Blame Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz

Photo by Nikita Kashner under Creative Commons Licence

"There was much rejoicing for London suburb resident one Christmas Day when Santa Christmas left the corpse of one Pauline Fowler beneath Albert Square's Christmas tree."

Christmas trees - pointless, aren't they?

According to that big, fat, bastion of knowledge - Wikipedia - we probably have King George III's wife Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz to thank for the custom of putting bits of pointy hedge in our living rooms.

A 13-year-old Queen Victoria was most amused with the Royal family custom, which later became widely copied in 1832.

Another website credits the Christmas tree for defeating Hessian mercenaries 232 years ago in Trenton, New Jersey, America.

When the battle-hardened mercs caught sight of everyone's favourite have-a-go-fir during Christmas Eve, 1776, they became so home struck they abandoned their guard posts to eat, drink and be merry.

Then General George Washington rode in and slaughtered the lot of them.

Veering off slightly, a Manchester-based tabloid broke the "news" that science boffins had invented a meat tree.

This miracle of modern science bore grapefruit-looking pods that contained fresh beef - the answer to vegetarianism.

Shame it was all fibs.

And while veering off sharply towards lunacy, a plastic life size-replica of McDonald's cheery mascot, smiling clown Ronald McDonald, had to be cut from a noose hung from a tree in Billings, Montana.

Police were seen hauling the victim away from the scene, with Burger King Rules scrawled on to the hapless clown.

Of course, there was much rejoicing for local residents of one London suburb on Christmas Day two years ago when Santa Christmas left the corpse of one Pauline Fowler beneath a Christmas Tree in the middle of Albert Square.

Next: Santa Fraud

Christmas Day ... of the Dead!

Photo by Miyaoka Hitchcock under Creative Commons licence

"Do I write a blog, or go online as Captain Beefgun and spend the next 16 hours on a zombie kill kill faster faster shotgun-fest?"

Let's start with two apologies.

The first was the temporary death of my modem in Casa de Mat.

Despite a two-hour call of bad advice and misinformation from an Indian call centre, I breathed life anew in to it. That was Saturday lunchtime.

The second apology follows the first: why no blog until late Sunday?

It was zombies, you see.

Imagine it: you've done the impossible by making a modem work through sheer will power.

To celebrate, you go to the shop for a pastie.

On your way home you pass a computer game shop.

You pop in, pick up a few games, read their descriptions and browse the goods.

Then you see a box with a dismembered four-fingered hand on a green cover and the title Left 4 Dead written in blood.

Some genius has created a new game in the style of a zombie film that sees you logging on to the interweb and blowing away hordes of the undead.

So it's not surprising you leave the store with said game and a telling off for eating food on the premises.

Now, when I get home do I write a blog, or go online under the pseudonym of Captain Beefgun and spend the next 16 hours on a zombie kill kill faster faster shotgun-fest?

Which brings us to a third apology. HCC is all about Christmas, nothing more, nothing less.

And this week I was going to write about the harm Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz has done our carpets since year dot.

For that, tune in next week. This week it's zombies. Don't worry, they are relevant to Christmas.

George A Romero satirised capitalism in Dawn of the Dead with shopping mall-plauging zombies.

Charlie Brooker resurrected this idea in the recent Dead Set by imagining a Big Brother audience as a mass of braindead scum.

And is not Christmas the time your brain dribbles out of your ears and eyes from overexposure to that advert with the jingle "Holidays are coming" and "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas"?

Shoppers hand over their credit cards in exchange for £4.99 brain teasers, the 2009 AA road map and other stocking fillers.

Pure brown crap swamps our TV sets in the form of X-Factor and Timmy Mallet bullying Robert Kilroy-Silk on I'm A Celebrity.

It is only a matter of time before someone welds makes a truly great zombie apocalypse Christmas film.

Next: Blame Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz

Blog, interrupted

My internet router refuses to work, despite the threat of a violent kicking.

So no working internet connection = no blog, until fixed.

Red 20/20 and blue Ben Sherman shirts

Photo by kleer001 via Creative Commons Licence

"Where was the Cheeky Vimto, when I was retching down a bottle of red 20/20 before wobbling into a Christmas disco in my Reebok Pumps?"

Christmas is a time for spirits. Great, big, snifter glasses full of spirits.

If you don't get drunk at Christmas, then you're a robot.

And what better way to get festively smashed out of your skull than a bottle of Hennessy's limited edition cognac - a real bargain at £105,000.

But if that's too pricey, then settle for just a glass. A £5,000 glass.

Come on, people. If we don't fork out, then we may as well let the credit crunch roll over us.

But be quick, there are only 100 bottles in existence.

If spirit is not your thing, then what about a cocktail?

A £35,000 per glass cocktail.

The Flawless debuted last Christmas. You can, of course, make them at home.

All you need is: A large measure of Louis XII cognac (£963), half a bottle of Cristal Rose Champagne (£449.40), brown sugar (£1), angostura bitters (128.40), and 24-carat edible gold leaf (an eye-watering £2.95).

And a 11-carat white diamond ring to put at the bottom of the glass (Just imagine 11 of these).

If you're having problems finding those on www.comparethemarket.com then put away the mojitos and follow the HCC recipe for the Flawed:

All you need is: A double of port and a bottle of blue WKD.

Mix the two and it becomes a Cheeky Vimto, totally indistinguishable from its namesake but makes you fall down.

And don't forget to place at the bottom a Haribo sweet ring. Classy. Watch those bubbles flow!

Where was the Cheeky Vimto all those years ago, when I was retching down a bottle of red 20/20 behind a skip before wobbling into a Christmas disco in my blue Ben Sherman shirt and Reebok Pump basketball boots?

Next: Blame Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz

The one where a reindeer ate my mate

Photo by Keven Law under Creative Commons Licence

My friend had his beard eaten by a reindeer, once.

He was a council employee back in Wales and fell victim during the annual December tradition held in our home town.

Every year, on a dark winter Friday night, a council employee dressed as Father Christmas is towed in his reindeer-pulled sleigh up the town’s sloping high street.

Hundreds of parents line the procession, hoisting children on to their shoulders to see over the hazard barriers.

When the sleigh reaches the peak of the street, it stops outside Woolworths.

The shop was a former multi-story cinema and bingo hall until the American giant turned the ground floor into a shopping area during the sixties.

So every year Santa pulls his reindeer over at the hill’s zenith, gets out of his sleigh and goes through the lit shop doors.

Five minutes later children start pointing at the tall building’s roof, where a red blob has been picked out by a spotlight.

Then a fire engine from the town’s fire station pulls up, sirens blaring, before winding out a vertical ladder, climbed by a fireman.

The fireman then climbs backs down, followed by Father Christmas.

One year, my mate agreed to be Santa.

So on a crisp Friday night he found himself being towed along by a smelly reindeer, dressed in an itchy Santa outfit with a badly-fitting beard, waving to the crowd.

When the sleigh reached the brow of the hill outside Woolworths - hundreds of families scrunched together to see Santa - he pulled in the reins. Hard.

That’s when the reindeer’s head snapped around, nostrils flared, and clapped its blood-shot eyes on my mate.

The festive fiend then lunged at his face and ripped his Santa beard off with its teeth.

My mate fell out of the sleigh in trouser-wetting terror, while the beast washed the beard around its mouth a few times then spat its dripping wet remains at a surprised child, who started crying.

Good times.

If you want to learn how to identify the nice from the naughty and how to evacuate a grotto, click here.

Next week: Red 20/20 and blue Ben Sherman shirts.