Goodbye Christmas, Hello Misery

Toby Carvery

It’s the 26th of December, put the turkey down Dronfield, wipe the mulled wine from your mouth and take that paper hat off (you look like a dick but nobody wanted to say anything); It’s the day after Christmas, the furthest day away from next Christmas. Nobody loves you anymore and the halcyon days of yesterday’s fun have surely climaxed with a monumental hangover and majorly deflated sense of sense worth. On the plus side: you survived.

I live in the hope that most of you did not go to Toby Carvery for Christmas dinner, some of you must have because I drove past at 12:30pm and the car park was full. It looked like the kind of place where Christmas dreams go to die. If you did go there for dinner, you now have time until the new year to reflect on the poor decisions you make and hopefully try harder next year.


Unless you work in the retail industry, you’ve probably got some free time on your hands. You probably have some time off work and you’re not sure what to do with it or maybe you’re on school holiday and nobody can sort any weed because Dronfield is dry as a bone over Christmas or maybe, just maybe, you’re unemployed (wow).  Whatever you do, don’t go to the sales.

If, like me you grow irrationally anxious at the sight of a busy shop with unemployed-looking fat people hurriedly waddling past each other – Toby Carvery gravy still lingering in their bleached lady moustache – fighting for 30% off some ugly clothes that they’re never going to wear (and if they do they shouldn’t because they wouldn’t look nice), then today is not the day for you to go to Meadowhall. Today is a write-off, put on your slippers and forget you now how to get up from the sofa.

I can imagine them all now, all the sale-hungry discount fiends scratching at each other, menace in their sleep-deprived eyes, hitting each other with stray coat hangers and grasping at the last size 24 dress in Evans, ugh. Large racist-looking tattooed spouses (the kind of men with England flags in their tenement windows) with cropped-sleeve denim jackets will hold back their weighty, mouthy, possibly still-drunk heffer 3rd wives stopping them from clawing each other’s eyes out with their fake nails that their Denise did for them last week because Denise is rate good and she’s got her own kit ‘n’ that.  Denise is probably in the next shop stealing fake nail supplies and perfume samples while her mistake of a boyfriend (probably called Darrel) ponders the best way to burglarise JJB Sports for trainers and the latest England shirt. (In this imaginary scenario, Darrel is also racist looking and possibly has his own initials tattooed underneath his right ear, just to make himself less employable. Darrel’s hobbies are betting his JSA on football and drinking Stella from cans.)

How is this at all relevant to Dronfield you ask? It isn’t, although I’m sure some angry half-wits will suggest making sweeping generalisations and mean comments about obese people is pretty ‘Dronfield’ and somehow this is an attack on the (ironically) un-working working-class. It isn’t.

– Anonymous contribution.

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