It was pretty much almost exactly like this, but with more “OK, let’s do number 93, ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. And Peter, can you ask young Hugo to stop putting in the words ‘Bum’, ‘Wee-wee’, and ‘Massive Reindeer shite’ into every carol we sing? Thanks”
A few days ago, we went to a small rural village, near where my superb Mothra-in-Law lives. It was evening, and there was a small gathering of people by the village Christmas tree. People were singing carols by candlelight. A few people had instruments. Under the crisp, clear sky, ‘neath the winter constellations, my beloved family was gathered to sing of peace and goodwill to all, honouring our most treasured celebration of love and joy.
The gathered choir sang as if it were times past. The village centre glowed with illumination from the windows of the church, and all around were cottages with windows full of decorations and colourful lights. The stars shone overhead, and the timeless Silent Night was sung. In the crisp Midwinter air, as the last notes of the beautiful carol died away, Alice suddenly called out: “Nana! Guess what? I’ve got RINGWORM!!”
Bought something stupid and expensive from Christmas market [ ]
Eaten something fattening and sickly from Christmas market [ ]
Observed busker [ ]
Is the busker…
Drunk [ ] Offensive [ ] Incompetent [ ] Possibly dangerous [ ] Horrifyingly depressing [ ] Surprisingly brilliant [ ] “Experimental” [ ] Owning some quite snazzy and expensive gear, including amps and effects pedals [ ] From another country playing what your grandmother would call ” funny tunes on a funny instrument” [ ] A former schoolmate [ ]
You have:
Been approached by a charity collecter [ ]
Snarled at a charity collecter [ ]
Become very sweaty whilst running around the shops [ ]
Forgotten to buy something for a member of your family [ ]
Started crying [ ]
Spent over £400 in one hour [ ]
Thought “fuck this shit” and decided to come back tomorrow [ ]
I love the smell of burned sugar at this time of year…
Socialising:
Been to the office party [ ]
Regretted it [ ]
Behaved atrociously at the office party [ ]
Did something at the office party you really shouldn’t have done, and nobody must ever know [ ]
Gave the office party a miss [ ] Well done.
Got drunk on a week night [ ]
Got drunk knowing you’ve got work tomorrow [ ]
Seen the in-laws on a day that is not Christmas Day/Boxing Day [ ]
Had to drive bloody miles to see the in-laws [ ]
Rather dreaded seeing the in-laws [ ]
Seen people you only see this time every year [ ]
Gone up the pub more than once in a single week [ ]
Had friends round for mince pies [ ]
Had an old friend drop by [ ]
Had an unexpected person show up uninvited, who then outstayed their welcome [ ]
Just wished to not have so many people spontaneously visit over Christmas, when there’s so much to do. It’s nice to see them, just not on the 23rd Dec, when everything is getting a bit much [ ]
Written cards for people you only contact once a year (by card) at Christmas [ ]
Got a card from someone you haven’t seen in years and don’t really care much for anymore[ ]
Wished colleagues an awkward ‘Merry Christmas!’ [ ]
Wished people who work in shops a ‘Merry Christmas!’ [ ]
Forgotten to send cards to some people you actually care about [ ]
Got drunk, looked at your friends on Facebook, and got jealous of their perfect fucking lives [ ]
Got drunk, looked up exes and old enemies on Facebook, and got profoundly depressed at how bitterly unfair life is [ ]
Got sad about friends you don’t see anymore [ ]
Been to church, even though you’re an atheist, because you like singing carols [ ]
Sung all the proper harmonies to the carols [ ]
Made up your own harmonies [ ]
Attempted the descant part to ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ [ ] Heh! Awesome, innit?
Been to a school nativity [ ]
Got a bit teary at the school nativity [ ]
Thought your kid nailed it as the third sheep [ ]
Thought the girl playing Mary this year was an attention-hogging squit and wished her parents would stop gloating about it in the playground [ ]
Had to make your child’s class teacher a card [ ]
Ran into your child’s class teacher in the pub [ ]
Just wanted a quiet evening with your spouse/partner [ ]
Your Secret Santa present this year is… some lube!
