There's nothing quite like it. Gets right to the back of your throat, doesn't it? That candyfloss, artificial sweet note to the air that begins to harden your arteries quicker than a beef dripping milkshake. It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year(TM) - time to suspend normal reality (or whatever the fuck passes for it in your world) and take your place on the back of the Great Runaway Beast as it smashes its way through the next six weeks in an intoxicated blizzard of balls-out overindulgence before collapsing and convulsing in a pile of its own shit. At which point, we all shuffle away whistling innocently to ourselves while it sleeps off its hangover for ten months or so and we try to forget the catalogue of social and sexual indiscretions we were party to in the name of 'being fucking festive'.
You have a choice, you know. You can be a conscientious objector, an activist for the Sanity Commission, all you have to do is simply Say No. Unless, of course, you're a parent. Then, I'm afraid, you're obliged to participate in the very best this period has to offer. Your seat on The Beast is booked and paid for and it's front-row centre so shut the fuck up and hang the fuck on...
Yeah - there's nothing quite like this time of year to sharpen ones natural misanthropic tendencies to a razor finish. Everywhere you look there's a twat / moron / arsehole / omnishambles whose divine mission for the day is to make yours just that tiny bit more stressful and difficult, to the point where you wish it were the middle of Texas so you could pick up a semi-automatic weapon with your weekly groceries and begin raising the overall average IQ of your immediate area. From the drunken pricks carrying bargain slabs of lager to the crowds of overexcited schoolchildren, right across to the Jurassic end of the spectrum where the old bastards congregate on every corner, in every aisle and every bench or public seat in sight - give me one of those big fuck off Marvin The Martian Death Rays and get out of the fucking way.
But then I look down. And she looks back up at me, a little wary, a little confused, but curious and ever so slightly excited. 'All this is for her' I think to myself, just like every parent does since it all began. And I deactivate the warheads and we hold our breath and dive into the sea of silly people...
This coming Diversity Approved Winter Holiday Period (DAWHP) will be her third, and the first one she'll probably really comprehend. Now - before you start fucking yawning and thinking to yourself 'he's had a few days off and he's lost his edge - gone all sentimental and sensible.' You can fuck RIGHT off. My daughter will have an amazing day, but it won't have anything to do with her head being full of commercial shite. She'll have an amazing day because her head will be full of something else - something her mother and I are both expert at creating...
Her head will be full of magic. Back in the day when the world was day-glo, I would receive endless joy from sitting in a darkened room with a fully decorated and lit tree. That tree represented and amplified the whole experience for me, and it gave off an incredible sense of detachment from the mundane and the quotidian. Almost meditative, almost trance-like, I remember feeling thrilled and completely relaxed at the same time. If anyone came in and broke the spell, I'd throw a handbag until they fucked off. That was MY time.
I want my daughter to experience the same feelings - perhaps not via the same catalysts, but there's an opportunity for wonder and awe that shouldn't be left to shopping centres and fucking TV to provide. Yesterday, she met her first real-life Santa. More accurately, I took her within range of this ridiculous-looking bastard in a white curly beard and wig so huge he was just a pair of beady little eyes poking out. Three kids in front of us suddenly turned into thirty as he reached into his bag and gave them all a small gift. She wasn't impressed - either by the gift-giving or the sudden throng of brats already lost to the 'how much am I getting' spirit of the season. You know. The one that superceded the real one? The one we're all stuck with now?
She was impressed, however, by a talented and emotive busker who'd set up fifty yards away. Swaying her head and her hands to the music like she was at Woodstock, bless her. It was the only moment of real peace in an otherwise horrible fucking experience for us both. And to that end, I've attached a little something her mother found that kind of illustrates how we'll all be feeling in a couple of weeks.
Cracking post, Jase. And that graphic is totally being nicked and added to my collection. :)
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