Tag: drinking

Guest Post: 7 Reasons To Join A University Sports Team
Joining a university sports team isn’t all about how good you are at, for example, football. It is also about frequently partying, team banter, being the donkey of the day, drinking, drinking, laughing when some steals your pants and more drinking.

If you want to attain a respectable degree, you may think it’s a good idea to avoid such shenanigans. You may be right, but here are 7 reasons why joining a University sports team is the best idea since sliced bread and of course the see-through toaster.

1. Making friends for life. Leaving home for University is a daunting prospect. For probably the first time in your life you’ll be away from your parents and friends for a prolonged period of time. The thought of that kinda sucks. So one of the best ways to get involved straight away is to visit the fresher’s fair and sign up to a sports society. The induction will normally involve downing dirty pints whilst standing on a chair singing the national anthem (speaking from experience), however it’s a small price to pay as making yourself look like an idiot is a great way to break the ice and form bonds that never crack.

2. Legendary status. Going on a team night out and abiding by all the tasks the seniors set you, will provide you with a Van Wilder-like status. Also, if you are actually good at the sport of choice and put in a few “god-like” performances on the field and in the sports hall, that’ll do nothing but enhance your burgeoning reputation.

3. Partying. After a hard day of study and lectures at University the best way to unwind is to socialise. Being part of a University sport’s team provides you with the opportunity (sometimes more than you would like) to let your hair down and have a laugh. University is all about getting the work/life balance correct. Too much work and you can quickly turn into a nocturnal creature dependent on Lucozade and coffee. Alternatively too much partying can lead you to become less focused on your study and result in a zombie like existence. So do your work, then enjoy life.

4. Going on tour. Being part of a sport’s team or society will more than likely present the opportunity to go on tour and visit foreign countries. Festivals such as Saloufest, Festival Italia and Damfest all provide opportunities to play sport against other students from different Universities. One great way to personalise the trip and add to the banter is to design and order team t-shirts, polo shirts and hoodies bearing the University logo and nicknames/slogans, click here for more information. Here are a few good slogan ideas…
- I’m not shy – I’m just examining my prey
- I can fix anything – Where’s the duct tape.
- I’m in shape – Round is a Shape
5. Forfeits. Being the victim of forfeits isn’t great, especially if it’s your fourth time that night. However, designing them and watching them in action rectifies that pain/pleasure balance. Watching someone remove their attire and ride a traffic cone as if it was a pony, may not sound like everyone’s idea of a great night out, but when you’re at University you’ll be amazed at how good such things are for morale. The memories will last a lifetime.*

6. Stops you getting fat. After a week of being a student, your diet will most likely sound something like this… Pot Noodle, Chocolate, Crisps, Alcohol, Kebab, Pizza, Alcohol… you get the drift. Therefore it is important to burn some of the excess calories off with exercise. Exercise at University will help keep the pounds at bay and prevent you from becoming a Jabba the Hutt impersonator. Though obviously if you’ve also joined the Star Wars Appreciation Society, something will have to give.

7. Reduces Stress. Although, to many, University students give the impression that they are laid back, party-crazy, tax-dodgers, the truth be told, attaining a degree can be very stressful. Stress can be caused by money (the lack of it), assignment deadlines (the one tomorrow morning) and exams (the one tomorrow afternoon). Taking time out to forget about all of this is imperative for your sanity and overall happiness. Exercise stimulates the brain to release feel good endorphins, leaving you happy all day long. You also won’t fee as bad about eating Onion Rings every night.

*We do not condone borrowing traffic cones. It’s one of the main reasons roadworks are never completed on time.

Author Bio: Chris is a recent University Marketing graduate and keen sportsman (armchair sports fan). He is currently writing on behalf of expressgarmentprinting.co.uk.
October 27, 2012
Guest Post: 7 Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Get, Be Or Stay Fat in 2012

In 2012 we have seen the London Olympic and Paralympic Games light up the World’s enthusiasm for sport and fitness. And, if you’re a bit on the tubby side, you might a bit jealous of all your friends joining up to local sports clubs and teams. Fear not though, help is at hand.