CHRISTMAS DAY
Tidied the house in time for Christmas [ ]
Had an argument about tidying the house for Christmas [ ]
Ended up not completely tidying the house in time for Christmas [ ]
Put empty stockings out [ ]
Filled stockings and placed them quietly, but still managed to wake a small child, thus ruining Santa Claus and Christmas forever, you absolute bastard [ ]
Hugged stocking before opening presents, just to feel what it’s like to hug Christmas [ ]
Opened stocking [ ]
Got surprisingly brilliant stocking fillers [ ]
Cooked Christmas dinner [ ]
Did you? Reeeeaaallly? Or did you just help out in the kitchen? [ ]
Lost temper at small children demanding to open presents while adults run around trying to get food done [ ]
Had a cry in a quiet room somewhere [ ]
Worn rather dazzly clothes you wouldn’t normally wear [ ]
Worn any old crap because you’ve given up on Christmas now [ ]
Drunk champagne and pretended it’s nice [ ]
Drunk brandy and didn’t bother pretending to like it, but just winced and went “Uuuchhuchhuuuchh” [ ]
Eaten turkey with all the trimmings [ ]
Eaten a ‘Turkey Crown’ [ ] That’s lazy of you
Eaten goose [ ] Pretentious Dickensian twat
Eaten some other meat thing that is neither turkey or goose [ ] You’re not even trying
Vegetarian? [ ] Oh, bad luck
Failed to eat a mince pie at any point over Christmas and got a bit cross about it when you realised [ ]
Tried to light the Christmas pudding, got a sputtering flame that dies within seconds, everyone still goes “Oooooh!” [ ]
Eaten far too much, felt ill, eaten some more, felt better, eaten some more at 6pm, felt really sick [ ]
Eaten a meal consisting of just Christmas Cake [ ]
Got presents you wanted [ ]
Got presents you didn’t know you wanted that are totally ace [ ]
Got presents you actually needed as a practical thing, but didn’t want as a present because it’s not as much fun as a Playstation e.g. hammer [ ] “Oh, that’s really handy!”
Got horrible clothes from a well-meaning relative [ ]
Got something horrible from a relative you’ve never liked, who has therefore just successfully trolled you [ ]
Had an argument with an adult family member who is not spouse/partner [ ]
Had a political argument [ ]
Watched the Queen’s Speech, even though you hate the Royal Family [ ]
Said something rude about the Queen, and upsetting at least two adult members of your family [ ]
Said something accidentally fascistic that shocks everyone in the room more than you intended to (e.g. “Everyone on X-Factor deserves to die starving, and suffering from Typhus in a Gulag”) [ ]
Become a total pariah within the family due to your outrageous views [ ]
Fallen asleep [ ]
Pretended to fall asleep to avoid the washing up [ ]
Done (or at least helped with) the washing up [ ] Well done
Watched the plebdazzle Christmas Night telly on a mainstream channel [ ]
Watched a worthy art documentary on one of the minor channels, or something horribly depressing about the Middle East [ ]
Stayed up far too late on Christmas Night after everyone has gone to bed watching the tree lights twinkling and trying to remember what Christmas was like as a child [ ]
It was all going really well, and then some fucking idiot said “You know, President Trump is gonna make America great again…”
FILMS:
Elf [ ]
It’s a Wonderful Life [ ]
Casablanca [ ]
Citizen Kane [ ]
The Wizard of Oz [ ]
Return to Oz [ ] Oooh, dark
Muppet Christmas Carol [ ]
Muppet Treasure Island [ ]
Any other Muppet film [ ]
Labyrinth [ ] Heh! Bowie’s bulge…
The Spy Who Loved Me [ ]
Any Bond film that is not The Spy Who Loved Me [ ] Hard luck, old bean
One of those awful seasonal tie-in shorts of a CGI movie e.g. ‘Shrek the Halls’ [ ]
Miracle on 34th St [ ] +35 points if it’s the original (although the 1994 remake is cute)
Trading Places [ ]
Scrooge [ ]
Scrooged [ ]
The Nightmare Before Christmas [ ] You utter Goth
Watching The Nightmare Before Christmas with your kids [ ] Training your kids to be Goths, I see!
