Giving ‘Blue Monday’ the finger

 

batman

It’s that time of year again. December’s festive bickering over the last Quality Street and Auntie Marge’s gin-fuelled racist rants at Christmas lunch have passed through the January-depression-memory-adjuster, leaving only fuzzy memories of family bliss and jolly games of Scrabble around the log fire. You’re reminded that it’s January, you haven’t kept any of your New Year’s resolutions, you’re broke and the mince-pie thighs are still expanding. You now resemble a walrus.

Or so the media, detox-diet advertisers and the creators of today’s ‘Blue Monday’ love to tell us every bloody year. No, I’m not talking about New Order’s awesome 80’s anthem. PUT THE GLOW STICKS DOWN. Alas the infuriating phenomenon I refer to uses some sort of nonsensical equation incorporating variables such as ‘weather’, ‘motivation’ and the ‘post Christmas slump’ to pinpoint the most depressing day of the year as the third Monday in January.

Get ready to crawl under the nearest duvet/sofa/fridge, dear readers, for that apex of doom is in fact today. It’s allegedly the most popular day of the year for divorce proceedings to begin, a time to start worrying about Valentine’s Day and supposedly a day we can expect an avalanche of woeful and grumpy tweets to fill the internet.

I say ‘supposedly’ because, what’s that, Buzz…?

buzz

 

Yep.

Fine, it’s January. Yes, it’s a tad chilly. Christmas is over. I still haven’t saved up enough money to buy a second hand Volvo, nor have I written my first novel, married a Persian Prince or come up with a cure for Alien Hand Syndrome. I’m feeling quite chipper though. Not having mulled wine foisted upon me at every opportunity is actually quite nice, in fact I was more than happy to see the back end of Christmas and purge my house of tinsel. I never bother with New Year’s resolutions. Spring is coming. As far as Mondays go, this one feels anything but blue – in fact as the afternoon sun laughs through my window it’s positively glowing orange.

I wonder if instead of telling us when we should be feeling grim, the media might stop talking about fictional depression days conjured up by useless equations, and spend their time actually highlighting the real issues surrounding mental illness? Just a thought.

To conclude, if you’re still in any doubt as to whether today really is the most depressing day of the year, I leave you with Grumpy Cat. What do you think, GC?

no

 

Well alright then.

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Christmas marketing and the hysteria illusion

Bad Santa

“Why do they call it ‘Christmas time’, when ‘time’ is the one thing you don’t have at Christmas?” sighs the Curry’s voice-over man on the radio. Before we have a chance to ponder whether this is true, he’s chipper as a grotto elf and explaining how the electrical shop plans to make buying their wares ‘stress free’ this party season.

It’s December, and if mass media is to be believed there’s an unspeakable force of evil in town – jolly ol’ Saint Nick.

We all know that things can get a little stressful at this time of year, what with all the panic sock purchases, the inexplicable need to photocopy your bum at the office party and limited time to eat your body mass in mince pies. The last thing we need is a constant reminder of just how tense we should be feeling. Except, unfortunately, the big brands have long since figured out a way to make cut prices and next-day-delivery all the more appealing in their festive advertising campaigns – by pretending Christmas is the worst thing to happen since the Holocaust.

‘Oh isn’t Christmas horrible,’ we chortle, as our chapped, bleeding hands get to work on wrapping present number 73,’ but thank goodness all these random brands are here to whip up some festive hysteria and get us to spend loads of money on things we didn’t know we needed!’

I recall Morrisons doing a particularly spectacular job of aligning Christmas Day with Dante’s seventh circle of hell a couple of years ago. ‘Here it begins. It’s everywhere. There’s so much to do…’ whispered a possibly clinically depressed Mum, who morosely trudges through her Christmas ‘to do’ list with all the festive enthusiasm of a dead kipper. She literally gets in the boxing ring with the turkey, practically has a nervous breakdown while peeling the spuds and eventually proclaims: ‘It’s hard work, but it’s Christmas and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Did we believe her? I put it to you, readers, that it was actually Morrisons that ‘wouldn’t have it any other way’ otherwise who would be bulk buying their cranberry sauce on Christmas Eve?

If you’re battling mental illness the holiday season can be tricky enough to deal with, without the big corporates trying to make you feel even more overwhelmed. So I try not to let myself within a cubic centimetre of the TV at this time of year, even if the John Lewis ad really does embody the ‘magic of Christmas’ and will make you cry snowflakes.

If you weren’t already feeling a little strained, fear not – crimbo advertising will have you hyperventilating into a paper bag before the year is out. Next are touting their next-day-delivery as the eighth wonder of the world, Ocado promises to ‘take the stress out of Christmas’ and Aldi warns you to stock-pile novelty napkins at once with their creepy ‘once they’re gone they’re gone’ mantra. Forget Yuletide joy – if the marketing Gods are to be believed it’s all about burned out shoppers beating each other out of the way with Advocaat bottles before flinging themselves off Rochester Bridge in despair. Tis the season, indeed.

Is Christmas really so terrible? Of course not, we’re being duped. It’s not about buying everything in sight until your home resembles an Ikea catalogue page. It’s about quality time with loved ones, going to stare at the twinkling, luminous Oxford Street lights, making mulled wine at home, badly, hanging up tacky, fluorescent paper chains and mopping up the dog’s puke when you forget to hang the Christmas tree chocolates above snout height.

This Christmas, instead of battling fellow shoppers for the last cut-price pigs in blankets, I’ll be tuning out the avalanche of bile taking over the TV and radio waves and actually enjoying myself. Spending time with people I care about, exchanging sloppily wrapped gifts and not having a hernia because someone forgot to buy the Pringles. It may not be as ‘perfect’ as the Sainsbury’s Taste the Difference advert, but I’ll bet it will be traditional.