Being overweight, or the new politically friendly term ‘obese’, has never been such a pain in the arse. A shorter life expectancy and a greater risk of a heart attack are the worst of your problems. In a world where we are constantly consuming to feel content, I give you 7 reasons why you shouldn’t get fat, be fat or stay fat in 2012:

1. You can’t fit on roller coasters. Everyone loves a day out at the sea side or theme park. Well, stricter regulations on theme park rides mean that weight and high limitations, if broken, can resort in some hefty fines and penalties. You don’t want to be the one not able to fit your arse in the seat, hold up the roller coaster or be the reason why your favourite ride has stopped working do you?

2. You miss out on sports. If you can’t run then you can’t play many sports. That means a kick around in the park after work on a Tuesday is out of the question – unless you want to stand around in goal doing jack all of course? Missing out on sport means you miss out on social interaction with your friends, colleagues or family. Taking part in sports and creating memories is priceless. Sitting down on a park bench and watching is sad and depressing.

3. You can’t wear and use… The problem with being fat is that you can’t wear or use everything you want to; you may have fat fingers that stop you using an iPhone for example. Some clothes and underpants need to avoided at all costs! If you are a larger lady then you should avoid wearing revealing cloths and underwear, only your partner wants to see that. So, please, keep it in the bedroom.

4. You are not flexible. The thing about being fat is that you are just not flexible, bending over take years and walking anywhere is impossible. Sex is usually only in one of two positions and once those joints start going you are screwed for life (not literally). One final thought, have you ever seen a fat person doing yoga?

5. Dieting can be boring. When you have been used to eating MacDonald’s and chips for the best part of a decade, going on a diet can be one of the hardest things an overweight person can do. Salads will never fully satisfy your cravings and cutting out carbs is unimaginable. Frightening even. The thing about being at a happy weight is that you can enjoy the finer foods in life, like a takeaway pizza once a week and a bacon sandwich to help that Sunday morning hangover.

6. Drinking sucks. The more pounds you have, the harder it can be to get…you know, loosened up. That means drinking becomes more expensive. The bad thing about being overweight on a night out with the lads or ladies is that you may usually be the only one skint and sober, while everyone else is having all the fun. And the good thing for them is they won’t remember when they went all camp on you when the DJ stuck YMCA on. You, definitely will.

7. You will be paranoid. If you are not happy with the way you look then other people are going to notice, your confidence will be low. You will start to wear baggy clothes and change the way you look and how you do things. All these things are noticeable and potentially unavoidable when you put on weight. You won’t want to see yourself in any photos and that means a whole lot of untagging on Facebook. Eventually it’ll be easier to stay in every night. And get the takeaway menus out again…

This post was created by a skinny boy on behalf of Powerhouse Fitness a leading online retailer in gym equipment and sport nutrition.

September 6, 2012
7 Reasons That I Hate The Man At The Pub

It was all going so well. All I had to do was go to an unfamiliar pub and meet four friends that were there waiting for me. But there was a man at the pub who cocked it all up and made everything infuriatingly difficult. Here are seven reasons that I hate him.

1. The Man At The Pub Is In My Way. Exiting the bar with a pint in my hand and entering a narrow, dimly-lit anteroom with tables and stools situated haphazardly on either side of barely delineated central walkway I walked past a couple of tables and spotted my friends seated approximately two tables away, ahead of me and to the right. I moved toward them squeezing between the stools on the cluttered walkway. But there was a problem. There was a man also squeezing his way through the cluttered throng of drinkers, tables and stools in the opposite direction, heading toward me. Fairly soon he was in my way.

2. The Man At The Pub Moves In The Wrong Direction. As an Englishman I did what came naturally and stepped to my left as I approached him, in the knowledge that when he moved to his left, there would be sufficient room for us both to pass; assuming that we turned sideways, squeezed in and stopped breathing (because everyone stops breathing when performing this sort of manoeuvre, even though there is no earthly reason for doing so). But the man didn’t move to his left, he moved to mine (his right). He was still in my way.

