I was driving my daughter to school recently when we tuned into Heart Breakfast. A caller was attempting to answer five Christmas-related questions that, if successful, would mean that the countdown to the big day could ‘officially begin’. They weren’t hard but when the questions were answered correctly, there was pandemonium in the Heart studios. Everyone gushed with excitement and wished each other a Merry Christmas, co-host Amanda Holden cried, and the first of very many broadcasts of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas’ began. It was 10 November – more than six weeks before Christmas Day. It was so unseasonably warm that people were still in shorts. The mind boggles.
As I’ve aged, I’ve grown more curmudgeonly about Christmas. The run-up starts slowly: Xmas decs appear in the shops, and retailers seem to say, ‘Yeah, we know people are still having barbecues, but we’ve got to make a living, right?’ But once Halloween and Guy Fawkes are out of the way, any irony disappears, and the juggernaut becomes unstoppable. We have entered the inoffensive period known to commercial types as ‘the festive period’.
Working in retail at this time of year is spirit-sapping. I was once a sales assistant in a department store. You see the worst of humanity from behind a till: harassed people frantically buying overpriced stuff that most recipients neither need nor want. Cheque books were still in use then and a gorilla in a suit nearly lifted me over the counter when I suggested the signatures on his cheque and bank card didn’t exactly match. It’s also a kind of sensory torture: harsh lighting, overcrowding, heat, airlessness – and the god-awful Christmas music on a continuous loop. Even now, listening to Slade’s ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ or Wizzard’s ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ triggers a kind of shell shock.
It’s also the season for office parties. I was in the pub with a couple of old school friends recently who are fortunate enough to have retired early, and they cited the work Christmas bash as one of the things they’d miss least. Events that were once bacchanalian – people dancing on tables with their trousers on their head, photocopying their backsides, or locked in an embrace with someone they’d been hankering after all year – have become sedate affairs where alcohol, if drunk at all, is consumed in moderation.
There’s usually a meal with substandard food and polite conversation, perhaps preceded by a wholesome group activity like an escape room. The chances of anyone being bundled paralytic into a cab at 3 a.m., or telling colleagues what they really think of them, are now close to zero. Having to spend an evening – or, if you’re really unlucky, an entire day – with people you’d much rather avoid is frankly purgatory. And the stats suggest I’m not alone. In a recent survey, only 10.6 per cent of respondents said they wanted a Christmas party. Some 53.8 per cent said they’d rather have a cash bonus. Hear, hear.
Christmas jumper day and Secret Santa have also become staples of the workplace. I grudgingly join in so as not to be seen as a complete killjoy. Still, when I open my gift – wearing an ill-fitting, uncomfortable and frankly ludicrous sweater with reindeer on the front – and see how little thought went into it, I can’t help feeling insulted. Even with a budget as low as five quid, you can find something that looks like you’ve vaguely thought about it. But many people seem not to worry about how their offering will be perceived. One year, my wife received a bottle of Aldi’s ‘Luxury room spray’. It smelled all right, but the message was unmistakable: ‘I couldn’t really be bothered to look for anything better.’
There are parts of Christmas that still move me profoundly
One of the best things about Christmas Day used to be sitting down with the family in the evening to watch telly, turkey sandwich in hand. With so few channels, the likes of Morecambe and Wise, The Two Ronnies, Blackadder and Only Fools and Horses were much anticipated. Now, unlimited choice – not to mention the kids’ multi-screening – means the chances of watching terrestrial television together are remote. Besides, the quality is variable to say the least, and we haven’t even got Gavin and Stacey to look forward to this year.
As Bah Humbug as I’ve become, my heart isn’t completely glacial. There are parts of Christmas that still move me profoundly. Although not especially religious, I’m touched by some of the music – Handel’s Messiah and Bach’s sublime Christmas Oratorio in particular. And some carols get me every time. When ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ reaches: ‘Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light’, I start welling up.
The day itself, marked by excess and simmering family tensions, has its moments of light relief – often when an elderly relative says something spectacularly un-PC. But the magic for me now lies in suspending disbelief, letting go of minor irritations and giving myself over to the mystery of it all (while any remains).
I really don’t wish it could be Christmas every day. I can tolerate it once a year, although it comes round far too quickly for my liking and yet the run-up feels interminable. Even as an agnostic, I yearn for the Christian approach to Advent, a season traditionally for fasting and penitence. However, I don’t imagine I’ll ever experience an epiphany, given all the sugary pop music and comedy jumpers. How different this time before Christmas now feels.
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