Merry Pissmas!

I've been thinking. (Yes, that was that grinding noise you heard last night. I hope it didn't keep you awake.) What is the point of Christmas? Acknowledging the birth of Christ? An orgy of consumerism? Spending time with the family? The contented observation of childish excitement? An excuse to buy crayfish and prawns?

No. It suddenly dawned on me this morning when Bloke and I popped into the boozer. I couldn't miss it, really. There, stacked behind Dan Murphy's, was the meaning of Christmas:

It's a bit blurry (LCD screens are difficult to see in bright sun) but you get the idea. This wasn't all they had, either. There were another two or three stacks like this. And that was just what was piled up outside. Inside, it was a veritable alcocopia.

But I had my Dickensian moment. The sight of all that beer finally made me understand that alcohol is the true meaning of Christmas. In fact, I've decided to rename it Pissmas, just to put an end the obvious confusion. I think it also goes a long way to explaining why the tradition has never caught on in the East. (Hey, I'm offending the Christians, so why not Islam as well? I'm an equal opportunity bitch.)

If you think about it, Pissmas does have a long association with alcohol.

• Father Pissmas: Tradition demands that you leave out a little glass of brandy and a mince pie for Father Pissmas. After a few houses, he must be well and truly trolleyed. Or is that sleighed?
• Pissmas cake: If it's good, it should be completely soaked in brandy.
• Great Aunt Beryl/Great Uncle Les, who you only ever see at Christmas: By the end of the day, can also be expected be soaked in brandy.
• Pissmas pudding: As with the cake, if you're doing it properly, you should soak the fruit in brandy before you make the pudding. Before serving, you should sprinkle it with yet more brandy and set it on fire.
• Pissmas parties: If a party at work or home is to be any good, it must be a swim-through. No booze = arse party. This equation does not include eggnog ~shudder~.
• Pre-Pissmas lunches: I had one of these on Friday with my besties. It went for eight hours and the food was really only there to soak up the booze.
• Cranberries: Cranberry sauce is useless. You might as well put strawberry jam on your turkey and be done with it. Everyone knows that the best use for cranberries is juicing the little suckers and then making cosmopolitans.
• Pissmas presents: Can't think what to get someone? Chocolates? No, that will make them fat. Oh, I know! A bottle. They'll love that. Ironic, really, that no-one likes the idea of getting a fat arse, yet they have no objection to getting rising damp in their collective liver.
• Bottle shops are closed for at least part of Pissmas Day: This is a mark of respect to the alcohol. Plus, it needs a rest. It's taken a hard hit in the lead-up to Pissmas and things are only going to get worse for it on New Year's Eve.

So there you have it. The meaning of Pissmas. Let's just hope the Ghost of Pissmas Past doesn't decide to visit me tonight. I bet he stinks of stale sherry and tells dad jokes from the crackers.

The plague

Ah, Adelaide. Can there really be a better place for weirdo-watching? I have two examples par excellence for your amusement.

Exhibit one: Ms Orange Peel
Yesterday, I wandered into Rundle Mall to do some shopping for Western Consumer Holiday (book vouchers, mais bien sur). On the way back, I found myself walking behind Ms Orange Peel. It was like an immense train wreck. I simply couldn't look away. Ms OP was wearing fried blonde hair with about four inches of dark roots, the skankiest high heels one has ever seen in one's life and a denim miniminimini skirt. She was a reasonable size for a mini, yet not of a reasonable age. Cellulite overtakes us all, sooner of later. It's a sad fact. But I could have forgiven her all of her other sins, had it not been for The Skirt.

In the end, there is very little I can say about this skirt apart from, "Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! The plague has spread!!!!!"

Naturally, I mean the plague of pantlesssness. Britney and all those other over-paid, over-privileged little skanks have done it again. Knickerlessness is rife.

Ms OP had either failed to undies up for the day, or she was wearing a G-string. Nothing really wrong with a G, although I find them extremely uncomfortable myself, and I can't help thinking of Number One Brother's charming turn of phrase: "Have you flossed your arse today?"

So, Ms OP had either flossed her arse or simply gone sans culottes. (There's a reason that in French "sans culottes" means "crazy". Especially when you are wearing an arse-length denim miniminimini.