3. The Man At The Pub Is Stupid. No, that’s uncharitable. He’s not necessarily stupid, I thought. Perhaps he hails from a country where they drive on the right. Perhaps he doesn’t drive. Perhaps he’s drunk; he does, after all, have a pint in his hand. I did what any other sensible person would do, given that he was to my left. I stepped to my right. But at the same moment that I moved to my right, he moved to his left. We had both moved but were both still blocking each other’s path. Bugger.

4. The Man At The Pub Is Still In My Way. Oh God, I inexplicably thought, to a being that I don’t believe in, this could go on all night. This could be one of those occasions where I and a random unwitting partner selected purely by proximity and happenstance perform the tentative and ungainly dance that I know as The Get-The-Hell-Out-Of-My-Way-And-Stop-Shuffling-From-Side-To-Side-In-Front-Of-Me-You-Simpering-Ninny. A blushing teenage girl and I once performed this dance on a narrow pavement outside of the Lewes branch of Waitrose for a full fifty seconds; replete with breezily uttered apologies, good-natured rolling-of-the-eyes, winsome shrugs and staccato bursts of nervous laughter. It was excruciating. I wanted to die. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me (which would actually have solved the problem). There was no way I was going to repeat that again. I resolved not to move any more this time. “Sorry”, I said to the man with the pint, instinctively, at the same time as he said “sorry” to me. Ah, I thought, he is English after all.

5. The Man At The Pub Is Mysterious. Then something else hit me. This man looked vaguely familiar. We regarded each other for a split-second, but I wasn’t quite sure who he was. It was one of those moments, when, in the back of your mind, you know that you know a person but for whatever reason – usually to do with seeing them outside of their usual context – you can’t quite place them. This was perplexing.

6. The Man At The Pub Is Confused. I noticed that my friends – who were frustratingly still ahead of me and to the right, as the man and I were going nowhere, were all looking at me – two were pointing – and roaring with laughter. They were hysterical. I failed to see how two grown men trying to get out of each other’s way in a pub was quite that funny, but then I noticed something quite odd. Although my friends were seated ahead of me and to the right, the sound of their laughter was coming from behind me and to the right. I turned to face the sound. My friends were sitting there. I turned back to face the man blocking my path. Then I realised why he looked familiar. He was me. I was the man in my way.

7. The Man At The Pub Is A Laughing Stock. It turned out that some bright spark had come up with the brilliant idea of covering the entire back wall of a small, dimly lit room with a mirror to make it appear lighter and airier and the customers appear stupider. As I turned and walked toward the table where my friends were still laughing uproariously, the sniggering barmaid was busy collecting glasses there. Feeling rather embarrassed and wishing to downplay the act of foolishness that I was slowly realising I would never, ever be allowed to forget I sought a crumb of comfort from her. “That must happen all the time,” I stated blithely to her. “No.” She replied rather haughtily, “that’s never happened before”. With that, she turned away and walked out of the room, back to the bar, from where we could hear her sobs of laughter for many minutes. The evening didn’t go well. Still, as long as I don’t write about it, no one else will ever know. Oh. Bugger.

September 13, 2011
7 Reasons That This Is The Worst Song Ever

Incredible news, 7 Reasons readers: I’ve discovered the worst song of all time. Surprisingly it’s not Mull of Kintyre, We Didn’t Start The Fire or that turgid Whitney Houston one that I first heard in 1993 and for all I know is still playing in the room I ran screaming from. It’s a song called Don’t Have Any More Mrs Moore that was made famous by Lily Morris in the 1920s. I didn’t mean to discover it. It snuck up and pounced on me while I was watching a documentary about Pathe News. It’s embedded below. I recommend that you don’t listen to it. Here are seven reasons that it’s the worst song ever.

