by Emma Bradford
THIS year I will be giving money to charity instead of sending Christmas cards, and making sure everyone knows about it.
As a committed atheist I spend most of the year mocking people for believing stories that were made up in the olden days as a form of social control, yet when December rolls around I nonetheless feel what I can only describe as a sense of holiness creeping over me. It’s almost erotic.
I lecture my children on the ways in which rampant capitalism has killed the spirit of Christmas as I drive them home from school in my new white Mitsubishi Shogun.
On the way we stop at Waitrose and spend a moment feeling sorry for the man who is begging outside, but we don’t give him any money because he’ll just spend it on drugs.
I enjoy making my friends feel like selfish bastards by talking about how seriously I am considering inviting some homeless people to share our Christmas dinner.
Of course, I don’t do it because they’d probably steal the television, but, as I’m always telling the children, it’s the thought that counts.
In many ways, I am like Jesus. But he wasn’t real, so I am actually better than Jesus. Blessings on you all.