Santa Claus The Movie [ ] Yuck.
Zulu [ ]
The Box of Delights [ ] Yes, I know it’s not a film. It’s still essential Chrimble viewing though.
POST-CHRISTMAS:
Had to travel many miles to several different locations, because either your parents (or the in-laws, or both) divorced years ago, live far apart from each other, won’t be in the same room as each other, and yet selfishly insist that you come and visit them at Christmas, and sulk like petulant teenagers if you threaten not to [ ]
Decide on one of the many journeys between relatives that next year you’re going to do Christmas without them, or they’ll have to suck it up and be civil to each other for the first time in 24 years. Either that or build a Thunderdome in the garden and they can be locked in there for the duration [ ]
Hit the sales like a boss despite smashing through your overdraft limit in the run-up to Christmas [ ]
Had a metric tonne of leftovers to consume [ ]
Eaten more than you should [ ]
Decided to go on a diet [ ]
Eaten so much that you’re actually looking forward to commencing the diet [ ]
Seen all the people you actually wanted to see [ ]
Had a really nice evening with old friends [ ]
Had a really awkward evening with old friends [ ]
Irritably demanded members of your family get off their shiny new digital devices and insisted on proper family time, thus creating an atmosphere of simmering resentment [ ]
Insisted on going out for a brisk family walk and get howled at by your children for getting them out of the house and away from their exciting new presents [ ]
Come home from a brisk family walk feeling as though your bone marrow has been frozen solid [ ]
Lit a fire to warm your bones and felt like a country squire [ ]
Played a board game [ ]
Board game causes argument [ ]
Had to go into work between Christmas and New Year, and wished you’d booked time off because no other fucker is in work [ ]
Gone to a panto [ ]
Gone to a big starry panto with a Grade-Q Reality TV celeb as the star attraction, laughed like a drain, took part in all the panto-heckling, and embarrassed your kids who are too old for pantos anyway [ ]
Gone to a local amateur panto and found quite a lot of the jokes to be racist/sexist/homophobic [ ]
Made plans in advance for New Year’s Eve [ ]
Totally failed to make plans for New Year’s Eve [ ]
Ended up going to a crap party on New Year’s Eve [ ]
Ended up doing nothing for New Year’s Eve [ ]
Made resolutions for the New Year [ ]
Promised your spouse/partner to turn over a new leaf [ ]
Fully intend to keep that promise [ ] Good luck with that!
Taken down the decorations in a forlorn manner and gone back to work with great reluctance, and realised that without the sparkly Christmas ephemera up to dazzle and distract you, this is a really dark, grey, and miserable time of year [ ]
Realised that, all things considered, you had a pretty damn good Christmas [ ]
Fucking hell, it gets earlier every year. There ought to be a law. They’re starting the songs and the mince pies in the supermarkets, and it’s October. It’s as if they’re sadists. You know they actually start the adverts in September now… well, the perfume ones anyway. God, there’s another fucking article about how we’re not allowed to call it Christmas anymore, which is bollocks. Look, I’ll say CHRISTMAS really loud, and nobody will complain because everything says CHRISTMAS anyway, and the stuff about school plays is a load of hogwash, they are having a proper Nativity again, let’s just hope there isn’t a fight between parents this time round. And those sodding adverts on the telly! If it’s got a plethora of ways of firing plastic things that will blind you, and it’s delivered through the medium of shouting, it’s for boys. If it’s pink, and has lots of giggling in the adverts and references to hair or clothes or makeup, it’s for girls. Fuck me, really?
Is it Christmas yet? Is it Christmas yet? Is it Christmas yet?Is it Christmas YET? Is it Christmas yet? Is it Christmas yet? How about now? When will it be Christmas? There’s a toy I want! It’s shiny and got buttons and makes noises! It’s a bit like a DS! Liam in my class says his dad invented the DS! I want a DS! Why can’t Christmas be now? Is it Christmas because they’ve put up the tinsel in Tescos? Why are you muttering “Too bloody soon”, Daddy? It’s beginning to be Christmas now! I’ve seen the Christmas adverts on telly! I love Christmas! We’re doing a Christmas play this year in school! We all have to learn carols! I love carols! My favourite is ‘Away in a Manger’, because it’s really cute, and it makes my Mummy and Daddy say “Awwwwww!” whenever I sing it, except I’m told to put a sock in it if I sing it in July. I also like singing ‘Jingle Bells’, especially when Daddy lets me sing the proper words about Batman being smelly! I want a DS! Or maybe an Xbox! Or maybe a Playstation! I want things that explode, not those silly things that are supposed to be for girls. They’re all pink and boring. I want the new Captain America film on DVD. Or The new Ghostbusters. Nothing about hair or clothes or stupid makeup.
