Can you hear the sleighbells ringing? Feel the bite of frost? See the period dramas inexorably filling up the television schedules? Smell the surprising lack of roasting chestnuts? Yes my friends, Christmas descends upon us unyieldingly, an Imperial March of a festival but infinitely more cheerful. Soon enough the presents will be exchanged, stockings will be filled, and males up and down the country will suddenly realise that they can't watch The Sound of Music, because, erm, they need to, erm, do some cooking.
And where would Christmas be without its ever-present soundtrack? No, I don't mean the chirpy sound of the awful ASDA advert, which I dislike for three reasons (1. Disproves Santa's existence to children so explicitly it might as well just be a 3 minute video of a reindeer dying. 2. Demeaning to both mums and dads. 3. In the final 'perfect family Christmas' moment, the grandma is reading 50 Shades of Grey. Actually, I lie, this doesn't irritate me, it's fantastic. You go, girl.) Nor do I mean the discontent murmurs of the 'Stereotypical Daily Mail Reader' who apparently see political-correctness-gone-mad-I-mean-really-they-come-over-here-they-could-at-least-respect-our-traditions where the rest of us see a happy marriage of tradition and rampant consumerism. Oh look, I'm insulting an easy target and passing it off for edgy satire. Now I'm employing self-deprecating humour to distract from the fact that I genuinely did make a cheap and pretty bad joke. And now we've entered an observational Ouroboros, my self-referencing eating itself. I seem to have gone off on a tangent.
No, I am talking about songs and carols. Christmas music! Traditionally, a wealth of beautiful imagery, philosophical lyrics, and quiet yet joyous reverence. The simple metaphor of a holly bush, analysed, becomes a piece of Christian poetry. "In the bleak midwinter", a humble, elegant, and startlingly gorgeous description of a simple worshipper's view of Jesus' birth, put to a lovely melody. The lines "Very God, Begotten not created" in O Come All Ye Faithful are, as I have been told recently, the summation of the argument with Arianism about the hierarchy of the Holy Trinity. Not to be confused with the Aryanism, which led to very different arguments concerning the church. And who can forget the classic "Whence is that goodly fragrance flowing"? Everyone, apparently. King's College Cambridge name it as one of 25 popular carols on their CD, but nobody I've asked has ever heard of it.
We mustn't forget the more recent holiday music, of course, though I use the term 'recent' rather loosely. The legendary Bing Crosby has mastered the art of talking tunefully as an alternative to singing, and his persistent syncopation makes every one of his covers a wildly unpredictable thrill ride. His take on God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman was unusual, in quite the same way that certain varieties of life-threatening illnesses are. And then there's the load of sentimental Vera-Lynn-ish melodies, two of which tell us that the protagonist's father is either dead or going to be soon - as a THROWAWAY LINE.
There's a lot of contention for the prize of 'creepiest carol'. Santa Baby is the obvious choice, which regales us with the story of, oxymoronically, the mother of all daddy issues. My personal theory is that the sleigh-loving seductress who sings this shudderingly unsexy song is trying to find a replacement for her own father, who left home when she was young, possibly on Christmas Day or roundabouts. It's Freud's wet dream, although knowing him it would involve his estranged father and feature Carl Jung brandishing a courgette as well. It really is the antithesis of the family values that Christmas is meant to be built around. A contender, however, is Hark the Herald Angels Sing, purely for the fact that it contains the line "Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see". It sounds like the description of the 'chestburster' scene in Alien.
Carols bring back memories of a more innocent time, where we could all snigger at While Shepherds Washed Their Socks By Night, or "Most highly flavoured gravy". That's why I enjoy Christmas, because I get to act like a greedy and demanding toddler. Falalalala, lalalala.
Here's a seasonal joke I made up to finish off with:
Q: What do you strain pasta with in the run-up to Christmas?
A: An advent colander.
Hope you all have a White Christmas. If that's what you want, of course. Personally, I'm hoping for a sort of mauve.
Sunday, 16 December 2012
Sunday, 9 December 2012
Party, Not In The USA
There are many aspects of American culture which the British have enthusiastically tried to take on board, but with disappointing results. One example would be trick-or-treating; perfectly enjoyable in small town US suburbia, when brought back to Britain it met the slight hitch of the lack of local neighbourhood communities. It's almost commonplace for a staunchly patriotic middle-aged couple to refuse to give out sweets on Hallowe'en, whilst muttering about the Americanisation of modern society, and the fact that we're all going to hell on a hand-cart, but the same lack of participation in the USA could, if we rely on old children's films as our guide to their culture, result in social exile. (You know the type of film. It's Hallowe'en, and everybody is warned to stay away from the local witch, or somebody whose name is prefixed by Old Man, who inevitably lives on the corner, and whose house is akin to the gothic castle from Disney's Beauty and the Beast. They invariably turn out to be a lonely recluse whose spouse has died.)
