Must be, the X-Factor has given birth to yet another Whitney/Mariah clone for us all to enjoy. This one's even managed to taint Jeff Buckley's version of Hallelujah. Cheers Simon Cowell. That Ballroom Dancing show will deliver up another sequined winner next weekend using the identical X-Factor format, with it's pantomime judges. I suppose the Ice Dancing one will be on our screens again soon, unless the public has finally tired of that b-lister? Do your turn, get criticised or praised by the evil one, the sensible one, the funny one or the national treasure. Then have the public vote to get you booted off. Repeat to fade.
The shops and supermarkets are all full of people to jostle and irritate me. I'm queuing to pay the fifty quid for a tree to moult spiky things onto my carpet, with Judy Garland coming from a hidden speaker, singing something joyous so mournfully that my vital signs start to ebb...
I've had a cold these last few days which isn't helping. I've had to listen to endless 'jokes' about 'man-flu' from the harridans around me whilst they're taking a break from multi-tasking. I've been feeling to weak to banter, so have taken to muttering under my breath. They taunt me for a while, then move on to the next male with a cold. I hear cackles, an enquiry about 'man-flu'. I continue muttering.
Whilst in the supermarket, I brave the self-checkout, as I only have a magazine and a sandwich. I'm far from a technophobe. I own every single gadget known to mankind and have built computers from their core components. I can never get through the self-checkout without help, though. This time it decided it didn't like my card. I give up and go to an attended checkout. The machine there likes my card just fine, but I have to suffer the checkout boy's festive deeley-boppers. I visit this particular supermarket about once a year. Each year I think they couldn't do anything to make this experience worse. Each year I'm proved wrong.
Oh well, three depressing festive tunes to cheer me up..