Ostrich, emu, kiwi, rhea; What on earth is happening here? Whilst nature blessed a billion things, The birds alone were blessed with wings. The power to soar, to swoop, to fly, They gave them up, I wonder why? What could they see from on the ground Was more than when they flew around?
Whilst other creatures scanned the sky And dreamt of having wings to fly, These birds developed legs for speed Whilst wasted wings just atrophied. Imagine finding when you hatch, ‘You are a bird, but here’s the catch, Those tiny wings are useless, son, But never mind, ‘cause you can run…’
I have never quite understood why evolution would rob an animal of its greatest gift, the power of flight. Surely the ability to escape is evolution’s most powerful weapon. It doesn’t matter how powerful a predator is if it cannot catch you. You can bet your life that, given the chance of having wings, the lion would most certainly have accepted. What kind of animal would give up such an advantage? The kind that buries its head in the sand I think…
When he was a boy, my now elderly uncle dived into the Manchester Ship Canal – foolhardy enough, given its fulfilled capacity to encapsulate every dead cat, supermarket trolley and dog turd in Lancashire – intending to swim beneath two heavily laden barges and appear, merman-like, at the far bank: a swim-suited hero, dripping in glory and excrement. Sadly, he merely surfaced, gasping lightly, between the two giant steel hulls as they prepared to clang together like two giant cymbals. He dived straight back down and, luckily, did eventually re-emerge, a floundering wreck, on the other side, from where he was dragged by all of his mates, who left him stinking and retching on the tow-path, whilst they went off in pursuit of his unimpressed girlfriend.
Sadly, the space between the point from which you depart and that at which you arrive is not always the one in which you would seek to find yourself. Such, I find, is the space between Christmas and New Year – or, more correctly, on this particular turn of the carousel, between the sterile disappointment of Covid Non-Christmas and the high hopes and possibilities presented by the New Year ahead.
At this stage, I wonder how many of us truly believe that, by this time next year, things will really have returned to normal, that when the New Year shame-facedly sneaks its way in without its usual fanfare of fireworks, inappropriate touching and vomiting, it will actually point the way towards a brighter future and not just more of the same? Much, much more of the same. Here we are, lodged in the space between what has been and what is to come. Trapped in a turmoil of Hope and Fear: hope that the vaccine will work and fear that it will not. Everything else seems to hinge upon this one thing. We are stranded in the hinterland that lies between what has been and what will be, without ever really touching on what is now. We are frozen in the very millisecond before Basil Fawlty attempts to use his guest’s nipple as a light switch, before Del Boy falls through the pub hatch, before Jones starts to panic: we see it coming, but we are helpless to stop it.
You see, it has just occurred to me that whilst most ‘creative writing’ tells of a journey – either real or metaphorical – mine largely involves being stuck in the station waiting room with only a homeless man and his dog for company, yesterday’s papers and a coin that doesn’t fit any of the slots available: permanently stranded between departure and arrival, clutching my super-saver ticket as it slowly ticks around to ‘invalid’ and the photo on my railcard grows ever-more to resemble a startled refugee from reality. I am the Man of the Moment!
I have to schedule most of my posts through December: I get the opportunity to write very little and to read even less and, for that, I apologise. Things should return to normal now in the New Year – and for that I also apologise. I strongly suspect that what I write will continue to depart a few hundred yards beyond the station platform and arrive with me still in the lavatory. I’m looking forward to it.
Have a brilliant New Year everyone. I’ll see you on the other side.
‘…Always the same these days,’ said the old man randomly stabbing the buttons on the remote control. ‘Reality TV and repeats. Whatever happened to Morecambe and Wise? Whatever happened to Only Fools and Horses? Whatever happened to Val Doonican?’ He switched off the set as the latest X-Factor winner made his final ever TV appearance before returning to his life of flipping burgers and performing in the local Working Man’s Club on a Saturday evening – a valid life, with which he would have been perfectly happy, if only some idiot had not told him he could be a star.
