Park (Your Arse) Life

Yeah? And what are you gonna
do about it, Santa?

Tell me, please, what's this national obsession the UK has with buying new sofas for Christmas? It used to all be about the Chocolate Orange, for Christ's sake. Now it's a stampede to furnish your digs with a lurid three seater, matching armchair and pouffe (as well as furnishing your bank account with a raging New Year's debt).
But why? How in the fuck does having a new sofa improve your Christmas? By making you spend the entire pre-Crimbo rush waiting for the delivery guys to appear? Or by making you destroy any festive cheer by screaming at the kids because they smeared choc all over the thing by 7am on Christmas morn?
Are people fucking mad? Christmas is the last time on earth to buy a new sofa what with all that mulled wine sloshing about and todders chucking up the entire contents of any given selection box. 
I ask you, is it down to fear? That Santa won't have anywhere to rest his porky arse after breaking into your house like a festive pervert? Or perhaps it's an irrational terror of the eternal DFS sale ending.
More likely it's a fear that by ignoring your arsely needs you'll have a shit Christmas, just like the ads tell you will happen if you don't invest in something with ribbed velour and four casters. 
Truth is, though, that new sofas do not a merry Christmas make. Rather they make for a terse and shouty festive period where everyone is so scared of fucking up the purchase before the 2014 repayments start that they spend the big day squatting on the floor instead. Merry Christmas, my, and the nation's collective, arse.