1. It’s…Aarrgghhhh! Okay, you may have ignored my recommendation and if you did, that’s probably something approximating the noise you made on listening to it. I know that my initial reaction to hearing the jaunty and rather creaking string introduction followed by the first few bars of Lily Morris warbling about Mrs Moore was to shriek obstreperously and try to jam a dining table, a map of Scotland and half finished packet of Foxes Glacier Fruits into my ears. Sadly, they did not completely muffle the ear-grating, fingernails-down-a-blackboard, mating-sounds-of-a-half-strangled-cat-in-a-biscuit-tin, out-of-tune-soprano-with-her-on-fire-hair-caught-in-a-blender sheer unremitting screeching bloody cacophony that is this song. Listening to it is the aural equivalent of putting your penis on a desk and having it repeatedly struck with a hammer by an addled and vengeful dandruff-specked minicab driver with halitosis and grey shoes; something that every right-minded person would choose to spend an entire Saturday doing when given the choice between that or hearing a fraction of a nanosecond of a bar of this song again. It may well have been the first recorded instance of a father waking his baby up by screaming in the middle of the night. It is popularly said of ugly celebrities that, “…he/she has a face for radio”. Similarly, Lily Morris has a voice for cinema. Silent cinema. A silent cinema buried deep under the ground. Under Peru. In fact, under a very noisy thing in Peru. Under a man having his penis repeatedly struck with a hammer by an addled and vengeful dandruff-specked minicab driver with halitosis and grey shoes in Peru. Between the airport and the pneumatic drill testing centre.

2. It Fails The Test Of Time. Cole Porter; George and Ira Gershwin; Ivor Novello; Hoagy Carmichael; Kurt Weil; Irving Berlin: Just a few of the talented songwriters working in the 1920s that had absolutely cock-all to do with this song. Sadly, while their work has aged well, this song has not. It is the Mickey Rourke of popular song. It clearly had some sort of popular appeal in its day because Lily Morris sang it many times and I can find no written accounts of pandemonium as masses of horrified music-lovers stampeded from music-halls.   But there’s another possible explanation. Perhaps those that witnessed this horror were simply too traumatised to write about it; I wish I was. Perhaps people back then – who were able to vividly recount the sheer bloody horror of mechanised war and mass genocide – were far too disturbed by the ordeal of hearkening to this interminable and harrowing din to leave their descendants a warning from history. That seems eminently possible.

3. It’s Strange. In the song, Lily Morris is singing as a character, rather than as herself, addressing Mrs Moore. Not content with singing in her own character’s voice (and who would be content with that) for the whole of the song, Lily Morris inexplicably sings a verse of it as a Dutch vicar. From Namibia. I have no idea why she sings it as a Dutch vicar from Namibia, but I suppose if you’re going to pretend to be a vicar, you have to come from somewhere, even if it is Namibia. And you are Dutch.

4. It’s Ironic. The central theme of the song is a woman using drunkenness as a euphemism for wantonness or wantonness as a euphemism for drunkenness (I thought of checking, but I decided I’d rather have rusty razor blades stapled to my forehead instead) and cautioning another woman (Mrs Moore) against one or the other (or both). The irony is, however, that this is a song that positively no one could ever bear sober. This is a song that no sane person could experience (even partially) without having imbibed so much strong alcohol in one sitting that their liver would have a half-life of several millennia and would smell pungently of juniper berries for at least four and a half eternities.* The only way that anyone could possibly listen to this song without alcohol is if they were dead, and even then they would have to have been dead for at least a century and would need to have their wrists bound and the remains of their chest pinned to the floor by an anvil with Eamonn Holmes and the cast of Gandhi seated upon it, to ensure that they did not rise up and scamper from the room squealing in terror and urinating uncontrollably on the carpet.

5. It’s Historic. The discovery of this song has created a wholly astonishing and unforeseen development of historical proportions. A transpiration so unexpected that no one will ever have conceived of reading the words I’m about to write together in the same sentence. So momentous is this situation that, if I were to tell Nostradamus, Zephania, Philip the Evangelist and Derren Brown what I’m about to tell you, their reaction would be “Blimey! I didn’t see that one coming”. This song would be improved if covered by Jedward.

