My job is continuing to be a stupendous joke - my latest assignment is writing an article on the Christmas market that will be put up in Covent Garden. This is all fine, except there is one little flaw in the arrangement in that the Market is not actually set up yet. Deadline is on Wednesday, so this should be fun.
I work for a magazine that yesterday almost let this little gem slip through proofing; “We must remember that even though candy, presents and Santa are what comes to mind when we think of Christmas, it’s the death of Jesus Christ on the cross that is the reason for this festive holiday”. No. No, it’s not. Far be it from me to correct my own Editor, but I do believe that actually, actually it’s reported to be the BIRTH of Christ that we are celebrating. I’m glad that the elementary basics of a religion that’s been around since the 1st Century AD have remained thus far a stranger to your laxative-like brain. I’m utterly impressed that you have managed to reach the not so tender age of 37, get a job as an Editor of a magazine whereby you inform others of historical events in an attempt to enlighten them on past and present Covent Garden and you have done all this without ever managing to work out the rudimentary order of the Nation’s most hyped-up, best selling, world changing, religion making tale: The Bible. Well done. No, really – well done. I stupidly believed that last month, when you claimed that Mary Queen of Scots was the daughter of Anne Boleyn, you had reached an all time low – but I have been proved wrong. You clearly were just warming up for your piéce de résistance: the tale of The Boy who was Stillborn in Bethlehem. Nice one.