‘Here,’ said Mrs Claus. ‘I was watching that.’ With a glare, Santa turned the TV back on. ‘Moan, moan, moan,’ continued the old woman, even as the seasonal Celebrity-Something-Or-Other burst into noisome life. ‘That’s all you do these days, moan, moan, moan. I’ll be happy when December comes about again: get you out of my hair.’ ‘Yes, well,’ said Santa, stroking his beard agitatedly. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. I think I might retire. I’m tired. This is no job for an old man.’ Mrs Claus stared at him for a very long time whilst she considered spending even more time with him than she currently did. ‘What do you mean, no job for an old man? Who else is going to do it? It has to be an old man.’ ‘Could be a woman.’ ‘Not according to all of the literature.’ ‘Literature can be modified,’ S.C. muttered, darkly. ‘Besides,’ ploughed on the old lady, ignoring the truth in her husband’s argument ‘You only really work one day a year – it’s a long day I’ll grant you, but other than have a few kids to sit on your lap through December, what else do you do?’ ‘Elves don’t look after themselves, you know,’ he snapped. ‘Elves do not forward plan. Leave it to the elves and we’d have, come Christmas Eve, nothing more than dolls and wooden forts. And’ he continued, a steely glint entering his eye ‘Kids do not sit on my knee anymore. Not allowed. If I can drag the little bleeders away from their mobile phones for a minute, they pull my beard, wipe KFC down my coat and kick me in the shin before asking me for a vaping kit.’ ‘What you need is a good sleep,’ soothed Mrs C. ‘Why not go to bed? Don’t worry about setting an alarm; I’ll wake you in March.’ ‘Why March? What’s happening in March?’ ‘Just a few promotional shots. Nothing taxing. Maybe a video or two. Few minutes work; nothing more.’ ‘Promotional shots?’ he spluttered. ‘Promotional shots? Why do I need promotional shots? There’s only one of me. I’ve got more people on my books than I can handle already.’ ‘Never hurts to advertise,’ she said, placing a small glass of sherry at his side. ‘Here, drink this.’ The old man eyed the drink. ‘Sherry?’ he coughed. ‘Sherry? Have you any idea how many glasses of sherry I drank last night? You’ll be offering me a mince pie next.’ He glared into the fire. ‘I’ll tell them in the morning,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll tell them I’m packing it in; that I’ve had enough.’ ‘Tell who?’ ‘Well… I’ve no idea. I’ll find someone.’ ‘And what about the children?’ ‘They won’t even notice, as long as they still get all of their stuff, they won’t care who brings it. The magic has gone already. They’ll never know.’ Despite himself, he drained the sherry in a single gulp. ‘I’m off to bed,’ he said. ‘Fine,’ said Mrs Claus. ‘No problem. Just before you do, though, can you read this so that I can reply.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘It’s a letter. It came down the chimney earlier while you were out talking to the reindeer.’ ‘A letter? My God, they start earlier and earlier with their demands, don’t they? Can you read it to me? I don’t know what I’ve done with my glasses.’ Mrs Claus unfolded the single sheet of paper and, having cleared her throat, she read. ‘‘Dear Santa. Thank you for everything. I hope you get some rest today. I love you X.’ Carefully she refolded the letter, ‘Shall I burn it?’ she asked.
Santa coughed slightly and rubbed gently at what might just have been a little itch in the corner of his eye. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Give it to me. I’ll reply now and then I suppose I’d better go and get some sleep. I’ve got a busy December next year…’
‘…And you are absolutely certain,’ said Melchior, ‘that this is the right place? I mean, I know that it is under the star, but then, truth be told, so is the rest of this village. So is the rest of this country, I shouldn’t wonder. High up, stars, shine all over the place they do. Must be some margin of error there, star-wise, that’s all I’m saying. Maybe we should check out the five star places first.’Balthazar sighed – again. ‘None of the five star places have angels hovering over them,’ he said. ‘Nor,’ he continued, ‘are they packed with shepherds watching their flocks, donkeys and assorted beasts of the fields.’ ‘Or giraffes,’ said Gaspar. Balthazar nodded his agreement. ‘Or gira… Did you say giraffe?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What’s a giraffe?’ ‘It’s a bit like a tall cow,’ said Gaspar, ‘with a long neck. My cousin brought one back from his travels. Dead, mind. Same as the big tusky, grey thing. Don’t travel well, apparently.’ Balthazar stared. ‘Do you see any of these tall cows around here?’ ‘No,’ said Gaspar. ‘Then in what way, pray, are they relevant?’ ‘I’m not sure,’ answered Gaspar. ‘I just have a feeling that someone will find that there’s only the giraffe left to play, in the future…’ Balthazar stared manically at Gaspar, his fists tightened and his jaw clenched. A small vein squirmed like a lug-worm below the skin of his forehead. ‘Shall we go and look inside,’ suggested Melchior, summoning the slaves to help them down from their mounts. ‘And where did you come by these things?’ asked Gaspar. ‘I’ve never sat on anything so uncomfortable in my life. They smell like the inside of an old sock and they spit. What’s wrong with a horse?’ ‘These beasts are our traditional mode of transport,’ answered Melchior. ‘A man’s wealth is measured by them.’ ‘I,’ said Balthazar, ‘have thousands.’ ‘Sooner have gold,’ said Gaspar, gripping the gift-wrapped parcel he had borne with him from Arabia. ‘Think I’d rather travel on one of them long-necked cows, if I’m honest. At least they don’t have lumpy backs. And also,’ he continued as he was helped down from the musky beast, ‘how come yours has got two lumps and mine has only got one? Know exactly where to sit with two lumps. Never sure with one: either slide off its back end or wind up dangling from its neck…’ ‘Rank,’ blurted Balthazar, suddenly aware that he had brought myrrh for the baby and nobody else even knew what it was. ‘The higher your rank, the more lumps you get on your camel.’ Gaspar gave Balthazar one of his stares. ‘So,’ he said, ‘where’s his then?’ ‘His?’ ‘His lumpy thing. Surely you’ve brought one for him if they’re so valuable; King of Kings and all that. Must be worth at least three lumps.’ ‘They’re called camels,’ said Melchior, breaking the uneasy silence. ‘And they only come in one and two humped varieties.’ ‘Bit of a design flaw there then, isn’t it? I’d be inclined to have a bit of a word.’ ‘A word?’ ‘With Himself, you know, when we get in to worship him, have a quick word in his ear. See if he can get it sorted.’ ‘He’s a baby!’ ‘Got connections, though,’ said Gaspar. The three wise men had, by now, all been brought down from their camels and were straightening their robes in preparation for their big moment. Melchior was checking his frankincense. ‘You can never go wrong with perfume,’ he thought. Gaspar was scraping camel doings from his satin slipper. Balthazar, meanwhile, was chastising his Chief of Staff. ‘‘Take him myrrh,’ you said. ‘Everyone likes a bit of a rub down now and then,’ you said. Nobody else has even heard of it. Have we got nothing else we can give Him? Maybe jewels, or something?’’ The Chief of Staff looked crestfallen. ‘We left in a bit of a hurry,’ he said, ‘if you remember. Didn’t really have much time to shop around and myrrh always goes down really well in my family.’ ‘Your family the myrrh merchants, you mean?’ ‘Come on,’ said Gaspar, who had by now got the worst of it off with a stick. ‘Let’s go in.’ The three wise men entered the stable and fell to their knees at the side of the manger. ‘Gawd,’ said Gaspar, peering in. ‘He’s an ugly little bleeder, isn’t he?’ ‘That’s a pig, you fool,’ snapped Balthazar. ‘Really?’ sneered Gaspar. ‘One humped or two?’ ‘I think, gentlemen,’ said Melchior, rising to his feet. ‘That we may be in the wrong place.’ Balthazar and Gaspar also rose, brushing the crud of the stable floor from their robes as they prepared to leave. ‘So what now?’ asked Gaspar. ‘This had to be the place. What about that star?’ ‘It appears to have moved on,’ answered Melchior. ‘They have a habit of doing that, apparently.’ ‘And the Heavenly hosts?’ ‘They appear to have found themselves rooms at the Travel Lodge. Perhaps we should join them. Try again in the morning…’ ‘But how long is it going to take us to find him?’ asked Gaspar. ‘How long do we have to keep looking?’ ‘Who knows,’ answered Melchior. ‘Could be days. Could be weeks, years…’ ‘Could be,’ said Balthazar, ‘millennia…’
The highlight of Christmas Day in the UK (after the seasonal TV ‘special’ Stars In Their Eyes, featuring pets of the rich and famous, and Susan Boyle singing a novelty version of ‘We Three Kings’ especially written for her by Richard Stilgoe) is the Great British Christmas Dinner, and it is this repast upon which this piece will focus as, to be brutally honest, I simply do not know what is eaten elsewhere in the world, although I would be delighted to hear, should anyone wish to fill me in.
The traditional Christmas Dinner contains sufficient calories to see the average Blue Whale through the winter, but it does not usually begin with any form of appetizer as most celebrants are already stuffed to the gills with candied fruit, chocolate covered nuts, mince pies, sausage rolls, buck’s fizz, cream sherry, glacé cherries and eggnog by the time they sit to eat. It is entirely normal for over-imbibed members of the family to have to be woken in order to be brought to the table, whereupon they immediately fall asleep in the chestnut stuffing and dribble gently into the gravy.
At this early stage, instead of eating, the Christmas crackers are usually pulled. The ‘crack’ associated with these sparkly seasonal tubes will inevitably make the babies scream and the elderly momentarily lose control of their bladders. Disagreements over the ‘prizes’ in the crackers, and whose flew where, may persist well into the New Year. The wise host will have a carrier bag full of crap with which to pacify the disaffected. The contents of the cracker usually consists of a paper crown which splits into two as soon as you attempt to put it on your head; a plastic novelty that flies across the room, ricochets from head and ornament before settling somewhere unseen, where it remains lost until a week later when it is sucked up with 3cwt of pine-needles and a half-eaten coffee-cream which jams the Hoover, having smeared itself over a six foot strip of mushroom shagpile. Finally, there is a joke, written, I believe, by a robot in Taiwan, which proves beyond doubt that there will never be an AI comedian. Never-the-less, it is not considered good manners to begin the meal until everybody has had the opportunity to read out their joke – even if a packing malfunction at the factory has resulted in everybody having the same one.
The traditional ‘bird’ of Christmas Dinner is, I think the goose, but this has now been firmly superseded by the turkey, due largely to its greater post-Christmas adaptability in sandwich, curry and rissole. Henry the Eighth, it is said, was the first person to eat Christmas turkey in the UK and, looking at some of the sandwiches in the shops around this time of the year, the same bird is still doing the rounds. It is traditional to concur, when taking one’s first mouthful, that it is a bit dry and ask for more gravy. As a non-meat eater, I will traditionally be asked at this point if I would like some ham. Christmas Dinner is, in effect, a standard Sunday Roast with knobs on, separated from ‘the normal’ by volume and accoutrement: • Brussel Sprouts are, for many people, a once-a-year veg. Traditionally boiled for approximately three weeks before the day and hidden under the table during the meal. • Bread Sauce – follows the English tradition of taking something relatively bland and stodgy and transforming it into something even blander and stodgier. • Pigs in Blankets – pork sausage wrapped in bacon (so, more correctly Pigs in Pig, I would argue) presents the UK diner with the unique opportunity to accompany a meal with the sensation of inadvertently driving a cocktail stick through the hard palate and into the nasal cavity. • Cranberry Sauce – this is most un-British, like having gravy on your pudding. Tolerated only on this one day of the year. For the rest of the year such gastronomic eccentricities are left to the French. • Wine, both red and white may be served. Grandma, robbed of her mug of tea, will reluctantly agree to have a glass of port and lemonade (‘More lemonade than port, please. Well, perhaps just a splash more port…’), before falling to sleep and coughing her false teeth into the mash.
After the meal has been eaten, the plates have been cleared and the worst of it mopped off grandad’s shirt, comes the Christmas Pudding: the densest duff since Cnut. The glistening globe is placed, steaming, in the centre of the table before being doused in brandy and set alight, to shrieks of admiration from everyone around the table, except for grandma who has woken to find her hairpiece is on fire. The brandy soaked pudding is usually served with brandy butter, brandy sauce and brandy – or perhaps that’s just our house. In the past, the pudding would contain a silver sixpence, which the lucky finder would use to get their teeth fixed.
