bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog 

Joyful All Ye Nations Rise

Dear Rachel.

I often use cutlery to scratch my head in mid conversation, so tend not to get invited out to dinner very often. However, I see no need to waste time in restaurants over Christmas when you can get a turkey kebab with cranberry sauce at Panic Kebabs on Junction Road, served by a genial Turkish man in a paper hat and Santa beard. Admirably, he dismisses the increased fire risk by jovially explaining that ‘It’s Christmas’, an explanation I suspect he would cling to even if his face was in flames. (Also – and this just occurred to me as I was writing – he is in the habit of wearing at least five gold rings, so there is a nice festive tie in there, too.)

The cranberry sauce part of the kebab is, oddly, far more important than it should be. I only eat one teaspoon of cranberry sauce per year, but, if it was denied me, I would be outraged to the point of civil disobedience. I suppose it’s the tradition of the thing, like clip shows of Morecombe and Wise Christmas Specials. There was, incidentally, a huge turn out for a local Boxing Day custom near my auntie’s which involved running into the River Medway, under conditions which the Met Office described as ‘fucking freezing’. I tagged along as I thought there was going to be a hanging, and was therefore disappointed.

[Hitting Read More now will reveal I dunno all sorts, probably]

But it was a good, if exhausting, Christmas in casual retail. Tony got me a new money belt as a present, as my old one was finally disintegrating after five years’ active service. Oh Lord, if that thing could type. What a blog it could write. In return, I saved his business, so that was a fair exchange. Or rather, the collaboration of stroppy old publicgriefjunkie with Tony’s thicko-pleasing kitchenware emporium somehow managed to save everyone involved. It was an alliance which raised a few eyebrows, certainly, and, as my eyebrows make the same noise as a Venetian blind when I raise them, this caused some concern. We remain poor, of course, but for the time being at least no longer desperately so. Our sleeves are made by the same tailor as Gandalf’s, and I’m sure we’ll find a few more tricks up them if we rummage around enough – hungry people, as I am fond of saying, never get writer’s block.

So for this year, our adventure is at an end. It only remains for me of course to wish you all the blessings of the season, and to sincerely hope that I am only one of very many to do so. I must get back to my sofa and Jonathon Wilson’s excellent book about – yes, that’s right – east European football in the Communist era. It’s a great deal more enjoyable than following West Ham in the post Communist one, I can tell you. Anyway. That was 2009. Quelle annee! Quelle affair! I am knackered.

Photards: Top – old ally Gerry, the palest man in Spitalfields. Him and Chris are threatening to have a pale-off across Commercial Road, the results of which are unknown to science.

Middle - Gary answering fan mail on behalf of his ponytail, Greenwich Market.

Bottom – Louis the Goat Bag Man gently informing Tony that he looks ridiculous, East Yard, Camden Lock.

Facebook – Someone had just had too much, and walked out on Christmas Day, so we’re back down to 104 members.

Twitter – ho hum.

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