Guys, Before You Buy Your Presents – READ THIS.

Now, O’ Gentle Readers, with the festive season fast about to mug us wholesale, I feel that I have to make a heartfelt plea. But to the guys. To ensure that you remain alive post-Christmas.

Try VERY hard not to fuck up when choosing presents for your beloved.

As someone who, in all innocence (I was 12 so gimme a break, will you?) gave his Mother a ceramic frying pan for Christmas because she’d mentioned it previously, the suffering that will follow is simply not worth it. Here’s why:

A woman who was given a pork pie from her husband commented online: “It’s Christmas! My DH (darling husband) who is usually lovely but really rubbish at presents has bought me a pork pie. An actual pork pie; claiming I am too hard to buy for. He knows I like gin, chocolate and flowers – if in doubt that would be great. But no, he thinks of me and buys a pork pie. The man who is supposed to love me buys me meat wrapped in pastry. It’s not about the value of it; it’s about how he’s made me feel.  Pretty shit, actually. So yes I am upset and no I don’t want to be treated like a princess.”

Not good, even if you DO reside in Melton Mowbray.

Other potential casualty admissions involving dopey male gifters include spot cream AND wrinkle cream, and brass rubbing sets. Basically 10 sheets of black paper and gold crayons. Wow. Add gifts of packets of chocolate peanuts, leg shavers and tights, and you’re in very dangerous territory.

Especially when, quite understandably, many of the recipients that partners who’d given them bad presents were now ex-partners. Do not go to Relate, do not pass Go. Just pack your bags and piss off back to Mother. Where you’ll carry on giving crap presents; eventually becoming homeless through your abject ineptitude in choosing gifts.

Bit harsh for us blokes I think. We’re only responding to information received you know. And we’re not Marvin the fucking Mind-Reader either. Get real.

I would say to the pork pie whinger that she should make the best of the situation. Like sticking a candle in the pork pie, blowing it out and wishing for a surprise real present coming your way. At least the poor sap has actually thought of you. I mean, count yourself as lucky – he could be screwing his secretary…

And possibly one of the worst contributions involved windscreen wipers, and a battery operated hard skin remover for feet. So what? What’s wrong with a callous remover? Both quite useful things, but make sure you don’t confuse which is which when using them.

DO NOT DO THIS. One suicidal idiot gave his girlie a Jack the Ripper board game. Let’s consider the subject matter here. Serial killer – check. Prostitutes – check. Hideously complicated rules – check. The woman in question did comment after (not good) that: ‘He hasn’t done that again.’ No, because he’s now part of the foundation material for the new patio you had built shortly thereafter.

And that fate probably awaits the Einstein who’s given his significant other a microwavable egg poacher. For three consecutive Christmases. If you can now locate him on the Electoral Register you’re better than me.

So guys I say to you, in all seriousness as a former Casualty nurse – GET IT RIGHT. I would not want one of my counterparts to have to deal with you, late on Christmas Day, attending their Casualty

Department with a windscreen wiper very roughly inserted into your rectum. Unlubricated.

So, I will leave you with that thought. Enjoy.

 

 

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