Because Ms OP had one small problem. Every time she took a step, the lower half of her right arse cheek fell out of her skirt. Never the left. Only the right.

I couldn't look away. How could I? It was like The Ghan hitting that dirty great pantechnicon that was parked across the tracks outside of Darwin. Step, fine, step, maaahh! - visible arse cheek! Step, fine, step, maaahh! - visible arse cheek!

As my dear Mancunian mate said when I told him this story (and pointed out a similar specimen on the footpath ahead of us), "Is orange peel the only fruit?" Hurrah, Marc. I enjoyed your Janette Winterson reference, but was nevertheless traumatised. Holy hell - I used to like oranges!

Example two: Mr Crab
As Bloke and I walked through the train station last night, we couldn't help but notice Mr Crab. I looked at him and thought, "Oh, poor fucker. He must be brain injured."

Mr Crab was bent sideways, with his head all but in his armpit and his knapsack riding his ear. He was staggering. He had a very long, grey pony-tail. Every now and again, the head-in-armpit thing would get the better of him and would steer him directly into a wall. And he would just stand there, kicking the wall some. He didn't seem to be able to work out the right combination of moves to get away from the wall.

In fact, the poor bastard was so fucked that he looked like me trying to play Grand Theft Auto. It's embarrassing to admit, but I'm a Playstation 'tard. The last video game I was capable of playing was Donkey Kong in that little orange-and-silver Nintendo double-screen thingie. Jump barrel, forward, forward, jump barrel, up ladder, jump barrel...

Anyway, here was I thinking this poor bastard was brain injured and I was torn between trying not to look and wanting to help him onto the train, when Bloke says, "Faaaark, he's pissed". Obviously, I'm not what you'd call a nice or compassionate person. Obviously. But even I said, "Jeez, Bloke, he's brain injured isn't he? That's not nice!"

"No," Bloke said. "I often see him on the train and he's totally normal."

Well! Reader, I developed a new sense of respect for Mr Crab. I've never seen anyone that trashed who was still conscious. Even some of MY mates, and let me tell you, that's saying a lot.

So, hurrah, Adelaide! Well done to us. We have the mankiest miniminimini-skirt in the history of pantslessness AND the Most Pissed Guy In The World.

Wow.

And in the Fosters corner, Glenn Milne!

I'm sure by now you've all seen News Ltd politics reporter Glenn "The Hurricane" Milne making a drunken twit of himself at the Walkley Awards on Thursday night. If you haven't, have a squiz. (Thanks YouTube - without you, we would have missed out on the most hilarious stoush of the year.)

Nice performance, Hurricane. After all, why would you want to get trashed and have a go at someone in front of 20 or 30 people when you could make a fool of yourself in front of all of your peers in one fell swoop? And while being filmed for national television? Humiliation does seem to be the new black. To tell the truth, though, I would have had more respect for him if he hadn't said that it was caused by mixing migraine pills and alcohol. Excuses, excuses, old sport. You made a dill of yourself and now you're just going to have to wear it.

Stupid as Milne was to run on stage like a rogue elephant on cranky pills, I can't really find it in my heart to blame him for wanting to have a go. I like Crikey, but Mayne is a bit of a wanker. He's not quite a national disgrace, but he is a bit of a prat.

From the performance point of view, The Hurricane got points for delivering such a decent duck-shove that it knocked Mayne off the stage. After all, Mayne's a pretty tall guy. He also got points for nearly breaking free from the sound man who was hauling him away and having another go. On the other hand, he lost for the beet-red face (booze blossoms are never a good look) and the half tucked-in shirt. I thought for a moment he'd gone the whole hog and his fly was undone, but no. He got yet more points for having to be removed by security. In the opposite corner, Mayne definitely lost points by running away when Milne broke free to try to have another swipe at him, but he won a few back for the "sponsored by Fosters" quip at the end. Nice work, there tiger.

But on the whole, the winner was the Walkleys audience. They'll be able to say for years to come, "Oh, I was there the night Glenn Milne got pissed and let Stephen Mayne have it!" Ah, memories. The Australian public also won, because now they have yet another reason to say, "Meh, journos! They're just a mob of piss-heads who like starting fights."

So thanks, Hurricane. You've given me one more reason to say, "morgue attendant" next time someone asks me what I do for a crust.