The Pogues feat. Kirsty MacColl

I am not a fan of Christmas songs. I have worked in retail since I was 16 and it has ruined Christmas for me. I’m no Scrooge, but when you have heard the Destiny’s Child Christmas medley on the hour, every hour, from the 1st of November until the end of the January sales, you will never feel the same way again. For me, the merest hint of a festive jingle is mired with the memories of appalling rude customers, endless tidying, and, one particularly dismal year, a shit in the changing rooms. An actual, real-life turd.

Merry fucking Christmas to you, too.

There is, however, one exception, and that is today’s Tuesday Tune. It is not your average Christmas song; it is far more honest about how crap the Holiday can actually be. And that is precisely why I like it.

If you are celebrating, may I wish you a very merry Christmas. If you aren’t, well, fuck it, it’s a paid day off.

I’m off to get the sprouts on.


Had a throwback Tuesday today at work and I was feeling it; My boss and I both hit the dance/shop floor when this song came on. Twelve years (Christ, that makes me feel old) after its release, and I still know all the words.

UPDATE: Did some digging (5 minutes on Wikipedia), and apparently the original bandmates have reformed as Mutya Keisha Siobhan or MKS. Yay or nay?

The Staves

Lovely, lovely, lovely.

In other news, Mama Fox is in LDN today, woo! She rarely comes down to see me as the Underground terrifies her (It took several phone calls before she felt sure of the route from Marylebone to Holborn – it’s four stops), and she is inexplicably more broke than I am. We have a fun day ahead of us getting free hair cuts and trying to find somewhere to eat in Central London that will accept Clubcard vouchers. We know how to live.

Queens of the Stone Age

I have spent a total of 1 hour and 45 minutes unnecessarily waiting in a doctor’s surgery today. As per usual, there was a problem with my prescription (no, seriously – this happens every month, without fail), which meant that it had not been signed, and was relegated to the back of the collection box with the rest of the not-entirely-straightforward-therefore-completely-incomprehensible-to-medical-staff slips. After politely disagreeing with the receptionist that the fault here was not mine, I was told I’d need to see the emergency doctor if I wanted the prescription that day, and to take a seat. Forty five minutes go by, and I think: ‘well this is bollocks. How near am I to the top of the list?’ – not very, actually, seeing as she’d forgotten to put my name down. The receptionist thinks this is quite funny. I wait a further hour to actually see someone, who then takes all of 10 seconds to realise that “oh, yes; they’ve obviously just not checked your notes before refusing it.” Yes, dear, that is the problem I have been having. She also needed to use the calculator on her brand new iPhone 5 (can’t be too fucking worried about your pension, then) to do a simple piece of maths that I did in my head, in quicker time. FFS! To stop me from turning into She-Hulk, I came home and played my equivalent of a calm-down and relax tune: a nice bit of QOTSA. Heavy enough to dispel the rage, but not so much as to induce an ear-bleed situation. Marvellously restorative.