6. It’s Immortal. Once heard, this song cannot be killed. It’s an ear-worm that refuses to leave. Once it gets into your head (even if you only hear it once) this song becomes that bloody glittery vampire – the one that all sane people wish would just go away and die – that never goes away and dies. Of all the songs that you could ever get stuck in your head, this is the stickiest and most recalcitrant. It literally seems to bond itself to the inside of your brain somewhere between thoughts about tiramisu and thoughts about ducks. It is said that men think about sex every seven seconds. That is not true of men that have heard this song. Men that have heard this song think of this song every seven seconds (even when they’re asleep or flying an aeroplane). This song is no mere musical entertainment, it is a frightening disease of the mind.

7. It’s…Aaaaaarrrrrgghhh!!! Don’t Read This Reason!   If you think about this song long enough – every seven seconds since last Friday night, for example – it spawns the song of Satan. Because sooner or later (in a variant of infinite monkey theorem known as infinite poor suffering bastard that heard Don’t Have Any More Mrs Moore once and is now hearing it internally and infinitely for infinity theorem) the song will mutate. As you think of – or hear – another song this song will begin to segue into it. And then, with a creeping sense of trepidation and mounting dread, you will one day hear something so abominable and ghastly that it might well prove to be one of the signs of the apocalypse. You will hear the chorus of this song segue into that of another. You will hear:

Don’t have any more Mrs Moore

When there’s room on my horse for two

And with that perfectly seamless transition you’ll discover that you have, in your head, a mutant Lily Morris/Rolf Harris hybrid creature (Rily Marris?) singing a mash-up of Don’t Have Any Moore Mrs Moore and Two Little Boys at you every seven seconds for the rest of time. See, I told you not to read it.

*And why the hell does the word eternity have a plural?!

September 6, 2011
7 Reasons To Play The Brian Moore Drinking Game This Six Nations

Last week you may remember that Marc and I failed to deliver our regular Friday joint post. In an extraordinary turn of events we have repeated the trick this week as well. But that’s fine, because it gives me a chance to have a look at one of the greatest sporting events in the calender. Tonight sees the start of the 2011 Six Nations in Cardiff, with England taking on the Daffodil Nation. I could give you 7 Reasons to watch the Six Nations but I am pretty sure we covered that last year** and to be honest, not much has changed. You shouldn’t need to rethink it. Instead I am going to take a look at the commentators. And in particular the joy former England hooker Brian Moore will be bringing to the proceedings. With his passionate views, the words of Moore make this Six Nations the perfect opportunity to have a tipple. So here it is, the 7 Reasons Brian Moore Drinking Game.

1. Criticism. No matter which country a player is from, if he’s a silly boy, Moore will let everyone know about it. Similarly, if he feels a referee has made a bad decision, we will hear it. So, if Moore labels a player a ‘half-wit’ or brands the decision of the referee as ‘stupid’ you have to drink one finger.

2. Scrum. Given that Moore spent most of his career in the middle of one, I think he has the right to harp on about the issues of scrummaging for 80 minutes. And every time he bemoans a collapse, a reset or a wonky feed, you must drink two fingers.

3. Football. That’s right, every time Moore mentions those nancy boys in that round ball game and their rolling around on the floor antics, it’s time to drink three fingers.

4. Passion. Let’s put it like this, Moore is not entirely unbiased. You get the feeling that he’d quite like England to win. And he’s not exactly scared of sharing his passion for the cause. So every time he shows his blatant England bias, drink four fingers.

5. Anti-French Sentiments. Being a proper Englishman, Moore quite rightly lacks appreciation for all things French. So when he comes out which such gems as, “Looks like he’s injured…I don’t care though, he’s French,” it’s time to drink five fingers. And cheer.

6. Admission. On the very odd occasion that Moore views a replay and admits his initial judgement on proceedings was in fact wrong, you must down the rest of your drink.

