Why I Hate Christmas

The Other Side Of Christmas

Well it’s come round again, and very unwelcome it is too.  Let me declare my position at the outset – I absolutely loathe Christmas. 

There is virtually nothing about it that I like, and it’s extremely difficult to find any redeeming features in it.   But this is not just another “Bah Humbug!” reaction to the obvious crass commercialism of the modern “festive season”. It’s not just me being a miserable curmudgeon (although I’d always put my hand up to that charge), and it’s not just anti-religious sentiment (but again – guilty as charged).  No it goes much deeper than that.  It’s the time of year that leaves me feeling down and depressed, as if I’m being smothered by it all, and that I’m not going to get through it.  Leaving aside the relentless, rampant consumerism of Christmas, which has become not simply a major marketing exercise for virtually every commercial enterprise, but also almost a year-long logistical exercise in shifting products and services onto an otherwise indifferent marketplace, one has to ask “what’s the point?  What’s it all really for?  Who does it benefit?  And what are we actually celebrating?”  What I see around me these days is something that has grown out of all reasonable proportion, into a Frankenstein’s monster of unattainable aspirations, unaffordable (for many) expenditure, and unwelcome disruption to everything that can be described as “normal”.  The pubs are full of works’ Christmas parties and meals (where people sit around wearing “party” hats, trying to look happy), the buses are on strange time-tables (with drunks slumped across the back seats), and places you need to visit are suddenly closed early or completely (in order to “assist our staff”).  Then there’s the sheer waste generated by millions of unwanted “gifts”, outrageous amounts of “special” packaging, piles of uneaten food, un-needed journeys, special charges etc - it makes me despair. The fact that it’s all based on a garbled 2000-year old religious story which the vast majority of people in this country don’t actually believe in, seems to defy all sense of logic.

But again, it’s deeper than that.  Like many others, I heartily resent the emotional blackmail and manipulation that goes on to persuade people to buy lots of stuff they don’t really want or need for “this special time of year”, the hijacking of the religious myth to create some magical, mystical fairy-tale Dickensian Yuletide of snow and robins that has never existed (and sell yet more stuff), and the constant raising of the bar of expectations by every form of media that people need to clear in order to deliver a “Happy Christmas” to their families (and sell even more stuff). It’s an utter Jabberwocky of confused ideas, images and idiocy.

I find it almost impossible to deal with it by just ignoring it (as perhaps I should) – I find that it grinds me down, it eats away at me constantly, it bores right into me.  The frantic attitudes that emerge as we get closer to “the day” are frightening.  The rush to get the shopping done, the presents wrapped, the cards written and posted, the tasteless turkey ordered, the food and drink stock-piled, the arrangements made for seeing friends and (perhaps unloved) relatives and so on, becomes frenetic.  The crowds in the shops and streets make me feel claustrophobic (and even Santa Claustrophobic), my chest tightens and it’s hard to breathe.  The constant TV build-up – the adverts, the celebrity specials, the multi-channel festive schedule – drills holes through my brain.  I simply can’t get away from it. It’s everywhere.  It’s never-ending.  And it’s all false. And such a total pile of bollocks.

Before anyone starts to psycho-analyse my miserable condition, I should say that (as a child) I used to enjoy Christmas, and I have many happy memories of it.  Perhaps because the whole thing was much simpler, much shorter, more straight-forward?  As a young parent I brought up my own children to enjoy Christmas.  I don’t have a problem with a Christmas tree, a few decorations, presents, cards, a special meal, getting the family together.  But when did it all become so bloated? So extreme? So out of proportion? So unaffordable? So detached from its original purpose?

And, of course, for many people Christmas is a dreadful time of year – because they are on their own, or they have no money, or no home, nowhere to go and share the “festive” spirit.  Out there on the streets of Britain, there is genuine poverty and hardship, which is only thrown into even sharper relief over the Holiday period by the excesses of others.  I count myself very fortunate that I am not among the needy, and can afford a comfortable life.

So what actually is this problem I have?  Is it some middle-class angst? Shouldn’t I just pull myself together, count my blessings and simply get on with it?  I’d love to, but I can’t. It’s like having a huge weight pressing down on top of me, squeezing out the air from my lungs.  Why can’t I just join in and stop being such a bloody misery?  I really don’t want to feel like this, so down and depressed, but I can’t help it.  I don’t enjoy it.  I feel ill.  I’ve never (fortunately) suffered from clinical depression, so I don’t know what it’s like. But I would imagine that this is how it can start – a downward spiral, an inability to cope, a feeling of helplessness, a loss of energy and the necessary resilience to fight back.  It’s horrible. It’s stifling. And every year I dread it coming round even more.  But there’s no escape from it.  We’re just being buried under an avalanche of spurious “traditions” and expectations.

So that’s why I hate Christmas – completely, utterly, deeply.  By mid-January I’ll be feeling OK again, back to my old self.  But for now, it’s a bloody endurance test.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 14th December 2014

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 14^th December  2014

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       A furious row has broken out between the Parish Council’s Joint Intelligence Committee and the powers-that-be in TrowVegas.  Bromham parishioners want to know how much the Parish Council knew about under-hand methods of extracting information from prisoners caught up in the war against the Seend jihadists in the first few years of the century by the County Information Archive (CIA).  Unacceptable methods, amounting to extra-ordinary rendition and torture, were thought to have been perpetrated, including forcing carrots down prisoners’ trousers, removing baler-twine from their belts, mud-sliding and keeping brassicas in solitary confinement for long periods.

2.       The village was taken by surprise this week when it experienced a lot of weather.  The forecast for the next few days incudes some weather, and there will be a great deal more of weather in the period leading up to Christmas.  Weather for the New Year is not expected to be much better.  A spokesman for the Bromham Met Office said that it was not unusual to have weather at this time of year, and blamed the Jetstream for bringing through a very high intensity of weather.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Latest Immigration Scandal

Latest Immigration Scandal - Baby Removed By Social Workers

Report taken from the 26^th December edition of “Bethlehem On Sunday” by their Foreign Affairs Correspondent St John Simpson.

An unmarried mother (who cannot be named for legal reasons) was last night at the centre of a huge row in the sleepy commuter town of Bethlehem, Judea, after Social Workers employed by King Herod, the head of the Local Authority Social Services, seized her new-born child, who can only be referred to under reporting restrictions as “Baby J”, within minutes of the birth in down-market budget hotel.  Local residents stated that the hotel was a by-word for over-booking and over-crowding, especially at holiday times.  The birth apparently took place, without the aid of a midwife, in an over-flow room at the back of the premises.  The mother was stated, however, to be in a stable condition.  A number of animals were found at the same address.

Asking for a Care Order on the infant, Social Workers explained that the mother had arrived in Bethlehem with no means of support, using hired transport, heavily pregnant, and had history of mental health problems. She had drawn early attention to herself by making a number of wild and delusional claims, including not previously having had sexual relations, and having seen a vision of man dressed in white sheets, claiming to be an angel of The Lord, telling her that her expected child was destined to be The Son of God. The woman was thought to want to claim Housing Benefit, Child Allowance, and a number of other State benefits.

A psychiatrist, working for Bethlehem Social Services, testified that the woman was clearly suffering from a possible bi-polar condition and was obviously unfit to be a mother.

However, the removal of the child provoked a furious response from the Shop Steward of the NUS (the National Union of Shepherds & Associated Flock-Watchers) who represent a number of workers in the local sheep-guarding business. They  claimed that they had been quietly abiding in their fields with their sheep, according to normal night-shift procedures, when they had allegedly seen “the sky full of angels, commanding them to go to Bethlehem and to see this thing that had come to pass.”  Bethlehem Police later confirmed that a number of outlying huts had been raided, and a large quantity of hallucogenic substances had been removed and confiscated.

“But when the shepherds got there,” said the Shop Steward, “the child had already been removed from the parents, and all they found were three old strangely-dressed men claiming to be kings who had travelled by following a star-line express coach from Leyton Orient.  They were carrying a number of suspicious packages, which they said were Christmas presents intended for the child that was no longer there.”

