Releasing the Inner Scrooge
Eight Substackers wish you a very merry (un)Christmas
Usually, I am an optimistic person; I tend to be quite the positive Polly. Yet, sometimes doesn’t it feel good to release the rage? We all have an inner Scrooge. We all need to suck on life’s bah-humbug sometimes. (Not constantly, but every once in a little while is okay, I think.) And voicing our annoyances can be cathartic, useful, or, at the very least, funny.
In 'A Christmas Carol’, Dickens himself, said:
There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour.
So, in the spirit of (un)Christmas: I gathered eight writers’ inputs. I asked them to share some of their pet peeves, bug bears, and unleash those little grinchy moments they notice in themselves.
I’ll kick things off for us with something very relevant at this time of year…
Calories printed on a menu,
Generally, I don’t count calories. I definitely don’t want to count them when I’m out for dinner. I’ve chosen to leave my health-conscious home for one night only. Now thanks to the little kilojoule rascals printed on your restaurant’s menu, I’m doubting my knee-jerk decision on the schnitzel and debating the rainbow bowl instead. Everyone else is doing the same (but not admitting it). Indecision is infectious. Oh, and you’ve ruined carbonara for me forever. Thanks for that.
Small plates and natural wine, Osundina
I should clarify: my issue isn't with the small plates restaurants nor the natural wine bars themselves. My issue is with the haters. The meme accounts, the tweets and threads, the sarcastic Hinge prompts all bashing the lovers of the small plates and the natty wines a.k.a the lovers of a good time. There are very few joys in this world; if someone — possibly, even, me — wants to spend £20 on four pieces of grilled asparagus, I say let them. And if that same person chooses to order a glass of orange wine, not fully understanding what it is, I say let them be free.
Badly made cups of tea,
One of my greatest little pleasures in life is a cup of tea. People who understand this can be relied upon to: freshly draw the water for the kettle, pour it within seconds of boiling, leave it for about three minutes, squeeze the bag on the side of the cup with a clean teaspoon, put the bag straight into the compost bin, add milk, and pass you a cup of the beautifully made stuff (in a properly washed mug or cup). People who don’t usually have sinks full of old tea bags and stained, chipped, mugs everywhere. Never be fooled by a ‘hot water tap’. They look fancy but the tea may as well be made from bathwater. I know how this makes me sound. What’s more, I have grades of mugs. When my mum died, my husband built a shelf in the kitchen so I could keep her favourite cups. That, is my love language.
Rules of the Tube,
As a Londoner, you must take a sworn oath of conduct before engaging in travel on The Underground. If you visit London, you must ensure that the customs of our culture are upheld at all times. Please. Do not stand on the left side of the escalators. There is a lane system; the left is strictly for overtaking, mostly by very important businessmen on the way to important business meetings. When the light turns orange on the barrier, whack your Oyster or contactless card down immediately for entry. Do not be selfish and wait for it to turn green. Most importantly of all, if you’re going to take the Tube, never EVER consume a tuna sandwich or boiled egg while onboard.
Zombies,
Not the cannibalistic type. I’m talking about those people who trudge slowly along the street in a line you would struggle to describe as straight. The idea that other people might also be pounding the pavement is seemingly alien to them. They exist in some liminal space where no heed is paid to their fellow wanderers. Sometimes, just as you are weighing up your attempted takeover, they will stop abruptly and almost cause a pedestrian pileup. The final boss of sedentary steppers is the tourist group. They deserve the extra passive aggression in the ‘excuse me’.
Hidden plastic,
From hanging basket umbrellas (yes really), to scented gardening gloves and sheets of ‘green wall’ fake plants, I found a world of landfill fodder at the UK’s biggest gardening show this year. The worst offenders: products masquerading as ‘good’ for the environment. One bird feeder with ‘sustainable’ stamped all over it was made with plastic resin, meaning it is not decomposable, nor recyclable. Wouldn’t it be nice if these products broke down as easily as the faux-environmental claims made about them? Nature offers us the most incredible year-round colour palette. Even the dreariest January has bright red cornus stems, pink, sweet scented daphnes, purple hellebores, and pure white snowdrops. But why enjoy those when you can snap up a Calluna heather literally spray painted with shades of Dame Barbara Cartland? These ‘painted heathers’, spotted in a garden centre near you, are destined to whither from chemicals and die a frazzled death. You can’t even compost them without fear of carcinogens leaching into your vegetable mulch. There is no excuse for this assault on nature, or indeed, on taste.
