As I sit wrapping my Xmas presents (my family are all getting signed pictures of The Cheeky Girls: they wouldn’t sign them, so I did) I cannot help but contemplate the plight of those who are less fortunate than me. As this involves virtually everybody, I must quickly dismiss this thought. My brain isn’t big enough to cope with such numbers.
I am however, very excited about Xmas Day. I love Santa, and he loves me. I have cleaned the chimney and left him a carrot, a mince pie and a pint of sherry. Sadly, the sherry has evaporated due to the heat of the fire, so I shall have to top it up (snigger, snigger).
Despite the left wing, Marxist antics of those fops at The Royal Mail, Santa should have received my letter in time.
I don’t really need much; I’ve got a woman with a beard, and my expenses claims are pretty much up to date.
However, I am but a man, and I have needs.
As that vixen Allen (double grrrrrrrr) said to me the other night “Posh, you fall into the category of special needs”.
Here then, is my letter to Santa:
1. My stolen computers back
2. A hefty majority at the 2010 election
3. A new wreath
4. A time machine to deliver the new wreath.
5. A Rick Astley face mask kit.
6. A larger bladder, capable of accumulating 15 pints of gin.
7. That vixen Allen’s (double grrrrrrrr) mobile number,
8. At least two expense paying committee positions after the 2010 elections.
The Posh lives in the real world dear fans, a world where every opportunity must be taken, milked for what it is financially worth and finally cast asunder when it has no reward.
That dear reader, is the true spirit of Xmas.
That and gin.
Have a good day dear reader, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t, unless it has a beard.
No comments:
Post a Comment