Another example is that staple of American television, the side-salad that is the mid-season break. This is a winner with series in the US, mainly because they're ridiculously long and you can't go for 25 episodes without a huge climax of some sort. When translated to British television, however, the format suffers due to most series here having a maximum of about 13 episodes. Steven Moffat, the current head-writer for Doctor Who, adopted a mid-season break for the current series and its predecessor. It received mixed views, and although there were some who praised it, many (including myself) thought that it gave the characters only 7 episodes to build up a story arc and then have a momentous cliffhanger, resulting in one particularly bizarre point where the characters were planning a divorce WITHOUT TELLING EACH OTHER WHY THEY'D BROKEN UP. In the space of one minute, the characters had the brilliant idea of enquiring about this, and promptly got back together again.
But the one feature of US culture that I think fits least well into the mould of the UK is the end of year prom. Despite being held in July, the school is gripped with a feverish obsession with Kings, Queens, and bad disco tunes. The more optimistic of students are already getting prom dates, which is essentially gambling that there will be no other romantic action in your life for the rest of the school year. Standing in a classroom, you can hear excited conversation about whether it's more tasteful to arrive in a limo or to simply materialise in a whirlwind of glitter. The cynics are gleefully polishing their critique, and secretly enjoying that they get the opportunity to lambaste the materialistic nature of today's youth, and how modern society is, like, so fake?
All in all it makes for a jolly time. But I have reservations as to whether the prom really suits our culture. Although pretty much all American high-school movies are ridiculously exaggerated, you still get the impression, both from the media and the anecdotes of the internet, that the US high-school has a more clear-cut sense of hierarchy than we do here in Britain. There are those who are clearly popular, and those who are clearly not. When the Inbetweeners was recently adapted for American audiences, there was a lot more focus on how confusing it was that they didn't fit in either extreme, whereas the British version seemed to take it for granted that being between cool and uncool was a recognised social clique, not a lack of such. It's this sense of popularity that lends itself so well to the prom spirit, with the king and the queen, and it's certainly helped by the crucial facet of US culture which is a tendency to be more accepting of all things saccharine.
But to hold a prom in Britain? It's pretty much universally accepted that as a nation we are inherently cynical and sardonic - when faced with sickly sweet scenarios we are more inclined to be dubious than entranced. To add to this, from what I see in my school, the lines between popular and unpopular and blurry. There are numerous factions and subfactions and intermingling of the two. Popularity is measured in shades of grey, rather than existing as black and white. I am biased, of course, because I am within the school - an outsider may have the opinion that the hierarchy here is as obvious as it was in 17th Century aristocracy.
But the cynicism is rather tarnishing the vision of the perfect prom, for some. There are more tales of people planning to go in fancy dress than in suits, and 99% of all the suggestions I've heard for Prom King and Queen have been ironic. There is only one person I've heard of who is rumoured to want this coronation, and she's been quietly mocked for it for the last two weeks. She hasn't actually said that she wants to be the Prom Queen, and yet she's being ridiculed for being the type of person who might. Our cynicism is so strong it is surpassing apathy.
Come July, we will see. It could be a night full of suits and dresses, with excited chatter and polite applause for the pseudo-royals. But it's far more likely that we'll see a room full of pantomime horses and dinosaur costumes, cheering and wolf-whistling as the most testosterone-fuelled thug in the room climbs on to the stage reluctantly to be crowned Queen.
Another example is that staple of American television, the side-salad that is the mid-season break. This is a winner with series in the US, mainly because they're ridiculously long and you can't go for 25 episodes without a huge climax of some sort. When translated to British television, however, the format suffers due to most series here having a maximum of about 13 episodes. Steven Moffat, the current head-writer for Doctor Who, adopted a mid-season break for the current series and its predecessor. It received mixed views, and although there were some who praised it, many (including myself) thought that it gave the characters only 7 episodes to build up a story arc and then have a momentous cliffhanger, resulting in one particularly bizarre point where the characters were planning a divorce WITHOUT TELLING EACH OTHER WHY THEY'D BROKEN UP. In the space of one minute, the characters had the brilliant idea of enquiring about this, and promptly got back together again.
