It's Christmas!
It’s Christmas! At this time of year it’s traditional to talk about the value of traditions, traditionally, like a traditionalist. It’s just what you do. It’s traditional.
People like to say that Christmas is ‘just for the kids, really’, which is sort of true, so in order to maximise grown up enjoyment of the season, it might be a good idea to indulge your inner child in a mature and sophisticated fashion. My favourite tradition to facilitate this is of ancient origin, a celebration of the festive season that combines ritual beverages with joyous vocalisation. Yeah, the organised carol singalong in pubs. There’s nothing more likely to swell your mistletoe strewn heart than bellowing out ‘FIVE GO-OLD RIIIINGS’ whilst clutching a pint surrounded by a crowd of mildly fuddled strangers. It’s a bit like Christmas assemblies back in primary school, but fun.
Not so much fun is the annual ‘oh, roast chestnuts being sold on London Street! I think I’ll… shit this bag is hot, fuck, my fingers, Christ, how are you supposed to peel these little… oh. Well, that lack of flavour in the warm putty I am mushing about is not worth the damage I have just inflicted on what were once working hands’.
But after these mild diversions, the trip to the market to buy a wreath that will repeatedly fall down from the hook every time someone so much as looks at it, the evergreen level of destruction that can be generated by attempting to erect a Christmas tree that is seemingly hellbent on the death of you and all that you hold dear, the fights breaking out in department stores, the stupid amount of food, the permafuzz of alcohol that we exist in for a blessed out ten days or so… it’s time to reflect on what the real meaning of Christmas is.
It’s standing in the taxi queue on Guildhall Hill at two o’clock on Christmas morning and refusing to accept that you could have been home an hour ago if you’d just walked instead. You have to do it though, because it’s TRADITIONAL.
