Every year the wife and I alternate spending Christmas between my family and hers. Unfortunately it’s not really a fair exchange as my family live in London — The Greatest City In The World – while hers are in a small, rural North Carolina town that isn’t so much in the middle of nowhere, more like the remote outskirts of nowhere. You know those movies where the hip and sophisticated couple from the big city get stranded in some nothing-happening small town where they don’t have a Starbucks and have never heard of Sushi but learn important life lessons about the honest values of simple country folk? Well, it’s a bit like that except the only lesson we’ll probably be learning is that Barack Obama is a Muslim socialist out to destroy America.
But, apart from the whiff of right-wing craziness, they’re nice people and I’m looking forward to going because the great thing about being somewhere where there’s nothing to do is, well, doing nothing. I’ve had at stressful time at work lately and a week spent just sitting back in their Laz-y-Boy recliner and reading books, watching movies, doing a bit of writing, and taking lots of naps will be better than Zen meditation for clearing my head of all the bullshit. If we can avoid talking politics it should be a very nice week, especially if the wife’s black-sheep-of-the-family cousin shows up with some of his homemade moonshine.
I won’t be back until the New Year so have a good holiday everyone, hope Father Christmas brings you everything you want.
I’m flying off to London today for a weeks holiday so there won’t be any new posts until after the festive season. It’ll be the first time I’ve been “home” for Christmas in probably 10 years so I’m looking forward to it more than usual for the obvious reasons: Seeing the family, cozy pubs, turkey and roast tatties (they don’t have those for Christmas in the States), mince pies, the Queen on the telly, the tree in Trafalgar Square. If you avoid Oxford Street the city is a lovely place to be this time of year.
So have a very merry Christmas everyone. I’ll see you on the other side of it.
I’m off to spend Christmas week with the in-laws in rural North Carolina which is a long way from England in more ways than one so I thought I’d recreate the English Christmas Day experience here, at least the television part of it.
First off is the Christmas edition of Top of The Pops, essential viewing for us youngsters while the grown-ups were either in kitchen roasting a turkey or down the pub in their new jumpers getting lightly sozzled. This one’s from 1973: Slade, Donny Osmond, and Tony Blackburn in the most horrendous tank top. Poptastic!
Then it was time for the Queen’s speech. Put down that fork, stop eating and stand to attention everyone.
After everyone had got stuffed to the tits with pudding and pies, Uncle Dave had drunk a whole case of Double Diamond, Gran was on her third Sherry and Dad was lighting up a Henri Winterman’s cigar, it was time for the whole family (and the whole nation) to crash out in front of the telly and watch the Morecambe and Wise Christmas show.
And don’t forget the Quality Street…
On the radio it wouldn’t be Christmas without the obligatory seasonal pop records as stars big and small tried for the much-coveted Christmas #1 spot in the charts. I always thought this Elton John one was a cracker (pardon the pun), though it only got to #24 in 1973.
I don’t remember ever actually believing in Father Christmas (that’s “Santa Claus” to you Americans) but I imagine I must have done at some point – I wasn’t born a sour old git you know. I do remember being a bit scared of him though, there was something about that big, bearded guy in a red suit going “ho ho ho” all the time that made me nervous when I was a little kid. I think my vague fear dates back to the first time I was taken to see “Father Christmas” at a department store (Barker’s in Kensington I think it was) and the sight of this strange man in red sitting at the end of a long, dark tunnel (which I assume was supposed to be his grotto) frightened the life out of me.
The first single I ever bought was a Xmas record, “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” by Wizzard. But great though that was it’s not my favourite of the genre, it’s “I Believe in Father Christmas” by Greg Lake. Usually I’d rather have hot knitting needles stuck in my eyes than admit to liking anything by Emerson, Lake & Palmer, but I adore this 1974 solo single by their singer/guitarist – and I mean that in a completely non-ironic way, I really think it’s beautiful. I’m a sucker for this kind of grand ballroom pomposity, sometimes a record can’t have enough orchestration for me and this has mountains of it (even if it does rip off Prokofiev.) Though it sounds as pretty as a snowflake, the song itself is harshly cynical about the commercialization and exploitation of Christmas.
I usually have a bit of a “bah humbug” attitude about the yuletide season myself because I detest phony sentimentalism, especially the kind that’s just trying to get you to spend more money. You drown in that crap in America at this time of year and my wife thinks I’m a curmudgeonly old grinch because I’m always complaining about it but I’m not really, I prefer to think of myself as a sentimental idealist. But now that I have a newborn daughter I think I’m going to start seeing it through her eyes and it will regain some of that lost magic for me. And that’s what this song is all about.
I wish you a hopeful christmas I wish you a brave new year All that anguish pain and sadness Leave your heart and let your road be clear They said there’ll be snow at christmas They said there’ll be peace on earth Hallelujah Noel, be it heaven or hell The christmas you get, you deserve
The sentimental musings of an ageing expat in words, music, and pictures. Mp3 files are up for a limited time so drink them while they're hot.
Contact me: lee at londonlee dot com
