"No, look at ME, stop looking at the space around me"
I said, but he wasn't listening to anything coming from the space within the space around me. His eyes were middle-England-blue and awash with two pints of bitter and five-or-six glasses of mulled wine. "Yes, thank you, I'm not celebrating this year." More gin bites my heart and soul, which, frankly, they deserve for all the cosmic sexual arousal and aloneness that they have been forcing the sane that I surround me with to unrequite. "I had to be bloody reminded that it's Chrissmusseev five times today, and I'm in panto. THAT is precisely how much Christ's Mess means to me, and if you don't look at me, I shall- why won't you look at me? Can you see my aura or something? What colour is it? No, sorry, 'Mer' Chrissmusseev' is not a- what spirit of things? You mean getting wankered, eating too much, spending days of your valuable-and-underpaid-time writing out Chrissmusscars to people that you haven't spoken to in years- no, I bet you can't even remember who the Banals are, let alone the Distantsons- buying expensive things for people who probably don't need them and believing that this means that people mean more to you than money- one of your demographics just fell off, it's just over- no, no, best leave it in that pool of- er- arguing with your family who moved out specifically because they don't like spending time with you, and- no, in fact, I'm not a Chrishun, and nor, I suspect, are- LOOK AT ME- well, atheism is better than your brand of Christ's Mess and Eastertide reli- no, you aren't a Chrishun, you're just keeping up appearances, you bigo- lawks, man, pull your worldview back up, I can see your census peeking ou- WILL YOU LOOK AT- fine, yes, I'll have some free wine, but as for- and YE GODS MAN, the MUSIC- no, you don't actuall- I'M OVER HERE- you don't actually like it, you're just told you do because it's Christ's Mess so it must be good and therefore it is good, but in fact it is ALMOST ALL UNFUCKINGLISTENABLE, so- I- OVER- can you even- you can't, can- can you? You're just transmitting, aren't you? You can't receive, can you?"
I walked off into the night, smoking in silent despondency. He just stooped there, screaming goodwill and caring at the planet.
Of course he couldn't see me. I wandered back.
I sighed, and, opening my trousers, expelled some mulled cheer into his face. It rolled off, of course. He didn't even feel it.
"MER' CHRISSMUSS!" I belted, my words intermingled with smoke, my eyes wide with untraditional righteousness, my lips twisted into a barbed rictus, my fists clenched into iron baubles of correction.
He looked at me. "AN' TH' SAME T'YOU!"
By the time I landed the left hook he wasn't paying attention again. Didn't feel it. Bloody hurt me, though.
I stalked off toward the nearest accidental decoration. Best to leave the poor chap alone. Clearly quite mad.
I heard another demographic drop leprously from his obese right wing, and smiled humourlessly into the diffuse light of the mist-gauzed streetlamp. Dropping my cigarette into a puddle of brandy, inadvertently creating my own briefly impressive Chrissmuss Pudding, I disappeared into the mist in a swirl of freshly-lit autodestructive pleasure-smoke, clicking my heels darkly and bouncing to the broken remnants of unconscionably repugnant songs that escaped the man's lips as he screamed his message at no-one in particular.
Mer' Chrissmuss, everyone.