Generally speaking, I enjoy Christmas, notwithstanding the crowds at the shops and the deluge of sucky and sappy songs wafting through the shops' speakers like a malodorous stench. I must confess I am one of the very few who doesn't hate THAT Mariah Carey number. Don't get me wrong, I don't go out of my way to listen to it, but I don't run screaming from the room, hands flattening my ears against my head, should it come on, either. That being said, there are tunes of such tedious turgidity they make my ears shrivel or else try to pull away from my head. Let's discuss these horrors, shall we?
1 Wonderful Christmas Time by Paul McCartney. Whoever finalised the decision to award McCartney his knighthood clearly never listened to this. It's just three or so minutes of mind-blowing banality that includes an inane 'ding-dong, ding-dong'. Used properly, the synthesiser is a worthy enough instrument, but not here. I don't play the synthesiser, so I'm not sure what's going on in this piece, but it's jerky and sounds like it's hiccupping. Maybe it got drunk to forget its association with this silly number. The most heinous aspect of this song is that you hear it, and remains stuck in your head, clinging to your brain like a needy octopus wrapping its tentacles around until they are firmly suction cupped into place.
2 Last Christmas by Wham. Is it a metaphor for exchanging unwanted Christmas gifts? Anyway, if you need me to explain why the song blows, please don't breed.
3 Little Drummer Boy by I-Don't-Know-Whom. It's repetitive boring twaddle and if I were Our Lady and had just given birth in a stable only to have some snotnosed twerp come in and bash a drum, I'd push his freaking head through it!
That's me for now. I've been flat out catching up on uni stuff and trying to make heads or tails of the NSW Advanced English - Stage 6 curriculum. Chaucer might prove less challenging.
On a different note, I'm really confused as to the vicious bile and hatred these pale old farts like Jeremy Clarkson and Piers Morgan have for Meghan Markle. What The Sun published by Clarkson yesterday went beyond the pale in its foul vitriol. It was filthily nauseating and if you're reading this, Clarkie, surely you can access Viagra to help you achieve the stiffy you know doubt hoped to acquire by writing that disgusting rant. Get in the bin and don't come out.
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