An official statement from King Herod’s Office confirmed the presence of the three “kings”, explaining that officials would be detaining them as illegal Eastern immigrants, who had sought to avoid import controls by smuggling into the country a number of illicit substances, including frankincense and myrrh, and a suspiciously large quantity of gold, in clear breach of exchange control regulations. An Official Enquiry will be launched, headed by Matthew Mark-Lucan John, in order that “lessons can be learned”.  It is expected to report its findings by Epiphany, and will be published in the new “Testament” series.  The statement called for all the witnesses to tell “the gospel truth”, although witness statements are expected to differ in many of the details.

Later the authorities also applied for a “gagging” order on the woman’s common-law partner, an unemployed carpenter from the village of Nazareth, forbidding him to speak to reporters from the Bible.  He has been denied political asylum, and is to be deported as an economic migrant.

Meanwhile, the whereabouts of “Baby J” remain unclear, but it is believed that the distressed parents are planning to appeal to the court of King Herod for the child to be returned to them, so that He can accompany them on a flight booked to Egypt.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

St Peter Has A Bad Day

Saint Peter Has A Bad Day

Hi there, everyone, the name is St Peter -

My role just couldn’t be neater -

I’m God’s old “meeter-and-greeter”

Outside Heaven’s multi-billion-seater.

I’m at the front desk receiving the hopeful,

Watching the queue where everyone waits,

For I’m the celestial sentinel

In front of those famous pearly gates.

Beyond them are clouds, and angels with harps,

Where nothing could be much cosier.

There’s heavenly music and haloes,

And for every meal there’s ambrosia.

Everyone would like to get in,

To enjoy rest in their eternal home,

But there are some tough criteria to meet

Before you get in to the pleasure-dome.

And that’s where I think the trouble starts,

With people justifying what they’ve been doing:

It leads to delays and congestion,

And we’ve no system of priority queuing.

Everybody comes here with an equal chance,

No matter how things might at first look:

All the good deeds and the bad deeds,

Recorded carefully in my master’s big book.

And they’re always in a bad mood,

Bearing in mind they’ve probably just died,

It can make them tired and tetchy,

Just like they’ve had their brains fried.

So you can imagine the abuse,

And what’s the reason for this? The cause?

When I ask them if they’ve been bad or good?

Even Lucifer calls me Santa Claus.

And if they get the unwelcome thumbs down,

And they’re condemned to fall from God’s grace,

They start shouting and arguing,

As they’re escorted off to The Other Place.

See, at the end of the day, I’m not Management,

I’m just an employee, which can irk -

I’ve got to be here twenty-four seven,

To carry out the Lord God’s dirty work.

  

Dealing with people day in, day out,

The negative procedure soon sours:

I mean, you never see God out here,

During any of these unsocial hours.

The queues and the disappointments

Are very upsetting, for Goodness’ sakes,

And I don’t get any paid holidays,

Nor any time out for toilet breaks.

I mean, don’t go getting me wrong,

It’s a very responsible position,

Holding on to the Keys of the Kingdom,

Fulfilling His Lordship’s great mission.

But I think I’m being taken for granted,

If you want my confession.

There’s no future in this organisation -

I can’t see any career progression.

So I’m looking around at what else I could do,

Something appropriate to my level.

There’s a strong rumour going around,

That Beelzebub’s seeking a new devil.

The pay’s only a little bit better,

But there’s fringe benefits as well.

Think I might give a try one day -

Can’t be worse than this – so what the hell?

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

The Theft of Baby Jesus

The Theft Of Baby Jesus

There’s always some-one who goes too far,

Whose judgement seems somewhat defective,

Getting Christmas all out of proportion,

And losing their sense of perspective.

The bloke in our village was one of these:

Went over the top for Noel-time tradition,

Thought the number of lights on his house,

Was some sort of yearly competition.

He had everything on display,

Such a mess, it was really a sin:

A complete mish-mash of every sort,

Every blessed thing that you might imagine.

There was Santa with all twelve of his reindeer,

Delivering presents piled up on his sleigh.

It took so many bulbs to light up this scene,

You’d have thought night had turned into day.

There were snow-men and snow-women,

Cartoon characters, the holly and ivy,

Illustrations of every blessed carol,

And tunes in a tape-loop to keep it all lively.

This guy was more than a fanatic -

Of under-statement there was no danger:

And his central tableau showed a great star,

Hovering over the scene in the manger.

There were Mary & Joseph in the stable,

With the Holy Infant, shepherds and then,

A hovering Angel of The Lord,

And a gathering of the three wise men.

