Lack of festive feeling

Are we feeling festive then? No, neither am I. And I don't suppose I will now.I don't know what it is about Christmas, but the older I get - and yes, I am definitely in the 'grumpy middle aged man' category, before you ask - the more I dislike the whole grisly exercise. It's not the meaning of it that worries me. It's the religious aspect, all that talk of angels and baby Jesus. Because, dear readers, I have a confession: I am a dyed in the wool heathen and tremble whenever I step through the doors of a church. If there is a God, and who am I to argue there isn't, I reckon he or she is just waiting to get even with me for all the times I larked around during school assemblies, cub pack church parades, wedding ceremonies and Christenings. Mrs B has still not forgiven me for the time I acted as an usher at a close friend's church wedding many years ago. I got her seated in a prime pew near the altar, then left to fulfil my ushering duties, directing the friends and relatives of the bride and groom to the blue and red corners - sorry, the seating areas either side of the aisle. The plan was for me to join her once the bride had glided along to the altar to face her moment of destiny. Only I didn't. For some reason I have still not fathomed, my mate had decided to tie the knot during the football season. On a Saturday. At 3pm. And I was not happy. So as I loitered in the church doorway, and spotted the bridal limousine's chauffeur settling down to listen to the footie commentary on his car radio, I hatched a cunning plan. I'd pretend I'd got caught up with a latecomer, join the driver to listen to the first 15 minutes of the game, then slide in unnoticed next to Mrs B without missing too much of the service. She would be mildly piqued, but nothing I couldn't handle; and I would have got my football fix to see me through the rest of the afternoon. Only things didn't quite go to plan. I can't remember what the featured match was now, but it must have been an absorbing encounter because before I knew where I was the half-time whistle had sounded. In panic I went back in the church, to see if I could make it to Mrs B's side without disrupting the service. But by this time things were well under way, and to my horror one of the bride's friends was 'entertaining' the congregation with an excruciating tune on a cello. Everyone looked like they were enjoying it, except a certain wife who was sat silently bubbling away like Mount Vesuvius ready to erupt. Well, I didn't want to spoil things, so I went and rejoined my chauffeur pal for the second half. At the time, it seemed the obvious thing to do. But as the assembled horde eventually started filing out of church, and I tried to blend in for the crowd scene photos, I was soon appraised of the error of my ways. Getting my hand in a vice-like grip, Mrs B growled: "Where the hell have you been?" I tried to make an excuse, but somehow she knew. "You've been listening to the football, haven't you? You left me in there on my own listening to the cello woman. You stitched me up big time." And so it went on until I confessed all, took my punishment like a man and have never dared transgress at a wedding/Christening/ funeral service again. I'm still reminded of it now, of course. Well, 27 years isn't that long, really. Which is why I don't like Christmas, you see. The thought of having to go into a church or do anything religious like sing hymns and carols brings me out in a cold sweat. So roll on Christmas Day, let's get it out of the way and then I can resume my heathen existence quietly. Humbug? More like Everton Mints, I'd say.