Only the hardiest of souls, and those desperate to avoid the washing up, will attempt to tackle the cheese and biscuits after all of this. Those wishing to have a cigar will be sent to the bottom of the garden as the smell makes Auntie Vera nauseous. Unfortunately, the bottom of the garden contains a compost heap that makes the smokers nauseous.
When the traditional moaning about who always gets landed with the washing up has subsided everyone settles down for an afternoon doze.
The first to wake opens the window and lets it out.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; It should have been squeaking away at its wheel Not laying face down and stiff in its meal.
There’ll be tears in the morn’ when she comes with his bread And your dear little daughter discovers him dead, But still, do not worry, she will not stay sad When she spots, through the wrapping, that she’s got an i-pad.
The stockings we hung by the chimney with strings, Were not for all the extravagant things: For those they have hanging, at the end of their beds Two giant sacks with their names on instead.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, Whilst visions of smart phones danced in their heads And mummy and I, with an hour to kill, Were fearfully reading the credit card bill.
When out in the street arose such a din, ‘Cos the people next door were trying to get in, But the key they were trying was turning no more, Which wasn’t surprising – it wasn’t their door.
‘If you hadn’t guzzled that last Famous Grouse, You’d have known straight away that it wasn’t our house.’ Said the wobbling wife as she stumbled for home And was sick down the back of a small plastic gnome.
‘It’s four in the morning,’ an angry voice cried. ‘Just shut up your racket or I’m coming outside.’ Then all became silent, except, from afar The sound of a key down the side of their car.
As dry leaves start falling from autumnal trees, So snow began drifting along on the breeze And high in the sky at the reins of his sled, A white bearded man with a hat on his head.
‘Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen. On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen!’ He cried to the reindeer in tones slurred and merry, Having just swallowed down his ten thousandth sherry.
And then, for a moment, I heard from the roof An outburst of language that seemed most uncouth, Then a flash by the window – a red and white blur Of fat man and white beard; of red felt and fur.
He knocked on the door when he’d climbed to his feet And adjusted his cloak ‘gainst the cold blinding sleet. ‘Just give me five minutes to sit by your fire And I’ll see that your children get all they desire.’
We gave him some tea and both patiently sat As he talked about this and he talked about that And then, having eaten the last hot mince pie He rose and he slapped on his red-trousered thigh.
He yawned – ‘I must return to my duty My sled is still packed with a mountain of booty.’ And then, as he turned to the door with a wave We reminded him of the promise he gave.
‘Of course, yes,’ he laughed, his jolly face beaming. ‘But quick now, while the kids are still dreaming. Here, look at this dolly with glass-beaded eyes And this wig and some glasses to make a disguise.’
‘A car made of tin and a train made of wood. This big Snakes & Ladders is really quite good. An orange, some nuts and a new, shiny penny.’ But electrical goods he hadn’t got any.
‘You conman,’ we cried. ‘You are not Santa Claus. If we’d known it we would have left you outdoors. The real Father Christmas would not carry such tat. We want top class products – and brand names at that.’
‘Our kids will go mad if we give them this shite: There are no soddin’ batteries and no gigabytes. They don’t give a monkeys about innocence lost; Just leave them a bill so they know what stuff costs.’
He turned to us now and his eyes filled with tears, ‘These presents have kept children happy for years.’ We looked at the list of the rubbish he’d got. ‘You silly old fool, you are losing the plot.’
He sprang to his sleigh crying ‘Sod this, I’m beat!’ And they all flew away to their Lapland retreat, But I heard him exclaim ‘They are never content. Now the thought doesn’t count – just the money you’ve spent.’
And so Christmas morning descended with gloom. The children both rose and they looked round the room At the i-phones, the i-pads, the Xbox and games And they pulled at the labels and picked out their names.
Then at last they had finished, all presents unwrapped, And we sat down for breakfast all energy sapped. ‘This is lame,’ they exclaimed. ‘This day is a bore.’ ‘We’ve only got what we asked Santa Claus for.’
Then they saw on the floor where the old man had stood A doll made of cloth and a train made of wood And happily, low-tech, they played all the day Whilst we packed all of their i-stuff away.
Come on, even in the short time that we have known one another, you and I, you must have realised that the very mention of Christmas was going to set me off on one. It is unfashionable, I think, to admit it but I still get excited by Christmas: the whole thing. The carol singers, the TV specials, the food, the drink, the panicky rush to the local petrol station for the last minute present, the never-ending trailers for this year’s Eastenders Christmas disaster… Well, perhaps not the TV trailers. I just can’t understand the desire to witness such unremitting melancholic disaster as the highlight of Christmas evening. The vicarious thrill of eavesdropping on an entire community of joyless and soulless characters as they plunge headlong into increasingly preposterous seasonal scenarios of calamity and bedlam is not, for me anyhow, any way to let the sprouts go down. I’ll take Eric and Ernie making breakfast together anytime, thank you very much.
So many people seem to want to be depressed by Christmas: ‘I can’t wait until it’s all over,’ ‘It’s such a lot of fuss for one day,’ ‘I don’t even like Christmas pudding…’ What is this nonsense? For a start, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake and mince pies are the three kings of the epicurean calendar and the greatest consumable inventions of all time: fact. I would buy mincemeat flavoured toothpaste if it was available. Everyone’s happy* – especially the maker’s of eggnog – and even the dourest of aunties will agree to wear a paper crown for the duration of the meal. When it is all over, you have 364 days to wait until the next one. Enjoy the day, embrace the mayhem. I know it’s overhyped, unnecessarily expensive and endlessly protracted, but come on! It’s once a year. As far as I’m concerned, the best Christmas present is Christmas. A sense of benign serenity pervades the house and will last all day, as long as nobody gets the Monopoly out.
