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The true meaning of Christmas
Jan. 6th, 2011 10:56 amSomething I found myself thinking about over the last few weeks is what Christmas means to people. Obviously there's the traditional meaning of Christmas - you know, goodwill to all mankind, salvation for humanity, general peace and love and all that - but watching the TV over Christmas I really did get the impression that this sort of thing is perhaps rather secondary these days.
For me, perhaps the single nicest bit about Christmas (apart from the free stuff I got given. And the eating, which is great. Drinking is pretty cool too) was going for a walk after the temperature hadn't gone above zero for four full days. There wass no snow, but the frost was almost an inch deep in places coating the ground and trees with a crystalline beauty. The air was crisp and had an almost unearthly clarity and, best of all, it was really cold so I had the world almost to myself. It seemed that pretty much everyone else was sat slumped at home in front of the telly with their fingers laced over their distended belly scoffing Quality Street.
Ah, yes, the television.
For television advertisers, the true meaning of Christmas appears to be falling to your knees and begging "God, please just buy something. Anything. You want my sister? She very cheap." Kitchens, bathrooms and sofas are being marked down like billyo whilst increasingly-desperate front men promise all kinds of credit (because, well, nobody has learned that credit may lead to future difficulties in recent years) and generally have an expression of desperation and a rictus grin. From where I was sitting it was the funniest comedy on TV over Christmas.
However, the advertising appears to have worked - NEXT advertised their Boxing Day sales opening at 5am, and, sure enough, the next morning the news reported that some people had been queueing for hours to get in at doors open. I gazed at this in abject horror that there were some people whose lives are so empty of anything resembling fulfilment that getting up in the early hours to go to NEXT seems like a good idea. It was around about then that I realised Dawn of the Dead wasn't satire, it was a documentary.
However, I think the memory which will stick with me most from this Christmas was from Christmas day itself. After the early-morning ritual of present grabbing I muffled myself up and went off for a walk across the aforementioned crisp, clean and frosty landscape. As I walked out of the gate, a man dressed in a vest and tracksuit trousers ambled out of one of the houses up the road. He stood there for a few moments looking about in a contented all's-well-with-the-world sort of way, and then was copiously sick all over the pavement. He straightened up, hitched up his trousers, and wandered back into the house.
And there we had it, I thought. For some people, the true meaning of Christmas is getting up, unwrapping your slab of Tennants Export and drinking until you can't even be bothered to go upstairs to be sick at 11am. And then, looking around like there's nothing more to be asked from life before wandering back in and cutting yourself another large slice of plum duff. I was impressed.
Merry Christmas.
For me, perhaps the single nicest bit about Christmas (apart from the free stuff I got given. And the eating, which is great. Drinking is pretty cool too) was going for a walk after the temperature hadn't gone above zero for four full days. There wass no snow, but the frost was almost an inch deep in places coating the ground and trees with a crystalline beauty. The air was crisp and had an almost unearthly clarity and, best of all, it was really cold so I had the world almost to myself. It seemed that pretty much everyone else was sat slumped at home in front of the telly with their fingers laced over their distended belly scoffing Quality Street.
Ah, yes, the television.
For television advertisers, the true meaning of Christmas appears to be falling to your knees and begging "God, please just buy something. Anything. You want my sister? She very cheap." Kitchens, bathrooms and sofas are being marked down like billyo whilst increasingly-desperate front men promise all kinds of credit (because, well, nobody has learned that credit may lead to future difficulties in recent years) and generally have an expression of desperation and a rictus grin. From where I was sitting it was the funniest comedy on TV over Christmas.
However, the advertising appears to have worked - NEXT advertised their Boxing Day sales opening at 5am, and, sure enough, the next morning the news reported that some people had been queueing for hours to get in at doors open. I gazed at this in abject horror that there were some people whose lives are so empty of anything resembling fulfilment that getting up in the early hours to go to NEXT seems like a good idea. It was around about then that I realised Dawn of the Dead wasn't satire, it was a documentary.
However, I think the memory which will stick with me most from this Christmas was from Christmas day itself. After the early-morning ritual of present grabbing I muffled myself up and went off for a walk across the aforementioned crisp, clean and frosty landscape. As I walked out of the gate, a man dressed in a vest and tracksuit trousers ambled out of one of the houses up the road. He stood there for a few moments looking about in a contented all's-well-with-the-world sort of way, and then was copiously sick all over the pavement. He straightened up, hitched up his trousers, and wandered back into the house.
And there we had it, I thought. For some people, the true meaning of Christmas is getting up, unwrapping your slab of Tennants Export and drinking until you can't even be bothered to go upstairs to be sick at 11am. And then, looking around like there's nothing more to be asked from life before wandering back in and cutting yourself another large slice of plum duff. I was impressed.
Merry Christmas.