People talking loudly in the sauna & steam room, Saulat
This place of finding inner calm, peace and fortitude, as my body braces the extreme elements so that my nervous system has to relax in order to release. My pores are opening and releasing, not my mouth; so why is yours!? I don’t want to know about your life. Please go inwards, let it come out of you in other forms rather than words. I feel like people who talk in the sauna are trying to escape the experience. That’s cool, but then can you go outside?
Loudspeaker phone calls in public,
Why? Are? You? Doing? That? Phone calls are a necessity and I can accept that with some reluctance. When it comes to killing time, on public transport or otherwise, they are a healthier alternative to scrolling. But everybody else does not need to be privy to it! Is there no shame anymore? If I have a call in public I make it swift. I do not want to hear both sides of your inane conversation. Get some headphones or, if it’s not too much trouble, try holding the phone to your ear.
Musicals, Osundina
Because, what is going on exactly? I know this is a controversial take and, for that, I am not sorry. Are we talking or are we singing or are we doing both? Are we dancing or are we walking to class? Why is the villain harmonising with the protagonist? And when exactly did they rehearse this? Or am I expected to believe that this is a freestyle? A perfectly executed freestyle? Questions, questions, questions. I have so many questions and, unfortunately, no answers. And I refuse to be distracted by a good beat.
WhatsApp groups,
As a writer the internet has created many opportunities for me, but it also has a lot to answer for: comparison, unwanted news, and mindless scrolling has without a doubt created a growing sense of anxiety that wasn’t there before. Constantly available and, the capacity to go down a rabbit hole of whatever passing thought is activated, literally in the palm of our hands, is something most of us struggle with. Over the summer I deleted Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. Unsurprisingly I had a happy, relaxed time. But there is a dark app on my phone that is my nemesis WhatsApp
groups. Specifically, parents WhatsApp groups. I had a second baby in March 2020. A local mum started a lockdown babies chat. It was a lifeline. Fast forward to Autumn 2024, I’ve been added to no less than TEN overactive parents WhatsApp groups (four of which are just about Christmas). I’ve been doing The Artist’s Way and a reading deprivation week, (most writers’ worst nightmare) but it was like a spa day for me. Why? Because I sent this message out: “I cannot read messages this week. If you need me, call me or send a voice note.” It really sorted the wheat from the chaff.
Reading wedding speeches off an iPhone,
I am not married so maybe I can’t talk. You could choose to see this one as bitterness. But this is one of the biggest days of your life! Why are you holding your iPhone in that professional picture? Your wedding shots will be ruined with that SkinnyDip avocado case in five years. You wrote the most profound thing you’ll ever say in public, but it looks like you drafted it en route here. A jaw-droppingly expensive event, curated for months, sometimes years, and you’re going to make it look casual and unprofessional at the final hurdle? Please, get some cue cards.
“Don’t overthink it”,
‘Calm down’ is the worst thing you can say to an angry person. That pretty much uncorks – no, sabres – their rage. As a lifelong pacifist, I do not have this problem. Except when someone says: ‘don’t overthink it’. That’s when my pacifism flies out the window and I have to congratulate myself on not pushing them out with it and shouting: There is no such thing as overthinking! There is only thinking! Try it sometime, you dumb f***!* But instead of choosing violence, I just thought about it. A lot. You see, overthinking saves lives. To paraphrase John Lennon: Give overthinking a chance.
*To be more precise, thinking can be directed, re-routed, and channelled; but not under- or over-done. It’s not a lasagna.
Rushing ahead, Afreen Saulat
Damn, can we all relax a bit more? Nothing is really going anywhere. Talking and walking in tandem is lovely. Rushing ahead, my words fail to catch up; my legs are flailing behind. I hate it when people I am with walk ahead with no care. We’re both going to arrive, so why not arrive together? Why not savour the streets and match each other's rhythms a little more? I hate the world blurring behind me, and my heart galloping, fearing being left behind. Why not rush to be slow instead? Let's just relax.
THERE. That felt good, didn’t it!? Do you feel better? Did any of these resonate with you?