Girls: Shut up and accept it
I can’t bear to go into town at this time of year. Daylight hours are just crammed with last-minute shoppers. It’s literally Hell. It’s busy, and everyone’s shoving, and my feet hurt, and I don’t know whether I’ll have time to get everyone done, and Aunty Joan isn’t really with it, so we can miss her out, and I’ll have to do cards at the last minute as usual, and I’ll have to buy everything online except there’s another sodding postal strike, and they just know to do it in the last week before Christmas, and they’ll fuck around with everyone, and the bloody TRAFFIC in the roads, and never mind about going into the centre of town at this time of year during the day, what about the fucking night time??
Why are we going shopping? Just tell Santa what you want and he’ll buy it for you! Sparkly lights are very nice, but they’ve been up for aaaaaaages. And why are we shopping AGAIN when we went shopping just the other day? What does ‘last-minute-panic’ mean? Is it the last minute ever? I’m BOOORED of shopping. All we ever do before Christmas is go shopping and get cross.
There are gangs of Rudolph-jumpered, arseholed arseholes marching around singing crude versions of carols and leering at anything in a skirt; and then you’ve got these screeching harpies with tinsel in their deeley-boppers who are staggering around in sub-zero temperatures, and they’re showing as much flesh as a 70s porn-flick, VOMITING into the street , yelling at men, and the men are yelling at the women, and there’s all the swearing, and the aggressive demanding of FUN to be had, and everything costs more, and the pubs are far too full of part-time drinkers who cannot control themselves, and I have to go to the office Christmas party even though I’ll have nothing to say to anyone, and we’ll stand around in the corner of an expensive hotel conference room eating chicken goujons, and drinking too much, and then the disco will start, and I’ll behave like a smart arse and go up to the DJ and ask if he’s got any Captain Beefheart or The Velvet Underground; but by 11pm I’ll be fist-pumping to The Final Countdown, and dancing to Steps and Kylie, doing finger-guns to the Theme from Shaft, and bellowing along to Fairytale of New York with everyone else, and I’ll grab poor Becky in HR and tell her that the party is great, but next year I’ll put a band together for cost, and we’ll do some PROPER MUSIC to show the cunts in the office exactly what proper music is.
Daddy keeps saying he won’t go out again. Not after last year. And then he went out, and came home slightly loud, and that’s not fair, because I’m not allowed to sing silly songs. And now he’s feeling sick. And Mummy is not being nice to him at all. She says it’s all his fault and she has no sympathy. And then Mummy goes out for Christmas Lunch with the office, and she comes back after my bedtime and makes groaning noises.
I don’t want to send out cards. They don’t send us cards, why should we send THEM cards? Oh, all right, I’ll send to them. And them. And them. And… right, I’d better make a list. Do we have a list from last year? And do you have their addresses??
Do I have to send them caaaards? I see them every day!
At this time of year, Robins are very territorial, and will fight to the death. No, it’s true, I really mean it. They literally murder each other. I am not shitting you. Vicious little bastards they are. And yet, so pretty on a Victorian postcard. I bet you don’t want a picture of a brutal but victorious Robin standing over the pecked-to-death body of a foe who unwisely hopped into the wrong territory on your mantlepiece, would you?
So… four cards. One from my mother. Bloody social media ruins a perfectly good tradition… it’s only polite… FOUR CARDS… are we really hated that much?
I got 25 cards from all of my friends!! I love my friends!!!
And I’m determined to go out somewhere carol singing. I fucking love carol singing! I miss singing all the Christmas carols like I did when I was young. All the dark carols with the spooky, Midwinter lyrics. I bet there’s a church in the misty countryside nearby that does a candlelit service in the run-up to the big day.
I’m all carolled-out. I’m bored of singing carols. I’ve been singing carols in school for weeks now. Why are we driving for miles through the fog to go to a church? We never go to church normally. Oh, it’s to sing BORING CAROLS.
Word of advice: Carols by candlelight… just be careful where you hold the candle if you have a long beard. Speaking from experience here…
And God, we have to go through the motions AGAIN. Why can’t we just do Christmas on our own without all those people? They’re nice and all, but thank God we only see them once a year, because the only thing we have in common with them is mitochondrial DNA, and Jeff will get drunk and start talking about immigrants, and I’ll get all left-wing and point out to him he’s a racist, and he’ll go purple with denying it, and then you’ll scowl at me for creating a bad atmosphere, even though Jeff is one of those wankers who voted for Brexit, which makes him a FUCKING NAZI in my book, and we all know who created a bad atmosphere in the 1940s. And I’m sick of Judy suddenly demanding at the last minute that she sees us on Christmas Eve. I fucking hate having to be her rent-a-family every Christmas. She could see us in February, or June, or October, but no – she is determined to be in that particular relationship, so all we are to her is a convenient family with a kid she can coo over when the mood takes her… can’t she go and bother his relatives instead this year? It’s so bloody selfish of her. It just means we have to tidy the house in an even more tidy way than at any other time of the year, and it’s all on top of all the other shit we’ve got to be doing, and yet the house MUST BE TIDY. I bet Charles Dickens never tidied his fucking house especially for Christmas, and he’s the most Christmas person ever.
We have to visit old people a lot that we only see at this time of year! And they say how much I’ve grown this year, except if they saw me more often they’d probably not say that. I’ve been looking at me in the mirror every day, and I don’t think I’ve grown. I like Uncle Jeff though. He makes funny jokes and funny voices and he’s friendly and does magic tricks and gives me nice presents. Daddy and Mummy keep telling me to be polite and not talk about my friends so much, or sing so much, or dance so much, or to keep interrupting, but I want to tell people stuff! I love Christmas! Daddy and Jeff keep talking about Europe, and The News, and Politics a lot, which is boring. I want Daddy to play with me, and Jeff to tell me more of his funny jokes and do magic tricks instead of talking about boring things on the News. And then Mummy will elbow Daddy in the ribs, and they’ll have a muttered conversation in the car on the way home about spoiling the atmosphere. And I like Judy. I wish I saw her more often. She buys me nice colouring books. She’s like a special Christmas person who isn’t Santa Claus. It would be weird to see her in the summer. Perhaps she doesn’t exist in the summer? I hate it before these people come around. Mummy goes mad about tidying. Why do people want things to be tidy? I don’t like tidying, and Mummy keeps making me tidy things. It’s completely wrong! And why does everything smell of sugar?
OK, for the last bloody time, YES, she has grown a lot this year. There’s nothing freakish about it, you don’t have to remark upon it. She’s a growing child. Look, I don’t want to spoil the season of goodwill, but do you perma-grinning fools ever listen to what comes out of your pious mouths? Especially when you’ve all admitted on Facebook you voted Brexit because of immigrants? Jesus, in approx 18 years time, you’ll be asking her if she’s got a boyfriend yet, and that her fucking clock is ticking.
And we have to see them. And they’re only in town for 48 hours, and let’s hope they could squeeze us in. But I’m not going up the pub to see the boys… yes, I’m going to give the 2016-old-gang-reboot a miss this year, because we know what will happen: We all have to commiserate with Carl about his divorce, and I’ll have to ask Steven how the business is going, and he’ll gloat, and when everyone asks what I’m up to, I’ll mumble about working in retail, and somehow end up resenting these guys – these great guys I went to school with, and drank with, and pulled girls with, and smoked pot with, and we’re all 40 now, and… and… and yet, they’re all successful and affluent and GROWN-UP, and I’m still playing in bands, and they haven’t touched their guitars in years so we can’t exactly do a gig anymore. And they’ve got their lives, wives, kids and BMWs sorted, and I’m fumbling about with being a semi-stay@home Dad, and not having enough hours in work to call it a full-time role, working at the same level as Saturday teenagers and the just-graduateds, and being twenty years older than them. I don’t want to go up the pub and be beery-laddy and call each other by homophobic slurs like we used to in 1995, or be the only one who finds that sort of thing tiresome and offensive, and I’ll just meekly accept it and not challenge it as usual. Well, this year, I’m giving it a miss.
Daddy said he wasn’t going to the pub with the boys. What boys? If there are boys, I want to be with them. Are there girls as well? Mummy told me to shush. Daddy’s being quiet. Daddy went upstairs and found some old photos of all his friends when they were 16 and looked at them, but was a bit quiet about it. He’s not telling me who they are, or what they were doing. It looks like they went to lots of parties. Now he’s listening to an old tape of a band he was in with some of his friends. The singing is bad, and it all sounds a bit muffled. There’s a song called Spliffman the Sockbong. Daddy says the song is about a sort of superhero but won’t tell me what the superhero’s powers are. He looks at the photos and then looks sad. And then he announces he won’t go to the pub. Mummy said he should probably go to the pub, they’re only all there for one night. Daddy said no, I’m not going, and then he sulks a bit in front of the telly, and goes upstairs to strum on his guitar in a sad way. The following day, he says he wished he went up the pub.
And at some point I’ll hate Fairytale of New York, because it’s overrated bilge for people too snobby to accept that Christmas Wrapping by The Waitresses, and All I Want For Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey, are fucking brilliant Christmas tunes. And I’ll hate all the comedy specials. And I’ll hate the special Christmas Editions of… and because we’re at Mary’s house for Boxing Day, we’ll have to watch all the populist crap on the telly, and I just want to watch The Box of Delights on DVD again. in fact, Alice is old enough for The Box of Delights now! AWESOME.
The Box of Delights. Fuck yes.
And I love the sweeties and the treats and all the cartoons on TV. And I love all the songs, particularly the one sung by the tramp and his girlfriend. And all the programmes with all the famous people on them. And we all sit on the sofa at Mary’s house and watch all the funny sparkly programmes until past my bedtime. And Daddy is showing me a DVD called The Box of Delights, and it’s really old and everyone talks like the Queen in it. And Mummy is showing me a film of a book I’ve got called The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, and everyone in it talks like The Queen again. And then The Actual Queen is on telly and she’s older than Granny. I just want to watch The Polar Express because I want to watch it all through the year, and Daddy says “in JULY??” unless it’s actually Christmas, in which case I watch it without him complaining.
And then we’ll cram everything into the space between 27th of December and 1st January, without getting any relaxation at all, and we have to see people, and do things, and be out all day, and not come back until late, and we’ll eat crap and takeaways, and feel bloated and hungover, and it won’t stop until we stagger back to work on the 2nd January, feeling like shit, hating our jobs, hating our colleagues. It’s as though the end of the world had been announced, we had all panicked and screamed, and in the streets we had fallen over ourselves to frantically copulate with the nearest person as our final act… and then the apocalypse was a false alarm, and we all had to put our clothes back on, and carry on with our lives. That is going back to work after Christmas, after the parties and the drinking and the shenanigans, with the final dregs of Christmas being packed away, and the world looking grey and shit and wet and tired and futile and miserable until April.
I don’t understand why we’re going into town AFTER Christmas to buy more things. I don’t really know all these people I’m seeing. Apparently they’re old friends. I’ve never met them before, or if I have, I was a baby last time. They keep making a fuss of me, which is nice. Sometimes they have children who are my age. When they go, Mummy and Daddy keep saying “Yes! We must!”. Must what? Must we?
You know what? Let’s just find a mansion house in the countryside, hire it for Christmas, light the fire, put up the tree, go along the snowy lane to the midnight service, sing the more Pagan-sounding carols, and then come back to the mansion, eat some mince pies, someone will light a fart, and we’ll declare it to be the most joyful time of the year…
I LOVE Christmas! I love presents! I love Nana and Granny, and all the family are here!
