly, in what yule-ish activity does it cunningly hide out?
Maybe I’m flying solo here but I go to bed every Christmas-Day-Night a bit bewildered about what just happened.
My overwhelming sentiment every year is that I must have missed some very important element, in which all the Holiday-Sparkle was lurking, completely off my To-Do list.
This vacuum seems all the more confuzzling in light of all the industrious stuff I’ve been up to: I jammed that squirrel infested fire hazard laden with tinsel into the corner of my dining room, I nailed a bunch of berries onto my front door, I dutifully bought more wrapping paper because I couldn’t find the roll that was left from last year, I sat trying to find the end of the sellotape and I engaged in some giving and receiving of stuff.
I listened to The Pogues FFS?
The fact that I’m supposed to be able to legitimately drink my own body weight in alcohol really isn’t a selling point, since that really doesn’t differentiate the day from any of the other, three hundred and sixty four, less attention seeking days.
I can have a normal ‘Every-Sunday’ roast dinner but there’ll be sausages, bacon and miniature balls of cabbage on the plate too?
Shut the front door?!!!
I get to eat chocolate? Surely not?
Well why didn’t you say so?
Nope, the only, and I mean only, USPs for me, are as follows:
1) The Eastenders Christmas Special.
2) The Doctor Who Christmas Special
3) The Sherlock Christmas Special.
Doctor Who, you can sit back down as I have nothing to add, you entertained me up real good, and I thank you for your taking my mind off Cliff Richard and mistletoe for forty-five minutes.
Well, where to begin.
Oh, I know where: What????
This incarnation of Sherlock started off bloody marvellously – the contemporary backdrop was fresh, well directed and completely original. The plots were elegant, engaging and because Benedict Cumberbatch was such a white hot smarty-pants, I really felt warm and validated as a human being whenever I kinda, sorta came to the same conclusion as him.
Increasingly, I’ve noticed during the last few years, that the plots are becoming more and more incestuous and rotate almost entirely around the central cast which honestly, is a little bit dull.
Last night I missed five minutes whilst I went to wrestle this year’s leftover wrapping paper out of the dog’s mouth (Ohhhh, that’s where it went last year) and by the time I had burrowed my way back under my sofa-blanket, had missed enough of what was going on to have lost the entire thread.
Bish, bash bosh, next thing I know one of the main characters is slain and Sherlock is being implored to save Doctor Watson by way of a post humous Youtube video.
Why? What’s Watson done? Prescribed too much Calpol?
And why didn’t she (dead Mrs Watson) mention it before? Why did she have to wait till she be dead?
I don’t think I’ll be tuning in again but definitely not due to any quality reduction in the acting (still fab) but when the show revolves around eating it’s own cast, for me at least, the writing is to blame.
Moving on; Eastenders.
Errr? Any particular reason that you made me wait until the middle of Groundhog Night to watch it?
But, (and never has a ‘but’ been quite so ‘buttish) Bra-Flipping-Vo.
The closing scenes of last night’s episode were artistic, meaningful and so imbued with metaphor that even the Sh-eenager abandoned Instagram long enough to spot it.
If the gothic, slightly worrying concept of Ronnie as the Woman in White and Roxy as the Blonde in Black forever more roaming the halls of that hotel slash event complex in search of their children, doesn’t spin-off into a ghostly special for next Groundhog season then I, for one, will want to know the reason why.
Working title: The Christmas Bride, oooh I’m chilled and thrilled just thinking about it.
Having said that, between now and then we have the small matter of 2017 to contend with and so, from all of us here in the Single-Mum household, I would just like to wish you good health, increased wealth and, lest we be forgetting the deathly spectre of 2016:
Better than average odds of actually surviving it.