What’s not to love? • Hungry Hippos? Tick. • Whoopee cushion on Aunty Elsie’s chair? Tick. • Hugely inappropriate joke from Great Uncle Derek? Tick.
As for mawkish sentimentality – well, why not? Twenty first century life is completely hidebound by startling and grimly held reality: dreaming is something we are only allowed to do when we’re asleep. What’s wrong with allowing a little fantasy into our lives from time to time?
So, does Father Christmas actually exist? Well, why would I choose not to believe in something that brings so much joy to so many? Father Christmas exists in spirit. That spirit itself may exist for just a few hours each year, but as long as it is here I will embrace it and yes, I do believe in Father Christmas.
I have actually, in the past, ‘played’ Father Christmas for the village children in my Father-in-Law’s pub on Christmas day. I have to tell you, it is not a job for those of weak disposition. I was prepared for all of the children who wanted to pull my beard. I was prepared for all of the children who wanted the opportunity to complain about what I had brought them that morning (or even what I’d brought them the previous year). I was even prepared for the sinisterly whispered, ‘I know who you are really…’ I was not prepared for all of the children who wanted to kick my shins.
We are asked to believe in so many things for which there is no proof. Most of them are intended to constrain or control us. God knows, millions have died for some of them. I believe that Jesus existed. I believe that he was a very great man whose life has impacted on millions for centuries. But a virgin birth? No, surely not. The whole Christmas story is a metaphor isn’t it: a fable become lore – either that or a very cynical ploy by the manufacturers of hand-made wooden cribs and personalised Christmas tree decorations. To be honest, after some of his frankly appallingly vengeful behaviour in the Old Testament, I think God had probably been spoken to by somebody from PR before setting off on the New Testament. A story of love and hope and peace and joy; just what we need at Christmas time.
Of course, as with all major undertakings, planning and preparation are the keys to a successful operation. Allow me to talk you through some of my own basic preparations for the big day:
Miracle on 34th Street (the Richard Attenborough version). If you need proof that Father Christmas really does exist, it is right here. Settle down with a glass of something seasonal, a warm mince pie, a little stilton and watch this film. I defy you to leave it without feeling the spirit. (And by the way, just for the record, Christmas did exist before Prosecco.)
Love Actually. I know, I know, and frankly I don’t care. I could watch this twice a week and it would still warm me cockles. A must for the pre-Christmas run-in. Christmas is not Christmas without an in-depth discussion of what’s the best bit of this film. (It’s the Colin Firth/Lucia Moniz bit, by the way.)
A trip to the supermarket to purchase several hundred-weight of snack foods and any number of bottles of sweet alcoholic beverages that would not be allowed through the door at any other time of the year. Sweet British sherry is produced for this single occasion alone: along with Advocaat and those little marzipan fruits, it has no purpose other than to keep the (more) elderly relatives quiet during the afternoon session of Charades. Nothing grates quite like an over-lubricated Great Aunt yelling ‘Casablanca’ to every single mime, especially when nobody else is getting your superb rendition of ‘Oops… I Did It Again’ by Britney Spears.
Drinking the overlarge tot of whisky and eating the mince pie left out for Santa remains my final Christmas Eve task (Santa does not like sherry at our house). No carrot to nibble on behalf of Rudolph these days – he can fend for himself. Every year the startling realisation that, by a process I do not fully understand, somebody has bought and prepared everything for Christmas lunch and dinner. I’m not sure who. The Pixies I think… And then one last check of the night sky: • Giant airborne sleds? No. • The unmistakable glistening of snow in the air? No. • Superbright star on the eastern horizon? No. …and so to bed.
Christmas morning, I usually wake at about 5am. When they were at home I used to creep into the children’s rooms and try to make just enough noise to wake them. Oh the joy of seeing their little faces as they looked at the clock before burying their heads under the duvet. I am certain that both of my children learned to tell the time simply so that they could tell me to go back to bed on Christmas morning. But I’m up – no point in going back to bed now. Christmas jumper, Christmas shirt and Christmas socks: it’s the one time of the year when everybody else is just as badly dressed as me.
Christmas dinner is a big deal in our house. Crackers are cracked, paper hats are worn and terrible jokes are read. The lighting of the Christmas pudding is a ritual that cannot be missed. It usually comes directly after the mass panicky dash by the assembled adults towards one of this year’s high chair incumbents who, with some encouragement, manages to cough up half a sprout, two carrot sticks and a red Lego brick. A spirit of benevolent bonhomie pervades even in the midst of the communal clear-up and dishwashing that follows the meal. The dregs of the wine are consumed, perhaps a small coffee and Bailey’s, and then for many the mass, slack-jawed snooze of Christmas afternoon, whilst the rest of us (me and the kids) construct Lego housing estates or attempt to disentangle the new mini drone from the light fitting without fusing the rest of the street. Sometime later, everybody wakes for the afternoon ritual of ‘Oh look at the time. We’ve missed the Queen.’ And ‘who’s putting the kettle on?’
The rest of the day is filled with the welcome drifting in and out of various members of our joyfully expanding family. Every available chair, pouffe and footstool is utilised. As the afternoon draws into evening, people are routinely stepped on, sat on and, if certain members of the family are having a nap, dribbled on. Board games are begun and almost immediately dismantled by children who crawl through them, sit on them, fly a Lego rocket through them or otherwise decimate them because they are being ignored. Everyone, except grandad, who has just evaded a very large snake and reached the top of an equally long ladder, thinks that it’s funny. Come the evening and anything that is vaguely soft becomes a crib. All rooms are occupied by people sleeping on beds and mattresses, on inflatables and floors in a selection of duvets, blankets and sleeping bags, many of which have not seen the light of day since Glastonbury 2004.
