One of the most remarkable things about Christmas is its basic reach, the layers of ritual and habit, the way this very special time of year manages to smear itself like a basting of goose fat across every one of the vital senses. Overwhelmed by these ruddy-cheeked riches, it can be a tricky choice. We all have our preferences. But in the end it’s really just a personal choice which part of Christmas you hate the most.
The list is endless. Motorway gridlock. Men who use the word Chrimbo. Adorable bright-eyed, husky-voiced, bowl-headed American children in family movies whose hearts are full of Santa and joy, and who will within the next five to six years appear in Nevada county sheriff mugshots looking glazed and insolent (– you won’t believe what Timmy McMuffinface looks like now!) and being sued by their own mad parents in supermarket gossip magazines.
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