…and we’ll do without all this superficial Yuletide Frippery. It’s all too much fuss for just one day. One Day, One Christmas, we’ll do just that.
Superficial Yuletide Frippery
I want it to be Christmas all the time! I want it to snow! I want us to open presents all the time and eat the yummy food. I want to see all my family and all our friends, even the ones we never see the rest of the year! I want everyone to be happy and friendly and lovely and singy, and the telly to show all the films. Not James Bond though. James Bond is rubbish. Daddy says it’s not. But it is.
And then, on the morning of the 25th of December, when I’m tired and grumpy and fed up, and wearing uncomfortable clothes, and being on my best behaviour, and we’re all a bit frazzled, Alice will unwrap her present… and she’ll be so excited, she sings ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ by way of thanks… and I’ll get a lump in my throat… yeah, that’ll be near-enough for Christmas.
Sometimes, at Christmas, I’ll think about Baby Jesus in his crib. So I sing one of the carols I’ve been learning, and that usually shuts Daddy up.
Let’s get one thing straight right now: No one is banning Nativity plays, despite any bullshit you might read in the papers. No one. And if they are, it’s not because of some creeping Sharia hoohaa, or politically correct nonsense; it’s probably because a lot of parents are atheists, and they’re wanting Christmas to be more secular. So stop with the anti-Muslim crap, because it’s the Godless heathens like me you want to worry about.
Now that we’ve got that out of the way, Christmas is really about a story. Not about a refugee underage virgin being impregnated by a divine spirit, only to be persecuted into giving birth in an unsanitary slum whilst being doted on by some sheep herders and astronomers, and being threatened by a child-murdering despot… no. It’s all about our children being in plays.
For some parents who might be deemed to be “pushy” (oh no, not me; although after Alice’s most recent performance in the After-school Drama Club’s production of The Naughty Goblin Neighbour, I did give her notes – most of which were “look at the audience, not the scenery on stage”, “don’t be distracted by the fake grass during your solo”, “please ensure no one can see your knickers”, and “for God’s sake, don’t pick your nose in front of hundreds of people”), the Nativity Play is the moment when the idea that your child is the next Olivier or Dench gets incepted into your head – absolutely not me, although I am perhaps maybe looking into enrolling her into a Saturday-morning drama club next year, because Alice seems enthusiastic about acting and performing, and this is in no way vicariously living out my hopes and dreams through my daughter. Oh no.
Nativity Plays are wondrous things. If you’ve never seen a Nativity being performed in a British primary school by under-sevens, you have not experienced a true Christmas. First, there’s the acting. Here is a typical Nativity version of the Annunciation, possibly the most mystical event of the Christian faith:
NARRATOR:
And lo, there wath a gweat light, and an nangel came to Mawee in Natheweth
[enter the Archangel Gabriel after an eight-second pause and hissing of instructions from teacher, clumping onto stage, *clump* *clump* *clump*]
ARCHANGEL GABRIEL:
‘Ere Mary, yer gonna ‘av a baybee an’ ‘is nayme is Jeezirs
[exit Gabriel after 12-second pause and hissed instructions from the wings, *clump* *clump* *clump*]
In a previous post, I mentioned what happened when Alice became the Holy Mother, and how she expanded the role into something more declamatory and Brechtian. This year the role went to someone else. As it was to one of her bezzie mates, Alice didn’t mind. Also, said chum did not shout, pick nose, or pretend to breastfeed the infant Christ. In any case, Alice has at least followed in both mine and Sarah’s footsteps 30 years ago, and was asked to narrate (albeit one line, which she read the hell out of, and I didn’t in any way coach her or provide line-reading advice on pitch and phrasing. Noooo. Not me *whistles a merry and nonchalent tune*).
Alice was an Angel this year, and I’m still pretty sure Angels are more discreet with their nose-picking. As usual, most of the lines were mumbled, or delivered to the performer’s shoes. One of the innkeepers shook his head too vigorously and his tea-towel fell off his head. One of Alice’s classmates made for an enthusiastic dancing camel. There was prancing by the children wearing leotards, representing stars. The whole class was in it, even the “hyperactive” kids took part when they’re normally excluded from such things, and really gave it their all, dancing in the uptempo carols like they just didn’t care, and actually reading their lines out audibly.
