Christmas shopping, thou art a heartless bitch

Before the wittier of those reading this point out that the inevitable time of year is only upon us in a few more months (nine to be precise), I’m merely using this opportunity to remind them of the horrors that wait. With this focal point deeply embedded in our minds my ever-so optimistic friend and I have solemnly vowed that we would not be caught with our trousers down - again.

So, with an air of righteousness we set out to rectify our past errors and work out a plan of action early enough in the year, similar to those used by the soldiers used in guerrilla warfare. I won’t go into much detail, suffice it to say graphs, long lists, pie charts and timetables were involved. The culmination of all this planning?  As the youth so eloquently phrase it nowadays - EPIC FAIL.  

Christmas being a time of Boney M songs played so often you feel like taking the first purchase you’ve made in an over-crowded mall and sticking it straight up the most anatomically unviable area of the nearest shop assistant. A time of sales so unbelievable you’d sell your grandma in order to obtain the knife so sharp it cuts through Malema’s ego. And averting these infuriatingly unfruitful attempts at marketing was priority number one, well, that and trying to avoid the heaving, heavy breathing, excessively sweating (no white Christmas for us in here in wonderful SA), mass of bodies we have become accustomed to during the holiday season.

After many attempts at self-motivation and even more evenings of delving ever deeper into the Christmas budget for that absolutely bloody last beer, my now less-than enthusiastic friend and I were horribly reminded of our fate when chatting to our respective girlfriends. As every self-proclaimed manly man should know, the most dreaded question imaginable by the feminine gender would be the “Do you know what you’re buying me for Christmas sweetie, it’s a few more months away” question. Gasp, splutter. Well, this question or a statement referring to a broken french letter (obscenity removed here for fear of harsh retribution). You decide. Back to the topic at hand though, finding ourselves in the uncomfortable position of trying to understand the female mind and hoping we find the right lie to placate their predatory psyche, the answer invariably would be, ”yes, but it’s a surprise!”. Panic stations. Phone up friend, friend starts babbling, crossed lines, swearing, more panicking and eventually calm confidence as we decide that we are manly men after all and we do things sensibly. Christmas is after all a couple of months away, to quote the tall one from Top Gear, “How hard could it be?”

No Christmas shopping done yet, skip to the 24^th of December, D DAY. As Homer Simpson so eloquently phrased it, “Doh!”

It’s time, we decide, to put our long suffering plan into action. We agree to meet at a communal drinking spot and brace ourselves for the onslaught. After mollifying ourselves with some Dutch courage, it’s off to the battlefield. Jumping into my sensible light-on-fuel car, we arrive and park in a sensible spot near the back thwarting those circling vultures all looking for a spot right next to the entrance. Not only does this sensibly lessen the amount of petrol we use, but also has the added benefit of preventing oneself from dying of apoplexy. (See what I’ve done with the word sensible there?)

The battle that ensued was bloody, and for those who are already bored or who suffer from ADHD here follows the highlights.

One memorable moment the by-now lethargic friend of mine was next to me barging our way into Clicks, the next he was engulfed by a tide of vampire slash werewolves all disguised as woman, children and the occasional dad lagging behind moaning about some sports event he was missing. Eventually in the store, I felt like Rambo or rather James Bond trying to achieve the impossible and find the ultimate gift. Would the Jamie Olivier cookbook actually be used? Should I rather buy the fancy mop that cleans the toughest of stains, or the 20^th generation twister chopper? I was quickly wrenched out of this reverie as two scrummaging housewives came flying past vying for the last soap on a rope two for one. Screw this, I thought, a fancy box of chocolates would have to do. The exit strategy was no less if not harder. I eventually found my now limping friend in rather bad form trying to chat up a Christmas tree. After wrenching him away from what he took to be either Heidi Klum or his high school sweetheart Martie, we powered our way through Santa’s little helpers with the gusto of two long distance runners with a bad case of dysentery. Once out in the cold night air, we inquired about each other’s injuries, mine as a result of a scuffle with a toddler trying to claim my box of very expensive chocolates, his a badly aimed housewife’s flying handbag aimed at her neighbor trying to steal the last box of  Ferrero Rocher. In later years we’d ascribe these injuries to something more believable like a rugby injury, or perhaps alien abduction.

My friend, by now fully awake after a generous helping of something very quickly stashed back into his trousers,   turns to me with blood dripping from his lip, and before he opens his mouth I know the question forming; ” Same time next year?” 

To quote Malcolm Forbes as an after-thought; ”A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort”