1. Simply Having A B****y Awful Christmastime

Hello again.  Since it's the last day of November, let me tell you all about my one and only shopping expedition last December.

Against all my instincts, I found myself in Asda.  A man picked some batteries off a shelf and dislodged some others, watching them fall to the floor and then walking away, leaving them for some poor unfortunate employee colleague to pick up.  I was feeling a bit grim and miserable, and on the verge of calling him back to point out his omission, but since so many of these moments either end up with the clergy in question in the Evening News or else me becoming more and more like Victor Meldrew (who at least takes a stand) I just picked the batteries up myself, hoping to pile up burning coals on his head.  It might have worked better if he hadn’t had his back turned already.

me, probably.

But in the aisles of Asda, a worse crime against humanity was being piped out in the strains of Paul McCartney singing that song about “simply having a wonderful Christmastime.”  You know, the one with the offensively cheerful tune that would have even Aqua and the Vengaboys reaching for their revolvers.

In the interests of fairness, I’d like to say that I’d have been more charitably given to Paul McCartney if I’d been full of the Christmas spirit.  But I wouldn’t.  It’s not just me being sporadically Grinchesque.  There’s no excuse for that song.  If you’re actually having a wonderful Christmastime, you don’t need to hear it.  And if you’re having (as I was that afternoon) a b****y awful Christmastime, then it’s the worst kind of rubbing your nose in it.  In short, Paul McCartney: go away.

Christmas Day, all our troubles seem so far away (not).

Or at least be sensitive to people who don’t enjoy Christmas quite so much, because it’s a painful mockery to endure.  By and large, people who find Christmas difficult (and I happily confess myself one of them) put on a brave face for fear of seeming Scrooge-like.  In my book they’re much more like the small boy in The Emperor’s New Clothes who tell it like it is – prophetically even.  Last time I went to a pantomime in Buxton, one of the actors foolishly asked the children, “Are you enjoying yourself, boys and girls?” and amid the chorus of “YEEEEEEES!” there was an audible sigh and a long and low, “Hating every minute.”  I feel for that person.  The truth needs telling, or else some of us will die on the inside.  And no apologies for the swearing.  Sometimes it’s necessary.

Now I probably don’t mean parading our misery, but the truth needs an outlet, and the stifling weight of Paul McCartney having a frankly wonderful (and hugely irritating) Christmastime needs lifting.

Remember Friends?  The one where Joey goes to work at the museum and Ross won’t sit next to him in the canteen?  Their friendship leads eventually to a great outpouring of truth at the lunch-tables:

Ross: Thank you, Dr. Phillips, but I’m having my lunch at this table, here in the middle. I’m having lunch right here, with my good friend Joey, if he’ll sit with me.

Joey: (standing up) I will sit with you Dr. Geller. (He goes over to his table and they shake hands.)

Ross: Y'know, we work in a museum of natural history, and yet there is something unnatural about the way we eat lunch. Now, I look around this cafeteria, and y’know what I see, I see division. Division, between people in white coats and people in blue blazers, and I ask myself, "My God why?!" Now, I say we shed these coats that separate us, and we get to know the people underneath. (He takes off his coat and throws it down.) I’m Ross! I’m divorced, and I have a kid!

Joey: (stands up, and throws his coat on the floor) I’m Joey! I’m an actor! I don’t know squat about dinosaurs!

Another Tour Guide: (standing up and removing his coat) I’m Ted, and I just moved here a month ago, and New York really scares me.

Ross: All right, there you go!

Joey: Yeah, you hang in there Teddy!

Older Scientist: I’m Andrew, and I didn’t pay for this pear.

Ross: Okay, good for you.

Tour Guide: I’m Rhonda, (motions to her breasts) and these aren’t real! (Joey and Ross look at each other, shocked)

Ross: Wow, Rhonda.

Another Scientist: I’m Scott.

Ross: Yeah, okay, Scott!

Another Scientist: And I need to flip the light switch on and off 17 times before I leave a room or my family will die.

Don’t let the truth be swamped.  Don’t bury your profound dissatisfaction with Christmas.  Find a space and a friend to speak the truth with, and then play something that isn’t Paul McCartney.

Oh, as a coda, Asda thankfully followed Paul up with the little-known Pet Shop Boys’ It Doesn’t Often Snow At Christmas, in which: 

“Christmas is not all it’s cracked up to be:

families fighting around a plastic tree.

There’s nothing on the TV that you want to see

and it’s hardly ever snowing the way it’s meant to be…”

hmmm, unexpected.

I like it.  Nice one, Neil and Chris.  Or else put the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl on, and vicariously enjoy two other people having a brilliant row for Christmas.  Best of all, Sainsbury’s (where I was buying many Jelly Babies after 11pm) was playing long excerpts from Jeff Wayne’s War Of The Worlds, including, as a direct stab in the eye to the season, Forever Autumn.

I’m going to play the Pet Shop Boys very loud and then go to bed.  If at any point in the next month you too are simply having a b****y awful Christmastime, find your own favourite and do the same.

As a second coda, Paul McCartney, if you’re reading this, I’m sure you’ve been responsible for some good music...