Katie Hopkins’ Christmas Cracker
It’s the most wonderful time of the year, they say - well not for yours truly it isn’t. Christmas is a time when everyone in their smug, liberal bubble is acting so concerned about the poor, the needy, the so-called “minorities” and their so-called “problems” they seem to forget about the real victims in our society. Yes, they appear to have forgotten the white, middle class Christians who don’t seem to be able to make themselves heard (if you discount the fact they have their own newspaper column, a huge Twitter following and a radio show).
Am I the only one who thinks we’re a million miles away from the Christian festival of my childhood? Christmas for me meant having snowball fights (well, having snowballs thrown at me by the other 907 children in the school), refusing to sit on the knee of the Co-op’s Trotskyite Father Christmas and going carol singing on my own. I’d have to think twice about singing Once In Royal David’s City nowadays, and once about singing Twice In Royal David’s City these days. Some jobsworth, health & safety obsessed Guardianista councillor would probably bang on about non-denominal winter celebrations, and ban the common sense carols we sang in the 70s.
The Christmas we once knew and loved has gone forever. For instance, a few days ago I attended an appalling PC interpretation of the nativity, based on the Marxist 1970’s musical Ipi Tombi. There I was thinking the one I saw last year was a load of old twaddle – some weird, mung bean version based in the Middle-East, featuring foreign camels and swarthy-looking characters dressed in right-on ethnic clothing. Everyone with half a brain knows that Jesus looks like Robert Powell with a beard - even when he was newborn. They should stick to what they know and drop all the smartarse, multi-cultural Jazz-hands nonsense .
Sadly, 2016 has seen so many wonderfully talented legends pass away. Did I say sadly? Yes I did, but controversially (as ever) I don’t mean a word of it. In fact if the truth be told, I’m not sad at all. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT? To let you into a little secret, it’s been brilliant because it’s enabled me to write hundreds of thousands of bile-filled words in which I pretend not to care about much-loved celebrities passing away. As far as I’m concerned it’s made my piss-easy contrarian approach to hack journalism even easier, if that’s at all possible. Here are just a few of my stone-cold CLASSICS from 2016: ‘He’s dead you say? GOOD I say’. ‘She’s dead you say – HOORAY I say!’ ‘Awww! Now he’s dead as well – GOOD RIDDANCE I NEVER LIKED HIM MUCH, ANYWAY’.
The Daily Mail Christmas party was very quiet this year…again. I turned up at the nearby Wetherspoons fashionably late (it was due to start at mid-day – so I played it cool by turning up at 12.03). As I sat there mentally terminating with extreme prejudice the human detritus which surrounded me - especially the awful man sat next to me with a vomit-flecked sports jacket and a copy of the Sporting Life hanging from his back pocket - my mind turned to the wonderful times I’ve had with my colleagues. Over the years, I’d become very close to some of the people who re-re-re-write my column. Oh how they’d laugh down the phone as I dictated my pieces to them, only for me to remind them that was the serious bit in the article and wasn’t meant to be funny.
I was about to go home when my colleagues finally turned up (it must be said much the worse for wear!) at around 6.30pm. I bought everyone a drink and enjoyed some brilliant banter in the ten seconds it took them to down the double brandies I’d bought everyone. The weirdest thing happened (actually, not so weird - it happens every year) because when I got back from a visit to the toilet, everyone had gone. I’m not sure where they’d gone, but whilst I was walking down the road to get a taxi I could’ve sworn I heard the faint sound of laughter behind me. I turned around and it stopped. Weird.