It’s been almost a year now. More or less twelve months of meat-free living. It’s not been without an occasional fall off the meat wagon. Like that time I was ‘tricked’ into eating a hotdog. Or when I succumbed to a fudge-crunch sundae at the beach. And a bit of chocolate cake square on a birthday night out. And_ ah, you get the point. But these lapses have been short-lived and I’ve always managed to stumble back into the wilderness pretty swiftly.
But now the end of the year looms, and with it, the time I’ve been dreading most…
Christmas: you filthy, meaty temptress.
So just what the f*cking hell do I do about this? Nut roast? Don’t be a knob. Christmas is a celebration. It is indulgence and excess and unabashed enjoyment. It is meant to make you feel sick and hungover and debauched and flatulent and emotionally drained for days afterwards. It is hedonism. It is meat and cream and alcohol and Die Hard.
The phrase ‘Vegan Christmas’ is clearly an oxymoron.
But, I shall not be downcast. I have two weeks to work this sh!t out. There has to be a way. The wilderness is bountiful and it shall provide. Screw climate change and Middle-East peace; the great humanitarian challenge of our time – find a decent meat-free alternative to pigs in blankets.