But the one feature of US culture that I think fits least well into the mould of the UK is the end of year prom. Despite being held in July, the school is gripped with a feverish obsession with Kings, Queens, and bad disco tunes. The more optimistic of students are already getting prom dates, which is essentially gambling that there will be no other romantic action in your life for the rest of the school year. Standing in a classroom, you can hear excited conversation about whether it's more tasteful to arrive in a limo or to simply materialise in a whirlwind of glitter. The cynics are gleefully polishing their critique, and secretly enjoying that they get the opportunity to lambaste the materialistic nature of today's youth, and how modern society is, like, so fake?
All in all it makes for a jolly time. But I have reservations as to whether the prom really suits our culture. Although pretty much all American high-school movies are ridiculously exaggerated, you still get the impression, both from the media and the anecdotes of the internet, that the US high-school has a more clear-cut sense of hierarchy than we do here in Britain. There are those who are clearly popular, and those who are clearly not. When the Inbetweeners was recently adapted for American audiences, there was a lot more focus on how confusing it was that they didn't fit in either extreme, whereas the British version seemed to take it for granted that being between cool and uncool was a recognised social clique, not a lack of such. It's this sense of popularity that lends itself so well to the prom spirit, with the king and the queen, and it's certainly helped by the crucial facet of US culture which is a tendency to be more accepting of all things saccharine.
But to hold a prom in Britain? It's pretty much universally accepted that as a nation we are inherently cynical and sardonic - when faced with sickly sweet scenarios we are more inclined to be dubious than entranced. To add to this, from what I see in my school, the lines between popular and unpopular and blurry. There are numerous factions and subfactions and intermingling of the two. Popularity is measured in shades of grey, rather than existing as black and white. I am biased, of course, because I am within the school - an outsider may have the opinion that the hierarchy here is as obvious as it was in 17th Century aristocracy.
But the cynicism is rather tarnishing the vision of the perfect prom, for some. There are more tales of people planning to go in fancy dress than in suits, and 99% of all the suggestions I've heard for Prom King and Queen have been ironic. There is only one person I've heard of who is rumoured to want this coronation, and she's been quietly mocked for it for the last two weeks. She hasn't actually said that she wants to be the Prom Queen, and yet she's being ridiculed for being the type of person who might. Our cynicism is so strong it is surpassing apathy.
Come July, we will see. It could be a night full of suits and dresses, with excited chatter and polite applause for the pseudo-royals. But it's far more likely that we'll see a room full of pantomime horses and dinosaur costumes, cheering and wolf-whistling as the most testosterone-fuelled thug in the room climbs on to the stage reluctantly to be crowned Queen.
Saturday, 1 December 2012
A Plea.
I feel as if I'm running out of inspiration for this blog.
I planned to do a post about the reasons why I dislike the professional football, but a) it has no jokes in and b) it isn't an interesting enough topic for me to write something eloquent or passionate about.
I planned to do a series of 'Buried Boxes' posts, each one finally getting off my chest a nasty secret about what I've done in the past - the worst points of me. I'd be happy to do that, but I wonder if it might be a little too self-piteous and uninteresting for people reading this.
I had an interesting idea to talk about the concept of true altruism, and whether the existence of a so-called natural high effectively disproves its existence, and a load of pretentious detail about that, but it seems too similar to my last posts (serious, solemn, not brilliantly written) which I've started to dislike.
I also planned a big post all about why I love villains in fiction, the different types of them that exist, and the characteristics of successful ones - I don't have much faith in what I could write, though, or how good that writing would be.
And then there's the final option: do a funny post. The real spanner in this particular works is the fact that I have misplaced my humour. I have come to the realisation that there are two types of joke I can make: puns/wordplay, and acidic rants at my pet hates. I can't write a blog post based on puns - they're too short and all I'm good at is copying other people's - and I can't come up with a really negative rant either. I think my life has become extremely positive and excellent lately, and while this is of course a good thing, my positivity means I have no fire left. I am content to let things be, see past their stereotypes, rather than make a funny jibe at them.
So, I turn to the reader. If you want me to do any of these, or have another suggestion, then please tell me. I don't know whether any of the 3 or 4 people who know about this blog are reading this - although that sentence was quite unnecessary, as its meaning would be counteracted if somebody read it, and thus the whole point of constructing it was an entirely useless endeavour. Anyhow, please help. God knows I need it.
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