by Mel (Fri Dec 04, 2009)
As the
nights draw in and it gets colder, all I want to do is grow into the sofa and
watch crap TV whilst wrapped in a blanket. If only the world would let me be. But
it has been decreed that in December I should feel festive and have lots of
fun. Yet when I look at what is done in the name of festive entertainment these
days, I feel genuinely perplexed.
The
school starts to ramp it up as early as November 1st. This year my four
children came home with four plastic tubs. A letter urged me to fill them with,
‘Seasonal goodies for our stall at the Christmas Fete!' And then, and then,
I am to transform the crappy plastic tubs into ‘Father Christmas! Why not a
Snowman? Let your imagination run riot!' I am lost for words at the absurdity
of the task.
I don't recall there being Christmas fetes at school when I
was little. I think the Nuns talked a lot about baby
Jesus, we did the Nativity play, and then it was the end of term. There weren't
endless Christmas parties, visits to Santa and music recitals. Had my working
Mum been presented with a plastic tub to decorate, I'm sure she would have told
the Nuns exactly where the tub would fit under their habits.
And whilst I'm on Christmas fetes, wouldn't you rather the
school ask your opinion? For example: ‘We want to raise money for the school,
do you want to:
a)
give us a festive cheque for 50 quid, (150 if
you're loaded), or
b)
give up a weekend to come to our shit fete
(having donated all your old books, toys and a Christmas present), and spend
the day hunched over a watered-down £5 cup of mulled wine, whilst watching your
kids buy all their old toys back with money you have just given them?'
I guarantee the cheques would come in thick and fast.
Festive evening entertainment is a curse at this time of
year. The Christmas meals, Festive Pub Crawls, Mulled Wine & Canapés (dress
casual) and Mince Pies and Carols, all car crash into each other around
December the 10th. Your liver starts to groan and you can't remember
when you last woke up without a hangover.
I remember my parents going out for a few Christmas events
in the 70's; a meal with the Joneses, that kind of thing. People did dress for
dinner and there was lots of scary blue eye shadow, Prawn Cocktail and Black Forest
Gateau. And of course they drove home drunk. But it remained a simple dinner
party. If you worked, the office went out for a pub lunch (possibly with
Babycham).
Now, if you get invited to a works Christmas ‘do', the
gloves really come off. Not so long ago I went to one at a swanky London hotel.
I arrived to find that the Paparazzi were there. Before you sound impressed, it
was hired Paparazzi! If you want to
host the ultimate event, darlings, you simply must hire your own Paparazzi. That's
not entertaining, it's tragic.
In the 70's, kids' entertainment consisted of a Dr Who
Christmas Special, or a Pantomime if you were lucky. You didn't clamour to go
to a celebrity ice dance extravaganza which cost £50 and took two hours to get out of the venue car park.
But it's the advent calendar where it has all gone wrong. Back
then I loved the thrill of opening a tiny cardboard door each morning and seeing
a pretty festive picture. Now, even this simple pleasure has been butchered. Everywhere
there are advent calendars; not showing classic, timeless images, but gaudily
promoting Hannah Montana, Spongebob Squarepants or Ben 10. And they all contain
chocolate. Is opening a tiny cardboard door and looking at a festive picture no
longer enough? Do we have to let crass, cynical marketing into every area of
Christmas? Do the kids really need chocolate every December day at 7am?
I know I sound old, but I feel disappointed. Christmas isn't
about the innocent thrills of my childhood anymore; it's this greedy, clamouring,
depressing event bearing down on me at great speed. It seems to be about having
more, and making bigger and better gestures, rather than being thankful for the
basics which are family, friends, food and drink.
Dear Santa, this year can it
just be simple? Please could you bring me some genuine fun? I promise I'll be
good.
Grumpy & Middle-Aged of
Paris.
