Look I get it. You’re proud of your kids. They are little geniuses. Every charming noise that comes out of their mouths, every expression that falls upon their face, every noxious smell that erupts violently from their orifice – they truly are a miracle. And if they spend an hour with a felt tip mercilessly scratching an abstract mess onto a piece of paper that looks vaguely like a Christmas tree, then by all means stick on your refrigerator door and gaze upon it with reverential wonder. But please, for the love of God, don’t put it on the front of a card and send it to me.
I went to the effort of going to a shop and spending a good 30 minutes trying to pick a card or – if you’re not part of the inner sanctum of treasured friends and family – a selection box of cards that both reflected my own personal taste and that I hoped you would find genuinely aesthetically pleasing and happy to place upon your mantelpiece. You have essentially outsourced this job to a 4-year old, and the results are predictably shoddy.
The picture is rubbish. I mean really really bad. I believe you when you say that drawing the individual fingers on Father Christmas’s hand shows advanced drawing ability for someone so young, but it doesn’t compensate for the fact that an experienced artist commissioned by Clinton’s Cards could have got the required number of fingers spot on and rendered them with infinite more clarity. It really is an appalling mess of garish colour, indistinguishable features and shocking composition. It looks like the nightmarish visualisations of a serial killer. And you want me to display that in my house, next to the other tastefully designed and beautifully realised festive greetings? Are you fucking mental?