Anyway, that’s Christmas for me, and a joyous occasion it always is, until, of course, I turn on the news on Boxing Day and discover that the world is still in exactly the same mess as we left it in on Christmas Eve – and a whole new year to look forward to…
Oh well, Merry Christmas One and All.
*Not totally true, I know. This is a very lonely time for lonely people. Nobody chooses to be lonely yet loneliness could be the future for any of us. It’s easy to ignore the future as you get older; there is a lot less of it and the end of it is quite a lot closer than it was. If you get the chance, then making somebody less lonely could be one of the best presents you could ever give yourself.
Originally posted 20th December 2018 when the world was sane.
I’m not sure that I’ve ever published on a Sunday before, but …well, it’s been a rum old year hasn’t it?
As we in the UK meandered along towards our first new-normal Christmas I decided that I would visit some of my favourite ‘Little Fiction’ characters, to see how they were bearing up. I had already taken Dinah and Shaw half way towards their Christmas celebrations (Green Ink on the Back of a Pizza Delivery Receipt – here) and I knew that they would reappear on the Saturday before Christmas in order to resolve a couple of hanging threads, which, in the case of Shaw, probably amount to more than you would find in the average three year-old’s balaclava (Searching for the Christmas Spirit,the second part of the Christmas episode is here). I knew that their world could not be constrained by Covid. If I’m honest, I’m not at all sure of how Shaw and restrictions would rub along at all. He certainly would find it difficult to be bound by them. I’m not even certain that he is at ease even with the restrictions imposed upon him by normal everyday life – I think that the struggle to reconcile himself to a restrictive three-tier structure might be a step too far for him. I fear that it would leave him with more than a couple of dropped stitches to pick up. Fortunately fiction does not always have to bow to reality. I don’t actually need to write these two, they just appear fully formed in my head, often newly faceted in a way that takes me by surprise. I was a little taken aback by Dinah’s tetchiness in episode seven, but as I began to write episode eight I suddenly understood. It’s baby steps with these two, in everything they do. I’m not quite sure exactly when I will drop in on them again – I don’t want them to become boring – but I will, I feel sure. Perhaps their world will have collided with our own by then. I have a ‘case’ for the new-found partners, but I’m not sure yet quite what they will make of it. When I find out, I’ll let you know.
The three old ‘pub friends’ just had to be out and about for Christmas, but I couldn’t see them spending time together in their homes, so I sent them to the pub for a quiz. (You can read Supplementary Philosophy here, if you missed it – or even if you didn’t.) They don’t mention Christmas – men seldom do. It is black-boxed alongside weakness, illness, emotions, worries and loneliness, as something to be profoundly ignored until there is not enough Scotch left in the world to drown it. I love Christmas (although, I have to be honest, I would happily forgo it completely this year for the knowledge that we would all remain well enough to return to normal next year) but I never really discuss it with male friends. Most of them think I’m odd enough already. My wife and children have to put up with my usual over-spilling Christmas spirit every year – which bubbles over, long, long before dawn on Christmas Day as I can’t resist the opportunity to eat chocolate in my Christmas pants before breakfast and drink fizzy wine with my cornflakes – and the grandkids like the fact that somebody is even less grown-up about it all than they are, but I’m always very oh-hum about it with other men. I have no idea why. A psychologist’s dream, no doubt.
I live in England’s tier three, but I think the friends obviously live in tier two, where (I hope I’ve got this right) pubs can open to some degree – even if it is just to serve freezing Australian lager and turkey sandwiches in a tatty gazebo. If not, well, it’s a Little Fiction, isn’t it? It will not be bothering the Booker Prize panel. It’s really hard to write a Covid tale because the rules always seem to change between writing and publication, but as these three are every bit as confused about what is right and what is wrong as I am – well, that’s ok isn’t it? These are a joy for me to write as I know them all so well, and they were ready for the world in a single evening.
My relationship with the bearded man is a mite more complicated. He is not difficult to write, but I am very particular about him. Somehow, it is necessary that he does not have a word out of place. None-the-less, this vignette also came together very quickly (although I then fretted over it, word by word, for much longer) and against all expectations, it has a nice pre-Christmassy feel to it. If you have read it, you may have noticed that Lorelei, too, does not live in a Covid world. I thought about dragging him into our current reality, but I couldn’t reconcile it with the ‘story’, so I decided to leave him where he was in the real world (our own world, of course, being a totally unreal one at the moment). I hope that it works anyway. (If you want to read it, A Pre-Christmas Exchange is here– if you don’t, it’s still there anyway.)
So, having visited these seven people in the run up, I wondered what I should do in the final few days leading up to what, in the UK, will be the Five Days of Christmas this year (I cannot but imagine what the stockists of geese a-laying will do with their livestock). What I crave above all else this year, I think, is a degree of normality: a world where Louise Lear forecasts the weather and Rita Chakrabati reads the news; where I put three inches on my waist over the two days, and ten years on my liver. I attempted to recreate the spirit of those days by visiting the posts that represent my Ghosts of Christmas Past: the Christmas that I used to be able to write about before the world went psycho. I became aware that I would only get drawn into the dreariness of Christmas Present should I try to write Christmas now, so in the lead in to the big day I have scheduled two Christmas posts from 2018, two from 2019 and a Boxing Day special, also from 2019. I have read them all today and they made me smile, so I hope that they might do the same for you.
