It's creeping up once more. Christmas. Magazines are trying to worry the women of Britain, and bamboozle them into giving a toss about tablecloths and home-made gifts, again. And you have to start fretting about your pre-Christmas diet so that you can guiltlessly nibble a mince pie on The Great Day. The Marks & Spencers ads feature capering female fools getting all worked up over wrapping paper,in the intervals between running down the street linking arms, tottering in their painful shoes.
People go mad in the shops, and start wild purchasing of over-priced tut...the whole thing is absurd..Actually, most men don't. I try and have a man's Christmas, as much as it is possible. That means ignoring the silly, fretful aspects and just drinking a bit more. When I worked in shops over the Christmas period, I always enjoyed Christmas Eve, for the last minute post-pub stampede of the panicking male. Nothing says "I love you" like a tiny envelope with the receipt in it. Underwear is a minefield at the best of times,so why not get drunk and then charge into Debenhams at the last minute and buy something scratchy and unsuitable for the woman in your life? It's a high-risk sport, especially when you have no clue about her size. You can always stare hopelessly at the chests of sales girls and mutter "Well I think she's about the same...erm.. height as you?" The gratitude of these punters when you sort them out with something acceptable, do the whole gift-wrap thing, and make sure they keep the all-important bill, is nothing short of profound. I have been given large tips by nice men for providing this essential service. Mind you,I have also been dragooned into shopping with a dear male pal who had got it into his head that his girlfriend wanted toe separators for Christmas. They are no longer together, I mean him and the girl, not her toes. Someone once bought me a posh coffee machine. I think the thinking was "You like coffee;here's a machine that makes it". Unfortunately it wasn't a kind of Mary Poppins arrangement which gurgled you up a cup and then disassembled itself, cleaned itself, and jumped back into its box. I would have liked that. But it was the world's fiddle, with lots of little tubes and valves. Isambard Kingdom Brunel might have been thrilled with it, but I turned it into two frocks using the magic of Keep The Receipt.
When I was little, we had the truly old-fangled Christmas of the 50's child. Dire threats kept us in bed until 7am, when we were allowed to investigate the contents of our stockings, which contained a ration book and a drawing of an orange.
My Dad,who normally only came in the kitchen to shout at the dog or dismantle a radio, had decided that The Turkey was butch enough for him to engage with. My Mother would eye the sherry bottle and scrabble for her cigarettes when he began the great bad-tempered turkey wrangling process. He also washed up after Christmas Dinner. Another concession to the Feast Of Misrule , as he didn't touch a teatowel from one year's end to the other the rest of the time. Any surviving dishes were put away in a manger. Our kitchen cupboards were ill-fitting, and behaved like doors in a Victorian penny peep-show haunted house. They would fly open unbidden, or suddenly creak and collapse. After a few blows to the bonce, my Dad 's problem-solving skills emerged. He got some foam rubber, and he padded all the edges of the cupboard doors. No, they didn't shut, but it didn't hurt nearly as much when you banged your forehead on them.Christmas Day in our house was sometimes fraught with tension, as two individuals attempted to fulfill traditional gender roles for which they were unsuited by temperament. Mum loathed cooking, and did it with a fag in her hand and murder in her eyes. Dad was a dangerously inventive DIY-er, but persisted because he was too mean to get a man in, and felt it was a sign of masculinity to smash things with hammers. I think they would have been much happier with servants, but alas, none were forthcoming. My Mum's sister had several "ladies who did". Ironically, Auntie Madge was an adept and accomplished domestic goddess, perfectly capable of turning out three kinds of cake without recourse to the gin bottle and the Fire Brigade.
We always went there on Boxing Day, with great relief.
This year, I am in charge. The GB is only too happy to act as kitchen porter. He likes sharp knives. I am scouring Marks for an entirely microwaveable Christmas Dinner, and I feel sure that they will not let me down.
People go mad in the shops, and start wild purchasing of over-priced tut...the whole thing is absurd..Actually, most men don't. I try and have a man's Christmas, as much as it is possible. That means ignoring the silly, fretful aspects and just drinking a bit more. When I worked in shops over the Christmas period, I always enjoyed Christmas Eve, for the last minute post-pub stampede of the panicking male. Nothing says "I love you" like a tiny envelope with the receipt in it. Underwear is a minefield at the best of times,so why not get drunk and then charge into Debenhams at the last minute and buy something scratchy and unsuitable for the woman in your life? It's a high-risk sport, especially when you have no clue about her size. You can always stare hopelessly at the chests of sales girls and mutter "Well I think she's about the same...erm.. height as you?" The gratitude of these punters when you sort them out with something acceptable, do the whole gift-wrap thing, and make sure they keep the all-important bill, is nothing short of profound. I have been given large tips by nice men for providing this essential service. Mind you,I have also been dragooned into shopping with a dear male pal who had got it into his head that his girlfriend wanted toe separators for Christmas. They are no longer together, I mean him and the girl, not her toes. Someone once bought me a posh coffee machine. I think the thinking was "You like coffee;here's a machine that makes it". Unfortunately it wasn't a kind of Mary Poppins arrangement which gurgled you up a cup and then disassembled itself, cleaned itself, and jumped back into its box. I would have liked that. But it was the world's fiddle, with lots of little tubes and valves. Isambard Kingdom Brunel might have been thrilled with it, but I turned it into two frocks using the magic of Keep The Receipt.
When I was little, we had the truly old-fangled Christmas of the 50's child. Dire threats kept us in bed until 7am, when we were allowed to investigate the contents of our stockings, which contained a ration book and a drawing of an orange.
My Dad,who normally only came in the kitchen to shout at the dog or dismantle a radio, had decided that The Turkey was butch enough for him to engage with. My Mother would eye the sherry bottle and scrabble for her cigarettes when he began the great bad-tempered turkey wrangling process. He also washed up after Christmas Dinner. Another concession to the Feast Of Misrule , as he didn't touch a teatowel from one year's end to the other the rest of the time. Any surviving dishes were put away in a manger. Our kitchen cupboards were ill-fitting, and behaved like doors in a Victorian penny peep-show haunted house. They would fly open unbidden, or suddenly creak and collapse. After a few blows to the bonce, my Dad 's problem-solving skills emerged. He got some foam rubber, and he padded all the edges of the cupboard doors. No, they didn't shut, but it didn't hurt nearly as much when you banged your forehead on them.Christmas Day in our house was sometimes fraught with tension, as two individuals attempted to fulfill traditional gender roles for which they were unsuited by temperament. Mum loathed cooking, and did it with a fag in her hand and murder in her eyes. Dad was a dangerously inventive DIY-er, but persisted because he was too mean to get a man in, and felt it was a sign of masculinity to smash things with hammers. I think they would have been much happier with servants, but alas, none were forthcoming. My Mum's sister had several "ladies who did". Ironically, Auntie Madge was an adept and accomplished domestic goddess, perfectly capable of turning out three kinds of cake without recourse to the gin bottle and the Fire Brigade.
We always went there on Boxing Day, with great relief.
This year, I am in charge. The GB is only too happy to act as kitchen porter. He likes sharp knives. I am scouring Marks for an entirely microwaveable Christmas Dinner, and I feel sure that they will not let me down.
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