So this is Christmas...

... and in the words of a good friend to his dog, now what have you done? Another year over. A new one just begun. Can I just say right off the bat that Lennon was a dickhead if he thought the new year started on Christmas Day. I'm not sure what the Japanese band-wrecking calendar told him but in the good old U of K (that doesn't work for the UK) we tend to celebrate the new year at the start of the new year. We're such traditionalists. Maybe he got the date wrong on the peace rally and turned up to Guntober Fest? Either way, he probably didn't deserve to die for making such a basic error.

Anyway, my rant, or point, is that Christmas doesn't make me happy any more. And I know most people will say that the magic disappears as you grow up. And to those people I say, "then don't grow up". I have modelled myself on someone that refuses to grow up and the only scientifically accurate thing in this rant is that I was as excited about Christmas three years ago as I ever was as a kid. FACT (I have a friend who hates it when people do that so this is for you George).

So clearly me "growing up" isn't the problem. What's happened is that everyone else has. And I'm stuck wearing a Christmas jumper, wrapping presents and watching Scrooged on my own. And something crossed my mind. Maybe it's time I grew up? Maybe it's time I finally stopped finding miniscule flaws in every single girl I date? Maybe I should stop dating girls that aren't single? Maybe I should stop drinking? Maybe I should stop smoking in bed? Maybe I should stop smoking? Maybe I should have a kid?

And there we have the solution. If I have a kid then I can be excited about Christmas. So, all I need is a girl that will be happy to go through 9 months of hearing "you are glowing" and be willing to not only sleep with me (not difficult) and fall in love with me (proving more and more difficult) but also sire a healthy baby boy. I'm not being too specific but it has to be male. How the hell do I get excited about My Little Pony or My First Tampon or whatever the latest female craze is? I want a son that I can buy loads of awesome toys for Christmas and play with them as a father while secretly playing with them as the child I am. Plus I get to be the dad that falls asleep in front of Octopussy on Christmas day. It's all I've ever wanted.

So, I can't think of any better reason to have a child with someone you loved for a couple of minutes than to rediscover the love of Christmas. And now starts the appeal. To all women of child-baring age, I am young at heart, I have a GSOH, plenty of LOLs and a fair few WTFs and I am begging that one of you will see the father in waiting stood in front of you. I love it that loads of people say I'd make a great dad. Haven't once heard that I'd make a great husband. And I think they are spot on. So, women of the East Midlands (I'm not willing to travel), if your biological clock is ticking and your only purpose on this earth is to procreate then I'm your man. Give me a male child and I will love you forever (forever = until splitting up won't wreck him mentally).

Merry Christmas everyone. I'm hoping that, wrapped up in glittering paper and a neat bow is an awesome baby boy. But, I fear that, as I've asked for a food blender, it will actually be a food blender. Read between the lines mum.

I'm not having a fit...

... I'm just trying to dance to drum & bass. That's the sad state of affairs I find myself in when it comes to 'moving my dancing feet'. Looking like I have epilepsy. That was almost the complete opposite of what I was going for.

But it does interest me immensely why women like men that can dance. I heard of the obvious, untrue cliche of rhythm on the dance floor means rhythm in the bedroom. Firstly, I don't have rhythm on the dance floor. I have had sex quite a few times (more than 10, less than a trillion) and not once have I had to use a metronome, or, dare I say it, had a fit half way through.

I also understand that dancing like Justin Timberlake suggests you have a certain cocky arrogance that can only lead to being good in bed. However, that cocky arrogance would also suggest that the same person is nailing anything that is attempting to 'bring sexy back'. In looking for a confident, rhythmic dancing queen, the lady will have in fact just become another cum-receptacle in the lotharo's already full calendar of easily fooled women.

I know the media hasn't helped by saying that people like Usher (I can't say or write his name without wondering why no one has run him over yet) are cool because they can move their feet. Personally, I think it's cooler to not wear a hat indoors and to write your own songs but hey, call me old fashioned.

All this means is that men are immediately judged on a barrel of female requirements just by the way they dance. If they can do the cha cha, does this mean he'll be able to provide for your offspring? If they embrace you in pasodoble would this suggest he isn't a carrier of sickle cell anaemia? None of it makes sense. For women it's easy. Wear next to nothing, don't be fat and dance like a whore. Job done. Men who want to sleep with whores will be attracted to you.

Personally, I prefer to look around a dance floor and see the girls that aren't taking it all so seriously, aren't rubbing themselves against speakers (unless ironically) and, are more often than not, taking the piss out of each other. This is the form of dance I much prefer. It isn't about peacocking, merely enjoying the music and having a laugh with friends. Perhaps having a dance off, or maybe moshing around a handbag. These are the type of girls I have time for. And I'd hope that they'd take someone doing the sprinkler, dressed as Jimmy Saville, over someone looking like, dancing like, or even just being, Usher.

So, thank you plastic, vacant and altogether too judgemental girl on the dance floor last week. I wasn't having a fit. I was dancing to drum & bass. This is how I do it. And the next time you are in Primark, face contorted as you try to work out the total cost of one £1 pair of shoes and one £1 bra and knickers set, I will be sure to point out that you look like seven shades of flowery twat.