7. Cut-off. Sometimes Moore can get so worked up about something that his emotions begin to pour out of the speakers. In the past it has led the producer to pulling the plug on Moore’s microphone. Below is the perfect example of what we are looking for. If this happens it is time to refill your glass and down it in one.

Most of all though, enjoy the tournament! (If you are English).

*7 Reasons does not condone drinking to extremes, so if you feel yourself getting dizzy before half-time you may stop.

**I lied. We did not give you 7 Reasons To Watch The Six Nations last year, our guest writer Rachel did. You can read it here.

February 4, 2011
Russian Roulette Sunday: A Recipe

Hi, Marc here. It’s Sunday and half of the 7 Reasons team is unwell. Sadly, its the half that’s writing today’s post; so I’m sorry if you’ve been clicking refresh on the homepage for the last few hours waiting expectantly for this to appear. Anyway, here it is.

A glass of mulled wine contains several of your five a day. Probably.

We’ve brought you recipes before of course. I’ve given you a recipe for SPAM on a plank, and Jon’s shown you how to remove something from the freezer. Badly. But it occurred to me that we’ve never given you a recipe for something you might conceivably like to consume. And it’s the time of year for it, so here’s my epic recipe for mulled wine that I’ve been inflicting on house-guests every winter since…well…before we had a house. Or guests. Anyway, here are the ingredients that you will need:

2 Bottles of red wine: It doesn’t matter how many people that you are going to give mulled wine too, the correct quantity is always two bottles. Don’t just use the cheapest wine that you can find as, if you do, your mulled-wine will be mulled-cheap-wine, and no one will like it. You don’t need to spend very much though, an inexpensive Aussie Shiraz-Cabernet will have enough strong fruit notes and body to support the ingredients, or a cheap Tempranillo. Just don’t use anything too light of body like a Pinot Noir or a Beaujolais, as it will be overpowered by the other ingredients.

2 Lemons (quartered).

2 Oranges (quartered).

4 Cloves.

5 Tablespoons of honey.

1 Cinnamon stick.

2 Teaspoons of ground ginger.

Put all of the ingredients into a pan. Put the pan on the hob. Turn the hob on (to a low heat). Stir constantly until the mulled-wine is near boiling point but importantly DO NOT LET THE MULLED-WINE BOIL! When it boils the alcohol escapes, and you need that in order to suffer your house-guests, (or they will need it to suffer you, in my case). While it is warming, taste frequently and add any random thing you can think of to improve the flavour. Last New Year’s Eve, I added a quartered and squeezed satsuma, half a cup of brandy, half a cup of triple sec, a big splash of orange juice and a tsunami of dark rum*. All of these things work very well in it. When everything’s in and it’s near boiling point turn the hob off and ladle your mulled-wine into cups, mugs or glasses (glasses without handles will be too hot to hold so only give those to guests you dislike). You may then drink the mulled-wine. And as you’re the person that made the delicious, warming, tasty beverage that they enjoyed so, everyone will briefly love you and will happily tolerate you for the remainder of the evening.

Right, I’m off to mull my way back to health. 7 Reasons will be back tomorrow with seven reasons…for something.

*Several hours after drinking this mulled-wine when we were cracking open the Champagne, we all realised that we were really quite drunk, and were surprised because we’d only consumed a bit of mulled-wine and three or four beers over the course of the evening. I think I’ve just solved the mystery.

December 19, 2010
7 Reasons Not to Leave Wrapping Your Presents Until Christmas Eve

Leaving your gift-wrapping until the last-minute is never a good idea. Here are seven reasons why.

Jonathan always uses paper bearing the traditional Christmas gift horse.

1. Reminders. The last thing you want to be doing is sitting in the study wrapping – while rapping along to Wham! – when your loved one knocks on the door and laughs, ‘I hope you haven’t bought me that handbag!’ You look down to see a pair of thick, woolen Rudolph socks. Oh no! She (or he) wanted that handbag. You look at your watch. It’s 5pm. There is no way you can make it to John Lewis now. If only you’d started wrapping on Tuesday. She (or he) could have reminded you then and you could have rectified the situation. Now you’re are going to have to steal one of her (or his) handbags and wrap that up. With the socks inside. Then you’re going to have to get her (or him) really, quite drunk.

