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.
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