Some are born great, some achieve greatness...

But luckily for you, you don't have Xym thrusting his greatness into you! 

or something,

Anyhoo, I was going to regail you with informative ideas regards potentially becoming an adverty man, with my fab idea to market Ginsters snacks using 1970s glam rock & New Wave pastiche pasties. or something.

Instead, another ire that irks Xym!

Now, since Boxing Day, several peoples have been bragging about denuding their living rooms of belighted bauble boasting tinselled trees and lamenting the lack of festive feeling.

As ever, one is flummoxed by this adherence to 'tradition' whilst ignoring 'tradition'. 

Like those who every year still forget that the first day of Winter is on the solstice (21st Dec this, no last year!), people are now forgetting when to take down their decorative adornments.

It may be tradition to put a tree up¹, but if you're following tradition, then traditionally you should not be taking yer decorations down until the evening of Jan 5th.

Otherwise Baby Jesus sends you a years worth of bad luck.

Mind you, I don't blame people taking their trees out early. They probably need the room for all them gift what build up over them there 12 Days Of Xmas. What with: 12 Twatless Turkeys, 11 Leaping Lesbos, 10 Torn-Off Testes, 9 Gnawed-Off Nipples, 8 Cockless Eunuchs, 7 Septic Scrotums, 6 Shepherds Wanking 5 Choirboys, 4 Falling Turds, Three French Whores, 2 Shithouse Doors and a Durex Full Of VD.

Or is it Alan Partidge in a pear tree?

I do know on the 13th Day Of Christmas, the postman brought to me, my true love in a pear tree.

He'd lynched 'em for making him deliver a preposterous amount of duplicate items every fucking day.

¹IF YOU'RE PERVY!

Cracking limbs, Gromit...

...and by cracking, I mean fracturing. Broken. Dislocated and amputated.

You know the Cheese Rolling Festival, where one loon lobs a lump of cheese down an extremely precipitous slope, and then a horde of gormsters charge down the trecherous incline after it, often landing in a tangled mess of injury at the bottom?

Well, in order to make it safer, they're replacing the 8lb truckle of Gloucester Gloucester with a ball of foam.

Now, I'm no expert, but I'm at a loss as to how switching a rounded block of dairycow smegma for a hastily carved slice of Tempur mattress will prevent the snapping and concussions accumulated whilst tripping and tumbling down a virtual cliff face.

Perhaps if they roll enough foamy cheese, then it makes a cushion at the bottom of the hill, providing a soft, bouncy bed to roll upon at final descent. Which puts the first lot of poor buggers at somewhat of a disadvantage, what with only umpteen suicidal pratts pratfalling down a precipice at a lone small ball of foam.

Besides, most injuries are incurred in the actually charge down, and they fall and bounce down the hill, bashing their bonce and breaking their bones and rupturing their ribs and dying an' orrible death surrounded by naught but a suspicious whiff of cheese sending you into the afterlife.

It's health and safety gone mad - no, not mad - ineffectual!

"Oo-arr. It be dangerous around these 'ere parts. Them stange folk hurtling down yon hill after a cheese and getting orl injured in ye process. Oi knows. If we's swap that cheese for a bit o'foam, we'll be larfin'"
"Why boi? Why we be larfin?"
"Cuz we'll be a-larfin' at them thar village idiots trying to avoid a foam ball in yon wind, tripping over it as it entangles their feets, thus causing further injury though increased tumblement"
"It be Haunch Of Foolish Boi for tea then, Pa?"
"Aye, lad. Aye. You go scrape up them wot's left in the ditch, and we'll have us a BBQ"

I'll take you to the candy shop, I'll let you snip me lollypop...

They're a funny old lot, them greeks.

I reckon it all stems from Pliny and them other philosophers, thems what all talk absolute arse.

But it's not all anal obsessions, oh no! There be shlong slicery too!

With Bollywood porn on the eateries tellybox, converse turns from talk of spicy food to spicing up the loins, and them greek orthodox jewboys have some very unorthadox practices.

I've heard tell of a Bar Mitzvah. Now, them linguistical types will have it that the phase "Bar Mitzvah" is Hewbrew for "Son of the Commandment" or some such. Bollocks. I have it on authority that it's jewgreek for "Bar Of Chocolate".

Fry's Turkish Delight, to be specific.

And I don't mean Stephen's oiled up eunuch from the fleshpits of Instanbul for the sodomic sexual shennanigans .

Apparently, when a man becomes a man at age 13 and it's time to remove his helmet, a Mohel fills the young lad's gob full of the rosey jellified treat. The perfumed savouryness of the confection is enough to send his coming-of-age endorphins flowing, and thus the young man fails to notice his cocktip being ripped off.

Probably by the Mohel's teeth, like some Mohel Jackson pædo priest plying children with red-centred-Jesus-Juice choccie to get at their cock!

I reckon them pervy ole greeks got it all mixed up. I reckon that Turkish Delight is shovelled into your cakehole to prevent scurvy when circumnavigating the globe. No one wants to suck on sour limes when pirating on the high seas, but a chocolatey rose flavoured gelatenous product is a much more preferable treatery for the nom-nom-nomming thereof.

And women in desert tents have their red centered delight split by hunky Lawrence-Llewellin-Bowens of Aribia with their oversized sword.

The Sheiks also use their muhaddab scimitar to slice the hareem's chocolate bars in half too!