2. Paper. However much wrapping paper you buy, it is never enough. It doesn’t matter if you raid your local WHSmith and buy every single roll going, it will never be enough. It’s one of those stupid Christmas rules. Come 11pm on Christmas Eve you have two presents left and no paper. Which is why come Christmas Day many are presented with a gift wrapped in a House Of Fraser bag. Or some printer paper. Or the Daily Telegraph. Though in that particular case I suppose the present was a copy of The Daily Telegraph. Some people like sudukos. The solution is simple*, wrap your presents before Christmas Eve, then when you run out you can go and buy another roll. It works. Though given you wrapped up days in advance you’ll probably have bought six rolls too many. Still, that’s Christmas for you.

3. Sellotape. Because you have no idea where the Sellotape is kept, and you’ll have to ask your partner where it is. And they’ll know that you’ve left wrapping their present until the last minute. And you’ll know that they know. And they’ll know that you know that they know. And you’ll know that they know that you know that they know that you know that they…no, I’ve forgotten. It definitely involved guilt, stationery and repercussions though.

4. Celebration. Christmas Eve is a festival in and of itself. And, having celebrated copiously and extravagantly, the last thing you want to be doing is staggering home in the snow to wrap your presents as, by this point, you may well have imbibed more mulled wine and port than…well…anyone else. Ever. Essentially wrapping presents in this state is a tiresome chore which soon degenerates into screwing large sheets of paper round random objects, with only one eye open and your tongue poking out with concentration while you lie on your side on the dining room floor. It also leads to…

5. Breakages. And you don’t want to break things on Christmas Eve. You don’t want to break yourself because it’s busy at the hospital and having to drive you there is annoying to your friends and family. And you certainly don’t want to break the expensive and fragile blue glass vase that constitutes your then-girlfriend’s main present at 11:30pm on Christmas Eve because it’s too late to replace it. So you’re left with a choice: You either wrap up the remains anyway and express shock and surprise that it’s broken when she opens it the following day, or you explain to her that you broke it while you were wrapping it because you blacked out for a moment while looking at a mince pie and fell off the chair. I chose the former option, naturally.

6. Garages. Despite what people may believe, a garage is not a limitless Santa’s grotto. The flowers are usually gone by lunchtime on Christmas Eve, the Chocolate Oranges by 4pm and the CDs of Cliff Richard’s Greatest Hits by 6pm. So what are you going to do when at 9pm you begin to wrap up your lover’s presents only to realise that he/she has bought you double the number? You can’t get a box of fire-lighters. They still have some left from last year. A free car-wash seems futile given that the car will get dirty again driving back. A new can of petrol is a fire hazard under the tree. A pint of skimmed milk lacks the festive spirit. You’re going to be screwed. So don’t do it. Don’t wrap on Christmas Eve.

7. Americans. For some reason best known to themselves, many Americans open their presents (which they insist upon calling gifts) on Christmas Eve. But what if you have an American coming over? Because if you haven’t wrapped your presents by Christmas Eve, muddleheaded ex-colonial types will want to open them before you’ve done so. And you know what will happen if they do that? They’ll just be removing stuff from boxes. All of the boxes. Because they won’t know which boxes are for them because they won’t have labels on because you won’t have done the labels because, let’s face it, if you haven’t done your wrapping by Christmas Eve you’re hardly likely to have made gift labels, are you? So your house will just be full of Americans removing all of your boxed-possessions and taking them. It would be like being burgled, except you’d have to give the burglars your mulled wine and make small talk with them while they burgled you, spelled things badly and insisted that science isn’t a real thing. And if that image hasn’t motivated you to wrap your presents right now, nothing will.

*Not the solution to the sudoku. Those bloody things are impenetrable.

December 17, 2010