Nov 222009

They’ve started again,  Christmas songs in the supermarkets, as if any of us was feeling good will towards our fellow man.  As if, in fact, our hearts were not consumed by a hollow murderous rage  towards the political and financial boys’ clubs that have bankrupted us and that now plan to drain us of all our money for the next ten generations so that they can continue  to enjoy their unearned wealth.

Today, as I blundered around a shop in search of something edible and cheap, my ear happened upon a saccharine drone in the background, a re-blanded over-muzakked spewing of Good King Wenceslas, and I thought to myself, why are we celebrating this bastard? This fucker Wenceslas is exactly the same as Fingers Fingleton and that jerk Fitzpatrick, and Cowen and Yehudi Lenihan.

So what if he saw a poor man in the snow and felt sorry for the pathetic  starving bastard?  Well he might, the smug, self-satisfied prick, when all his wealth and money and castles and concubines and all the rest of the shooting gallery were acquired on the misery and sweat of these same poor peasants.  So what if he dragged his manservant off on a jaunt in the snow to feed this freezing peasant gath’ring winter fu-u-el.  The peasant’s kids were probably dying of hypothermia and plague while Wenceslas’s pampered lazy brats were rolling around in front of a giant fireplace burning half a forest and sucking on chocolate fat-fuckers.

And anyway, what about all the other frozen peasants living right against the forest fence? Do you think Wenceslas went around to every one of their reeking hovels with food and fuel on the Feast of Stephen?  He did in his bollocks.  Come on, he told his page-boy.  Let’s get the fuck out of here.  I’m fuckin frozen.  After salving his uncomfortable conscience with a few rashers and a bag of twigs, he fucked off back to his palace for a feast and a romp with the concubines, the hypocritical bastard.

A bit like those Irish billionaires who pay no tax here but salve their consciences by ego-massaging philanthropic gestures and patronising lectures to the rest of us compliant taxpayers.

Right, Bono?  Right JP?


Previous Christmas grumpiness from Bock:

Preparing for Christmas

Christmas Songs in the Supermarket

The Christmas Crib

Bar Staff

All a huge misunderstanding

Christmas Toys

Christmas gift ideas

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