The Bastard Lounge

Misinformed, angry, coffee-addled ranting.

Baby It’s Absolutely-Sodding-Freezing Outside

Winter is coming. At least, that’s what all of my Game of Thrones-watching friends say with a knowing wink and smug chuckle to one another when I gripe and grumble about how sodding cold it is. Then someone will try to argue that winter’s actually already arrived. Then someone else will point out that winter doesn’t actually begin until the 21st December this year. Then the first person will moan that they just wanted to talk about Game of Thrones and didn’t mean to start a whole argument. Then I’ll tell them their favourite character will die in the next episode, piss everyone off and prevent anyone ever speaking to me again. Success.

I’m going to assume that it won’t come as a shock to anyone reading this that the official Bastard Lounge opinion on the festive weather is that it is far from delightful. Indeed, our current position is that conditions are positively frightful. But since we here at TBL have no place to go (what with permanently destroying what few remaining friendships we had with TV show spoilers and vague threats), it felt appropriate to bring you our expert analysis of this shiver-inducing, boiler-breaking, car-skidding, flu-rampant time of year. Because we care.

First things first. It’s fucking freezing. I’ve written about such a topic previously, but at least on previous occasions it’s had the good grace to actually snow and give us something to do with our cold miserable lives. If we’re really lucky, it’ll snow really heavily; the roads will be fucked so we won’t have to go to work, and distant elderly relatives will die so we can save money on Christmas presents. But alas, not this year. At least, not yet. Instead, I’m typing this with as much grace and delicacy as one can whilst wearing thermal gloves and shaking like a squirrel with PTSD on the sofa, with the depressing knowledge in the back of my mind that nothing will prevent me from having to go into work tomorrow. Unless I slip and break my leg. Hey there’s a thought…

Another inevitable consequence of the world somehow not imploding before we could make it through the year is the omnipresent deluge of Christmas-related everything. Shops are full of sparkly, tacky, red and gold bollocks, all desperate to plunge their wares into your face-holes and scream “LOOK! LOOK AT THE SHINY! YOU BUY THE SHINY! No-one wants it, no-one needs it but BUY THE SHINY SHINY!”. Decorations are strewn haphazardly around every town centre, providing a lovely festive glow to the sight of a homeless man angrily vomiting into a bin. But the most ubiquitous thing I’ve noticed this year has been the music. Oh God, the music.

Whether it’s because I am now a regular commuter, or whether it’s because I simply didn’t have enough to get angry about before, but I now hear Christmas songs far more frequently in far more places than I ever have in all my life. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of Christmas. I’ll happily endorse anything that actively encourages nonsensical gluttony. But the songs are all, without exception, terrible. They’re brilliant at the same time, and it wouldn’t be Christmas without them, but every single Christmas song ever written is stuffed with more cheesy clichés than… an overused metaphor.

That’s true of Winter Wonderland. It’s true of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. And it’s certainly true of Frank Loesser’s ode to date-rape, Baby, It’s Cold Outside. Seriously, have you read the lyrics to this? Do it now. I’ll wait. I can’t believe it’s taken me this many years to realise just how creepy this song is. It’s made me wonder what else I’ve been missing. Maybe White Christmas is massively racist. Maybe The Twelve Days of Christmas is a Marxist allegory for the evils of Capitalism. Maybe Little Drummer Boy is… actually let’s leave that one.

Congratulations The Bastard Lounge on your 1000th Paedophile joke!

Congratulations The Bastard Lounge on your 1000th Paedophile joke!

Baby It’s Cold Outside contains such lyrics as “Hey, the answer is no!” and “Say, what’s in this drink?”. It couldn’t be seedier if it was a collaboration between Robin Thicke and Cee-Lo Green. It also brings a new level of dark undertones to the beloved Christmas classic Elf. The saccharine, innocent duet of Zooey Deschanel and Will Ferrell becomes a lot more distressing with this newfound subtext.

Though the fact that this is the face of a sexual predator should shock no-one.

Though the fact that this is the face of a sexual predator should shock no-one.

Essentially though, what I’m actually seething about is the fact that all this cold weather, all this music, all this rampant commercialism means that Christmas, whilst agonisingly close, has not yet arrived. We’ve got another couple of weeks of work, of shopping, of staring out of the window at a grey, miserable sky and grey miserable roads and grey miserable people until finally, thankfully, mercifully… It’s bloody Christmas! Hoo-fucking-ray.



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