What I Want For Christmas

Christmas has always been a challenge for me, because unlike everyone else, by which I mean my younger sister Julia who tells me every year in no uncertain terms exactly what she wants for Christmas 6 months before the actual event, I don’t know what I want for Christmas. Or more specifically, I don’t know what I want for Christmas that other people can actually afford in their lifetimes, such as a VW Golf GTI, a 2×5 inch piece of land in Damansara Heights, or petrol. So my family and relatives turn to Default Male Gifting Mode, which guarantees that I receive upwards of 5 shirts that are 3 sizes too big, 2 pairs of pants 5 sizes too small, 3 ties, and if somebody decides to be creative that year, a belt.

Now, I’m not complaining in any sense of the word, because I am very grateful that I have the luxury of receiving any gifts at all, while the suffering children in Africa have nary a warm meal for Christmas, although it is comforting to know that they will all eventually be adopted by Angelina Jolie, and go on to live a life of fame and fortune that I would quite frankly be willing to crawl into an African woman’s womb and be born again for.

OK, maybe not. But this has got me thinking about my attitude towards this Season of Love, which so far has only been about me. I think this is the wrong attitude to have, when I should be thinking about others instead.

So this year, after much thought and deliberation, I have finally decided what I want for Christmas; something unselfish that will possibly help make the world a better place: To drag every one of the four members of Westlife out of their limousines and have them shot without trial, right after punching them in the goolies.

Wait! Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing personal against Westlife. In fact, I think they sound much better than the Backstreet Boys; the same way nails scraping on a blackboard sounds better than Celine Dion. But what raises my ire is their recent hijack of Josh Groban’s soulful “You Raise Me Up”, a nice little song that they professionally and thoroughly ruined.

Listening to the cover version, it is immediately obvious that none of the members of Westlife have any “Vocal Range” — a musical term for the lowest note you can sing without imploding, to how high before your testicles disappear and people start calling you David Beckham — and they simply die out like little imploding pansies at the big buildup towards the end. Also, the arrangement is totally devoid of the emotion of the original, and is so full of cheese that Pizza-Hut is probably already negotiating a Westlife “Get Stuffed” Pizza cross-promo to cash in.

So it comes as no surprise that the song recently won ITV’s UK Record of the Year award, further proving the average Brit’s musical taste is about as refined as a fresh pile of sugary vomit. You have to remember that these are the same people who love the Crazy Frog, so do not hesitate to laugh and poke fun at them like you did William Hung. Meanwhile, I am accepting pre-orders for 5 brand new shirts, 2 pairs of pants, 3 ties and possibly a belt. Big discounts!