mag 1210.pdf - Holybourne

In defence of Christmas
People get pretty sniffy about Christmas these days -
all that stuff about commercialisation, too many
presents, missing the true spirit and all that - but I, for
one, think it’s blooming marvellous.
I am one of those people for whom Christmas means only
good things, and always has. I am not (unlike the infamous
‘Mr. Christmas’ of Wiltshire, tabloid denizen who eats
turkey dinner and mince pies 365 days of the year)
obsessive about it, but by gum I know a good thing when
I see one. And log fires, a glass of sherry, belting out carols
and the odd extended episode of the Royle Family is, in
my book, a very good thing indeed.
For me, man’s capacity for artistic expression has reached
no higher plane than the saxophone solo of I Wish It Could
Be Christmas Everday by Wizzard. For me, the annual
competition to spot the year’s first Christmas-themed
advert on TV with my brother (won this year by the brother,
who spotted fake snow and a few deccies in the back of
a DFS sofa ad, the blighter) is the noblest sport a fellow
could care to engage in. For me, the most garish tinsel,
the tackiest tree and the corniest rooftop Santa (ideally
mechanised and surrounded by flashing neon lights) is the
zenith, the essence, the very pinnacle of man’s unique
civilising instinct. You take your Sistine Chapel Ceilings,
your Anna Kareninas and Iliads - and I’ll take a DVD of
Muppets’ Christmas Carol and a glass of Sainsbury’s cava
any day.
I have no time for the bemoaners, the Scrooges, the
holier-than-thous who tell me Christmas ain’t what it used
to be, because it’s exactly what it used to be: a rollercoaster,
family-fuelled, yuletide wonderland packed with advent
calendars, Bing Crosby, silly hats and homemade paper
chains. It’s very British - and very boring - to bang on
about how overrated and awful the whole thing is, and I
think Christmas spirit is about having the guts to let go a
bit and love every cheesy minute of it, to stop being such
a stick in the mud and get stuck into the Turkish Delight
instead.
If you can be nice to friends and acquaintances, and if you
can take a moment to really, actually be kind to a stranger
or two while you’re at it, so much the better. Wholeheartedly
give something to charity, strike up conversation with a
lonely soul, heartily compliment the postman on his
epaulettes - whatever stuffs your turkey really. But do give
some kind of brotherhood a jolly good go.
And if you can’t do that, at least bung It’s a Wonderful Life in
the DVD player and shed a few festive tears eh? It’s two and
a half hours of heart-thawing wonder you won’t regret.
In the meantime, you’ll have to excuse me while I crank up
the radio volume for The Snowman and set to simmering
up some mulled wine.
Because that’s what the whole wondrous shebang is
all about.
Merry Christmas!
Mike Lawrence
IF by Rudyard Kipling
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man, my son!
The Holybourne Village Magazine - Winter Issue 2010
Page 23