At around this time of year Caroline and I always have the same argument. I’m not talking about who’s going to be ‘tree elf’ on Christmas Day — a humiliation that involves picking up all the discarded paper after Caroline’s four siblings and their children have unwrapped all their presents. I’ve been ‘tree elf’ for the past five years and I’m resigned to wearing the silly green hat well into my nineties.
No, the argument is about what Christmas decorations to display on the outside of our house. According to her, only two things are acceptable: white fairy lights draped over some greenery and an all-natural wreath hung on the front door. Anything more showy is beyond the pale.
My sensibilities aren’t quite so refined. I’d like to rig up a fibre optic frieze depicting Santa in a reindeer-driven sleigh with the words ‘Ho Ho Ho’ emblazoned above his head. Ideally, the words would light up one at a time, creating a dazzling series of flashes. No epileptic within a five-mile radius would be safe.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Caroline when I sketched this out. ‘Why not just stick up a giant neon sign saying “Chav”?’
I generally defer to Caroline on matters of taste, but I do think she’s being a little uptight about this. Surely Christmas is a time when it’s OK to engage in ostentatious displays of bad taste? The festival is so inherently kitsch, the idea of celebrating it in a dignified, understated way is a bit self-defeating — like going to Vegas and staying in the Four Seasons. My idea of a good Christmas is to go hog wild and unleash my inner Vicky Pollard.
Having four children helps. In the battle between genteel restraint and Falstaffian exuberance, they’re firmly on the side of Daddy Pig. This Saturday, for instance, we’re off to Westfield to see Alvin and the Chipmunks 3: Chipwrecked. Afterwards, it’ll be Happy Meals all round followed by a trip to Mr Pretzel for glazed biscuits dripping with Nutella.
Then comes the best bit: combing the streets of Acton in our VW Transporter searching for the most impressive Christmas light displays of 2011. There are some hardy perennials we can usually depend on. For instance, there’s a house at the bottom of East Acton Lane that always has an LED tableau of a moving steam train. Charlie, our youngest, gazes at it with a look of utter enchantment. There’s also a house on Milton Road that is so brightly lit up it must be visible from space. With sweet irony, Milton Road is in a part of Acton that the local estate agents have dubbed ‘Poets’ Corner’.
But to find the hidden gems you need to venture into the less affluent parts of the neighbourhood, such as the South Acton Estate. As a general rule, the lower the household income, the more money the occupants will spend on external Christmas decorations. I fondly recall spotting one flat in a tower block that featured six fibre optic reindeer leaping from the balcony.
I genuinely love these displays — it isn’t some ghastly affectation to show that I’m down with the proles, like Ed Balls claiming to be a fan of Antiques Roadshow. There’s something heartwarming about the lengths ordinary people will go to instil a bit of Christmas cheer. Given the amount of time and money involved, it’s an example of real public-spiritedness. It’s infectious, too. I haven’t conducted a scientific survey, but each year the number of houses going in for these gaudy decorations seems to multiply.
I don’t think this is wanting to keep up with the Joneses. In my case, it’s the sheer pleasure that these light displays have given me and my children that makes me want to reciprocate. Without wishing to sound too Big Society-ish, it’s a good illustration of how communities can be enriched by a few kindly souls setting an example. If Ealing Council had an ounce of common sense it would award an annual prize for the best household display.
Unfortunately, Caroline has refused to budge on the point. I’ve had to settle for a ‘Merry Christmas’ sign in the window above our front door, just as I have every previous year. The fact that it lights up isn’t much consolation. It’s far too elegant for my tastes. Any Daddy Pig driving past in a people-carrier stuffed with kids will take one look at it and say, ‘That’s pathetic.’
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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