Du Hast Den Pulli Falsch Herum Am - You’re Wearing Your Sweater Inside Out

Well ‘tis the season for sweaters, and doubtless there’ll be many tens of thousands of hilarious inside-out-Christmas-jumper shenanigans come the big day. “You’ve got Rudolf on back to front! You‘re being a very disrespectful young man!” The obvious retort being: “Nan, this is the third year in a row you’ve knitted me sweaters featuring leading Nazi Party officials. Hitler, Goering, now Rudolf Hess, I’ll be honest, I’m just not that comfortable spending Christmas round yours anymore,” followed by an achingly racist “Well what the fuck is a hook-nosed Shylock fuck like you doing celebrating the birth of Jesus anyway?” And then visiting hours at the Elderly Anti-Semite Correctional Facility are cut short as she’s restrained and positioned in front of Adolph’s Greatest Physical Hits on the big screen for an hour or two to calm down. In truth that would be quite magical to watch. That’s the entire scene playing out, of course, not so much the images of Hitler beating the shit out of some dishevelled Jews. But I digress massively. It is almost Christmas, which means another year of pretending to like people we usually barely tolerate, and barely tolerating the people we generally despise. My gift-buying skills are horribly inconsistent - one year I’ll be amazing and get everyone brilliantly relevant stuff they seem to really enjoy and appreciate. Or at least pretend to. Other years, my cynicism is turned up a good few extra notches and I stop caring. Yet people still seem to accept my bullshit excuses of hectic-work-life-busyness, or insincere promises to drop off presents in the year, or double up gift-wise when birthday time comes around. These are all tactics I’ve learned during my childhood from the very same uncles and aunt’s I’m spouting this shit to now. Perhaps they hide their recognition, all the while secretly knowing I’ve joined their ranks, gaining the ability to be a miserable Christmas bastard whenever I so desire. What makes me feel more of an asshole this time of year is when a Christmas shopping trip results in far more stuff being bought for me than anyone else. There’s that just plain awful, but wholly inevitable, judgement that the items earmarked for friends and family just aren’t as good what’s for me. But then it really is the thought that counts, and if that thought is self-satisfied smug-fuckery, then you really are a Christmas bastard. But you can take some solace in the fact you’re not suffering the embarrassment of wearing your Rudolf Hess sweater inside out. If you had a dreadfully racist grandma, she‘d definitely take you down a peg or two.