Maybe one of those will change the way you go about your business this week. Lower the volume? Mute that group? Stop hating? Read the label? Ask a different question? Speed up? Slow down?
But before you do, we’d love to hear your personal pet peeves in the comments.
Learn more about the contributors:
Nikkitha Bakshani is an American writer based in London. Her debut novel, Ghost Chilli (Fleet / Little, Brown), was called 'comedy gold' by The Telegraph and voted 'Most Relatable Read' by Cosmopolitan. She writes a newsletter about tarot, astrology, and culture called .
is author of three books with HarperCollins and Head of Storytelling at Wordsby Communications. You can find more about her memoir writing, branding, events and podcast on her substack, .
is an ex-teacher, operations manager and a writer whose Substack focuses on first-person essays from the male perspective. He muses on life, love, and humanity in his posts with wit, wisdom and (hopefully) some funny jokes.
Osundina is a writer based in London. Also a yogi and novelist, she teaches practice regularly in Hackney alongside working on her first fiction manuscript. Her Substack, NO ONE ASKED features reviews, recommendations, and random thoughts all delivered in her signature style.
is a writer and journalist from London. She writes food, travel and interview features for London publications, and publishes weekly on Substack, . An aspiring novelist, she is currently working on her first novel.
Saulat is a digital anthropologist who applies her knowledge in research methods, writing, and content strategy to explore the cultural, social, and ethical implications of tech products and services. She founded 100kicks, a research and strategy studio that specialises in culturally competent design, helping businesses understand and engage with customers and stakeholders. Her Substack is a space for creative self-expression.
Mary Upton is an ever-curious storyteller. Through her writing, she hopes to cheers to half-baked ideas. She posts weekly on , a Substack newsletter exploring life's in-betweens, pop culture and her own creative processes. Her mantra on the ideation and drafts is as follows: may we think them, may we begin them, may we hopefully not forget them.
is a gardener and freelance journalist. She writes about horticulture, among other things, on her Substack .
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It feels so good to get it out, doesn't it? The Christmas confessional united mildly cynical people from all corners of Substack 🎄
Somehow I missed the open call, so here's my 2-pennyworth (in no particular order)
* Mulled wine. YEAH, I SAID IT. For the first week of December that warm spicy smell is almost inviting but after a week or so it's too much. It's everywhere. Every sodding bar has it stewing away in a tepid cauldron. It spills. It drips. It dribbles. Every surface gets sticky from it. It's made from crappy red wine. I suspect the flavours are added from a sachet or syrup. After two sips your mouth and teeth are coated with a sticky red residue. And... IT'S WARM. Wine should not be the temperature of 10-minute old cup of tea!!
* "I'm just going to share my screen" I don't blame people. Video conference software is designed terribly. It distresses me that after all my years of reading and education, I can't think of a more original and inspirational way of checking if people are looking at a blank screen. And there is nothing more pitiful than saying these seven words as they disappear into the ether. A bit of me dies every time I say it and I can't stop myself.
* Brandy butter. GET. IN. THE. BIN.
* People who spell my name Mich-EA-l. Michaella, you know what I mean, right? These people are almost as bad as the ones who one "L" you!
* Faffing around with the bill when you are out for dinner with more than 5 people. I admit this doesn't happen often to me now, because I actively avoid big dinners, but you know the score. There's that one who slinks out early because they have a thing in the morning but they've left £25 on the table. Then there's this one who only ordered a few starters. Down the end there's another one who has decided they are on a detox so they will only pay for what they had plus they only drank tap water so it's not really fair I have to pay for other people's alcohol actually. There's that really annoying one who seems to thinks they are in South Beach and has been ordering bottles all night, massively skewing the bill (to the detriment of detoxer). And then there's everyone else who chips in their £40 leaving the table staff to come back 10 minutes later saying they are still £38.75 short not including service. By this point the lights are up, the chairs are already upturned on the tables as the cleaners are in mopping the floor and I as a grown adult am arguing with 6 other people about whether I'm supposed to be chipping in an extra £6.50 or £6.25 while in the back of my head I'm realising I still a bit hungry because Mr. South Beach got my share of the chicken goujons.
That's better. I feel about 2 pounds lighter now. Same time next year?