EMISSIONS/Kilian Doyle: There's no point complaining about it at this stage, I suppose - but then, that's never stopped me before. I've been biting my tongue since they first reared their pernicious, glittered heads last month, but no more.
In case you haven't noticed, Christmas decorations are already festooning every shop and brain-numbing twaddle posing as music has permeated the airwaves.
Faux bonhomie and crass commercialism are flexing their muscles, ready to decimate my serenity and my wallet. I hate it. All of it.
Smug plastic angels, chortling Santas and all the other attendant dross should be banned until December 18th, then ripped down and destroyed on the 26th. I'll light the bonfire.
Jesus would be turning in his grave if he hadn't the foresight to arrange his resurrection. But, in the spirit of the season that's in it, I'll let it lie.
One thing that is pertinent to this section of the newspaper, however, is booze. 'Tis Ireland, 'tis Christmas, so 'tis liquid.
It's what the global stereotype portrays us as, and we Irish are never ones to let anyone down, particularly when there's a session involved.
So like it or lump it, half this country is going to be bladdered drunk at Christmas parties and family gatherings from now until the first week of January, when reality comes back with a thump. So why does this concern me? Because we all have to get home again.
Rather than get all sanctimonious and judgmental, as I am generally prone to, I'll err on the side of optimism and presume that everyone knows drink-driving is neither big nor clever. We've all seen the TV ads and we've all heard of people who've been killed or injured because someone, somewhere didn't get the message.
There's always one cretin who regards it worth the risk to drive home with a feed of porter inside them. My only wish for them is that they wrap their vehicle around a lamppost, emerge bewildered but unharmed, and ponder the error of their ways as it dawns on them that their insurance doesn't cover them for being a moron. If they get busted by the cops, so be it. An added little bonus to the whole aversion therapy cycle, if you will. (Sorry, I couldn't resist that little drift into holier-than-thou mode.)
Anyway, the last thing you should do is drive to your staff Christmas party. Partly because you have to remain sober and be regarded with suspicion all night ("Ssshh, here he comesshh. Heesshh up to sshhomethin', I'm tellin' ya!" will be indiscreetly muttered as you pass on your way to munch ever more sausage rolls).
But mostly because, despite being ignored all night, you will suddenly become the Most Popular Person On The Planet when it's time to go home and the taxi-rank looks like an East German dole queue. By the time you're finally on your way to Rathfarnham after dropping that spotty, obese git who stole your promotion, to Malahide via Leixlip, where his girlfriend (whom he also stole from you) lives, you'll be wishing you were face down in your own stomach contents somewhere.
Which leaves you either walking home or braving the aforementioned taxi-rank. Considering my past pronouncements in this very space about taxi-drivers, it would be somewhat hypocritical of me to even contemplate advocating the latter option.
It'll have to be walking, so. In Ireland in December. It'll probably be raining. And freezing. And I'll have lost half my clothes. Hmmm.
Did I ever tell you how much I appreciate the fine work our wonderful taxi-drivers do under exceptionally difficult circumstances? And how badly paid they are and that you should tip them all at least 30 per cent of the total on the meter? And that their political and sociological views are worthy of your full attention? Did I?