And there were great piles of presents,

As if no detail could be allowed to pass,

Every type of farm-yard animal,

Not merely the ox and the ass.

A twenty-foot Christmas tree capped off the scene,

Which became a local attraction,

And the passing traffic became so bad,

That we decided we had to take action.

A group of us hatched our plot in the pub,

Which is not the best place to think straight,

But it seemed a good idea at the time,

When we’d had a few, and the hour got late.

  

The plan was to hit him where it hurt,

Something to make that daft bugger feel.

We were going to remove Baby Jesus,

Yes! – the Son of Man we plotted to steal.

We decided we’d hold Him to ransom,

And that, as the fruit of our labours,

He’d then scale down the size of his display,

And we’d be the toast of his neighbours.

We thought it’d be the simplest of raids,

To sneak in among that barrage of light,

To just steal the youthful Son of Man,

And disappear back into the night.

But we counted without so many wires,

That would cause us so many glitches -

The complex inter-connectedness,

The circuits and timers and switches.

Electricity don’t mix with stupidity –

We were pissed (to use the vernacular),

And as we made our grab for the infant,

The meltdown was truly spectacular.

Our theft was far from deft,
Taking the hostage created a ruction.

The air became blue, as the fuses all blew,

And that was the end of abduction.

The lights went out all over the house,

As the circuits became overloaded,

And there was a short-term glow in the sky,

As the whole of the creation exploded.

Then in the street and the village,

There was an end to illumination.

It carried on all down the valley,

And finally blew up the sub-station.

It was a case of a simple crime gone wrong,

And in later years, folks were heard to say,

It made a great change from the usual -

The most spectacular one-off display!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014

Cherry & Almond Cake

Recipe for: CHERRY & ALMOND CAKE

Ingredients:

• 200g butter, softened
• 200g golden caster sugar
• 4 eggs
• ½ tsp almond extract
• 175g self-raising flour
• 85g ground almonds
• ½ tsp baking powder
• 300g glace cherries
• 100ml milk
• 2 tblsp flaked almonds

 Method:

1. heat the oven to 160C/ 140C fan/ gas 3
2. line the base & sides of a 20cm deep cake tin with grease-proof & butter it
3. beat together the butter & sugar until light & fluffy, then beat in the eggs one by one, ensuring that each is well incorporated before adding the next
4. fold in the almond extract, flour, ground almonds and baking powder, followed by the cherries (see below) and milk
5. scrape the mixture into the prepared tin & scatter over the flaked almonds on the top
6. bake for 1 hour to 75 minutes, or until the cake has risen with a golden-brown top, and a skewer comes out cleanly
7. cool the cake on a wire rack before serving

 What else you need to know:

1. if you want the cherries to be distributed throughout the cake, cut them up a bit.  If you leave them whole, they will tend to gather towards the bottom

Farewell My Lovely

Farewell My Lovely

Farewell my lovely, for I must go,

Though I’m not removed by any force,

I think that, for many reasons,

Our relationship has now run its course.

I didn’t mind that you smoked,

Though sixty a day was over the top,

And though I couldn’t see you through the fog,

I never, ever begged you to stop.

I’d quite got over the look of your face,

Though it was quite odd of a sort,

Your crooked, lop-sided smile,

Topped off with a rectangular wart.

I looked beyond your cauliflower ear,

Your tattoos never gave me a care,

Your broken nose was never an issue,

Nor that your palms were covered in hair.

But I’ll admit that I got a few shocks,

The first time that we went to bed,

Before taking all of your clothes off,

Your whipped your wig off instead.

And when you took out your teeth,

And placed them on the bed-side table,

I could see them grinning at me,

And I didn’t think that I’d be able

To love you in the way in the way I’d intended.

At that point, you remember, I turned shy,

And I had to look the other way,

As you removed your cheery glass eye.

You put it there in a glass on the side,

And it gave me a terrible fright,

As it stared at me -  not just at first,

But another twice in the night.

So, you see, darling my dearest,

I’m not usually one to moan,

But I’m still left wondering,

How much of you is really your own?

There’s so many parts to your make-up,

That make you look so fetching and fair.

But I’m going to find a new girl-friend,

And I’ll make sure the next one is all there.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014