This Christmas, please spare us the mix of irony and knitwear
How did it come to this, I thought to myself, while in a central London pub approaching Christmas last year. I seemed to have found myself on the edge of a fight with a group of lads, all being lairy, obnoxious and provoking my friend and I by flicking shot glasses containing the dregs of their syrupy sambuca all over us. They were mean, all heavily coked up to their eyelids, and all – with mind-blowing incongruity – . They looked faintly like toddlers or over-stuffed teddy bears. It had the same . I half expected Beethoven to come on while a man in