“But Miss, we can’t help it, the doll just farted…”
Secondly, there’s the singing. Back in the dim and distant early-to-mid-80s, there was a teacher in every school – usually either the Head, or the most spinsterish teacher on the staff – who could bash out a reasonable hymn or two on a crapboard piano with questionable tuning in assembly. Now it seems this is a tradition that has vanished from our schools, and there are no spinsters available to play the piano (and Heads have much more important things to do). So instead, we had a CD of Christmas songs that accompanied this version of the Nativity – so no ‘Little Donkey’, unfortunately – and the children sang along to pre-recorded piano and, heartbreakingly, a pre-recorded choir of stage-school children. Not cool. The closest we got to a spinster playing the piano while the children sang was the unmarried (although congratulations on your subsequent Christmas wedding, Mr Alice’smaleclassteacher!) and rather boyish male teacher strumming an out-of-tune nylon-string guitar with appalling technique while a choir of gap-toothed children lisp-sang ‘Away In A Manger’.
There’s something about children with a variety of missing teeth and speech impediments singing Away In A Manger that really hits me right… there. No matter how commercialised Christmas is, how ugly the centre of town becomes, how there is a last minute panic, how bad-tempered, how grey the weather is, how much we drink, how much we start to loathe Slade and Wizzard (and Fairytale of New York, for that matter), how much Christmas becomes a pressure-cooker full of anxiety, or how cynical we all get… the moment a small child sings Silent Night, or Away In A Manger, everything shuts up, and you’re transported back to when Christmas meant childlike joy and innocence – no money, no adverts, no drunken arguments, no Daily Mail complaining, no panic, no anxiety, no heartlessness, no pain, just hope and love. That’s Christmas to me – a simple voice singing a simple song, and expressing love for the moment and the family. Not all this ridiculous, camp, sparkling frippery.
camp, sparkling Frippery
And when the play had come to an end, a group of adults had a screaming row, including screeching obscenities at each other, in front of the schoolchildren and all the other parents, while the school’s staff tried desperately to calm everyone down as diplomatically as possible. No, I’m not joking. I don’t know what it was about, but it was loud, obnoxious, and ironically appeared to be concerning questionable public behaviour. I wish I could say it was all the pushy posh parents taking part, because that would have been hilarious, but it wasn’t. It was, sad to say, the full fucking Kyle.
At one point, I found myself saying to one of those involved something I’ve never said to another adult: “Hey! Watch your language! There are children present!”, which got a “I don’t give a fuck what you think”, which once again proves that I sadly have no authority, nor can command respect from other adults. So naturally, I did what I normally do in such circumstances: Dragged Alice away, and then scuttled off to have a thorough gossip with all the other mums, leaving the teachers (who were pretty awesome about it, to be fair) to diplomatically try to calm things down in between the sine waves of extraordinarily maritime language. And then someone got hit and blood appeared. And lo, all agreed it was to be declared the most magical time of the year.
And if any of those parents happen to stumble across this blog, here is my follow-up: You did this at the children’s Nativity in front of ALL the children and loads of other parents, who all took immense delight in tutting at you. Well done. No really, that was one amazing social and parental fuckup in front of your kids, my daughter, and hundreds of people who you have to meet in the playground every day, and I’m glad it wasn’t me. I hope you pride yourself to sleep every night from now on (but thanks for the material for the blog, and the anecdote, which should get me through the party season for this and many years to come).
And thus, another classic Yule memory has been established. Every year brings a new tradition, eh?
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POSTSCRIPT
I missed the second performance of the two-day run, where Alice was suddenly cast as the Angel Gabriel due to illness. I don’t know what happened, as I was in work, but a lot of the mums have told me she was “brilliant” whilst stifling giggles.
POST-POSTSCRIPT
As I write this, Alice has just come into the room wearing a squirrel onesie, and said “Daddy, I want to tell you something”
She has just proceeded to sing Away In A Manger to me, and then she left the room, having turned me into a teary puddle. There it is, right there… that’s Christmas.
Daddy Burns the Salad 