Whatever you choose to do (or, dependent upon where you are, are allowed to do) over the next few days; whether it is an important celebration for you or not, I would just like to send you all my very best socially distanced best wishes. However you spend the day** I hope you all stay well and have a wonderful time.
I send you bags of glitter-wrapped boxes full of what the Beatles said was all you need.
Enjoy.
*Explaining the unexplainable.
** My wife and I are alone on Christmas Day and, I think, may be heading for the seaside which, I believe, is allowed as it is outside – although I almost certainly will not be able to buy a moulded plastic hat shaped like a breast or a penis-shaped stick of rock. Covid is killing our culture!
‘…Well, I just hope that my mother never finds out that I’ve got a criminal record. It would kill her.’ ‘Kill her? A little melodramatic, I think. I can imagine indigestion, heartburn even, but death – I’m not sure that death is likely.’ ‘You don’t know her.’ ‘Well, yes, that’s true, but I know you and your mum can’t be all bad. Besides, you haven’t actually got a criminal record.’ ‘Arrested in Santa’s Grotto. The shame of it.’ ‘We were released without charge.’ ‘The ignominy.’ ‘Besides, we probably could have sued them. Locking us up in that cupboard overnight.’ ‘They had no idea we were in there. How were they to know that a perfectly sane and rational woman would have allowed her partner…’ ‘Business partner!’ Dinah smiled. ‘…allowed her business partner to lure her into a stationery cupboard at the back of Santa’s Grotto in a search for who knows what, where they stayed until some unsuspecting member of staff locked them in for the night? They had no idea we were in there. The poor woman who opened the door nearly died when you rushed past her…’ ‘You’d been laying on my bladder all night.’ ‘…Leaving me to explain the situation.’ Shaw became instantly indignant. ‘You told her that I’d kidnapped you!’ ‘Well, I didn’t want her to think that I’d gone in there voluntarily, did I?’ Shaw was holding a potato peeler in his left hand and a potato in his right. He gave the clear impression of a man who did not comprehend the relationship between the two. ‘It might have been wise not to have mentioned kidnap,’ he said. ‘That way we might not have had to spend twelve hours being interrogated by the serious crime squad.’ ‘Well you didn’t help the situation,’ snapped Dinah, snatching the potato from him in exasperation. ‘Actually officer, we are Private Investigators, searching for the Spirit of Christmas. He thought that you were winding him up, particularly since you couldn’t give him any details of our client.’ ‘I gave him a description!’ Shaw sounded positively affronted. ‘Well, so you did. Fat man with full white beard, as I recollect.’ ‘Well he was!’ ‘They only let us go because they thought that you were stark staring mad and they didn’t want you in the cells over Christmas.’ ‘Well they did, so that’s all that matters,’ said Shaw. ‘Besides, you didn’t help, claiming that you’d never seen me before.’ ‘I certainly saw you in a new light having spent a night confined in a tiny cupboard with you.’ ‘That’s not the same. They… What do you mean in a new light?’ ‘You talk.’ ‘Talk?’ ‘In your sleep – you talk?’ ‘What about?’ Dinah passed him a bottle of wine and a corkscrew, hoping that he’d have more success with those than the potato. ‘I’m not sure what you were talking about, but you said that it was terribly inconvenient. Then you started muttering about having to follow your instincts, and I lost interest.’ Shaw sighed loudly and handed back the corkscrew before unscrewing the lid from the wine bottle. ‘Do you have glasses?’ he asked. ‘Strangely enough Shaw, I do,’ she said. ‘In the cupboard behind you. I’ll have the big one.’ Shaw opened the cupboard and removed the two glasses he found there: a large wine goblet and a shot glass. He filled them both and handed the goblet to Dinah. Dinah put down the mutilated remains of a potato and stared hollowly at the peeler. ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Merry Christmas.’ They clinked glasses and sipped the wine. ‘Optrex,’ said Shaw. Dinah sniffed her wine, ‘Well, it’s not Chateau Lafitte,’ she said, ‘but…’ ‘This glass smells of Optrex,’ said Shaw. ‘Ah, yes,’ Dinah stifled a grin. ‘I had a stye. Use a mug.’ Shaw picked up a mug and studied it carefully, before rinsing it under the tap and filling it with wine. ‘Thanks for… you know… asking me round,’ he said. ‘Least I could do… partner,’ she smiled. ‘Yes, well…’ ‘Do you mind if we don’t have the full works for dinner?’ asked Dinah. ‘I mean, we’ve got crackers and a pudding, but I thought it would save a lot of time if we went slightly more unconventional for main.’ ‘Goose?’ Dinah nodded. ‘Baked Beans,’ she said. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t expecting company. I was going to do some chips, but I think someone’s sabotaged the peeler.’ ‘You said you had crackers.’ ‘Kind of… virtual crackers, really.’ ‘No crackers?’ Shaw’s bottom lip was protruding so far that Dinah feared it might well need support. ‘We can both say ‘Bang!’’ she suggested. ‘OK,’ he muttered. ‘You did say pudding though.’ ‘Oh yes,’ Dinah replied. ‘I’ve got pudding. Definitely.’ ‘You haven’t got pudding, have you?’ said Shaw, who could only have bettered his impression of a five year old by peeing his pants. ‘No. I can do sherry trifle – as long as you’re not bothered about the trifle.’ ‘I suppose it would seem petty of me to check that you have got sherry?’ ‘Not at all.’ ‘Well?’ ‘Well, what?’ ‘Have you got sherry?’ ‘I already told you, not at all.’ Dinah couldn’t help laughing at her own joke. Shaw, who was building up to something approaching a full-scale tantrum, caught the joy in her eyes, and began to giggle himself. ‘A fine bloody Christmas dinner this is. I suppose you know that if we had been arrested, we would have got the full works at the Police Station. Turkey, sprouts, pigs in blankets…’ Dinah exploded with a laugh that deposited a fine mist of red wine over half of the kitchen. Shaw, who had received the full force of the explosion clean between the eyes, shook his hair dry whilst Dinah fought for breath, but each time she looked at his uncomprehending face, she started to laugh again. Eventually she hugged him, which gave her the opportunity to not look at him, and so, by and by, she regained her composure. She kissed him on the forehead, without any idea of why, and led him through to the sitting room. ‘Why don’t you tell me about the fat man with the full white beard,’ she said. ‘What did he want us to look for again?’ The settee was small and definitely inclined to pitch its occupants to the centre, which is where both Shaw and Dinah found themselves. They sat, cramped together for a few painful seconds before Dinah began the difficult process of getting to her feet without having to use Shaw’s knee as a support. ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow,’ said Shaw. ‘Nobody works on Christmas Day.’ Dinah gave him a hard stare. ‘Alright, alright, except for Father Christmas.’ ‘Phew,’ she said. ‘That’s a relief. Crisps?’ ‘What flavour?’ ‘Er…’ ‘You haven’t got any, have you?’ ‘I’ll get the wine.’ Dinah returned to the kitchen as Shaw sat back, as comfortably as the seat would allow, breathing in the little flat around him. It was warm and the wine had started to mellow him. Un-consciously he picked up a cushion and placed it beside him in the middle of the settee, plumping it absent-mindedly. ‘Actually, you know, I really wish I’d taken his address,’ he said as Dinah walked back into the room. ‘Who?’ ‘The man with the white beard,’ he smiled as Dinah topped up his mug. ‘Because the more I think about it, the more I think I might have found what he was looking for…’
Even in these Covid dominated times, it is necessary for all of us to navigate our way through the pre-Christmas-check list; to plan the timetable for the day with the precision of an Audi engineer – Langeweile durch Nayhem*. Regardless of the type of Christmas we are to be allowed, certain steps have to be undertaken in preparation for whatever lays ahead. These are the rules.
Christmas dinner this year may be a much smaller, more subdued affair than in the past, but the average pre-Christmas shop will continue to include enough brussel sprouts to power a hot air balloon (which, depending upon your supermarket, will actually be ‘substituted’ with thirty heads of Romaine lettuce, three tins of baked beans, or a catering pack of Brillo Pads); the turkey will still be too big for the oven unless you cut the legs off, and the potatoes will still have blight.
The rigid ‘cook’s plan’ which typically starts with ‘getting the sprouts on’ (about the 19th of December) will collapse into chaos when the vegan ‘pigs-in-blankets’** turn up in the goose fat and the parsnips are discovered, un-roasted, in the garage five minutes before everything else is ready; the gravy will boil over and fuse the pan to the electric hob and the roast potatoes will only be able to be removed from the tray with a machete.
Despite the limited numbers that we in England are to be allowed around the table for Christmas dinner this year (I would say in the UK, but I’m really not sure. Even when the rules are similar across the four nations, interpretation varies almost as widely as pronunciation, so I’ll stick to England. I understand that. Actually, I don’t.) temporary extensions will still have to be assembled in order to allow social-distancing around the table. Grandchildren will still have to be protected from the language and the meal will still find itself deposited onto a multi-levelled surface that will ensure that the gravy ends up in grandma’s lap and the carrots wind up in the custard. Somebody will complain about getting the ‘emergency chair’ which leaves them at neck-height to the table and the paste table will fold itself up when the pudding is put on it.
Christmas presents still have to be bought. It is far less likely that the country’s male population will hit the High Street on Christmas Eve this year. Instead there will be a mad scramble for the thirty day free*** Amazon Prime next-day delivery service which will not be cancelled until the credit card bill gets checked in August, with the realisation that it ceases to be free if you don’t cancel it. Dad will still get socks; mum will still get a liquidizer; grandma will still get a variety of unusable items, all of which smell of lavender. Everybody will get a lottery scratchcard. Nobody will win.
Christmas entertainment is not something that can happen spontaneously: it has to have all the fun planned out of it first. Nothing matches a good spreadsheet for sucking the joy out of everything. Make sure that you print in triplicate and include strict starting times. Plan for every eventuality (grandad falling asleep, grandma having an attack of the vapours, Aunt Ethel finding the gin again) and map out detailed contingency measures. Make sure that everybody sees the print-out and ensure that they all realise how badly they will be letting everybody down if they go ‘off-piste’ again. Remember that the main obstacle to ‘fun’ is joy – do not give it the opportunity to spread. Plan it out of existence. Ensure that every minute that is not pre-scheduled for the Queen is filled with a fun activity in order to guarantee that nobody becomes too relaxed – you don’t want to have to hire that carpet cleaner again.
Finally, we have to plan to get people home/find them a bed for the night. Remember, if you don’t get rid of them before December 28th this year, you may well be stuck with them for weeks. If you don’t want Great-Uncle Desmond sucking up the hospitality until the second dose of vaccine becomes available, better work out some way of getting him home before he’s banned from travelling. If nothing else, just remember that it only happens once a year – and next year is always much better.
*Ennui through mayhem
**I understand your question, but I do not know the answer
Getting On 