sendawaythetigers – thechristmasspecial

The Ghost of Christmas Presents

Yes, as you sit there, in your “Father Christmas hat”, surrounded by tinsel, gorging on your pies made of mincemeat (the vegetarian answer to, well, a mince pie) you too are partaking in the greatest of Christmas rituals: the hallowed cliché. Like all our greatest celebratory moments, the ridiculous becomes the norm. This Festive Special (not just for you ‘Christ-lovers’…), represents a growing desire to ‘Christmas-ise’ our pitiful lives, as we hope to escape the mundanity of ourselves, via the celebration of a ‘baby’, of which very few seem sure existed.

Come the 25th of December, we will gather round a table, with people we are made to love, in a forceful exchange of frivolity, like something even the Americans (The World’s Greatest Democracy™) haven’t even thought of using in their treacherous Camp of the Orange: Guantanamo Bay. This can be borderline torture.

We each have our own ‘Christmas Specials’, don’t we though? I mean some families may enjoy pulling a cheeky cracker, filled with cheap despair; others enjoy congregating together, with the millions of others worldwide, just knowing they share a bond across this globe, in the viewing of the ‘East-enders’; whilst a number of you will enjoy watching a blazing row led by your pissed aunt, resulting in prosecution, which most certainly dampens the occasion. What about me you ask? Surely, these purely fantastical accounts you have preceded with are not your ‘clichéd’ jovial actions, but fictitious realities: what do you do?

We partake in a family-based ‘Secret Santa’. As an avid fanatic of Stand-Up Comedy and a University Student, I was, of course, the easiest person to buy for…whoever did ‘get’ me. As you expected, I was delighted to unwrap a lovely book (there’s currently in education part…ipso facto ‘likes a book’…although the fact I used ‘ipso facto’ suggests they may have got me right…). Not any book though, NO; an autobiography, of a notorious Stand-Up: a certain Mr Michael McIntyre…you may or may not have heard of him. He became rather large around 2008 onwards (in more than one sense of the word). He had a ‘tele-programme’, making people laugh, about a drawer where he keeps men?

Titled: Life & Laughing: My Story. Published: 2010 (he was 34). RRP: £20.00 (as if he didn’t have enough money already…). Here we reach the most fatal of all Christmas clichés (and it is not the fact my family clearly don’t know me as well as one may hope): the autobiography of someone with very little life. I mean he hasn’t even had a life-threatening illness, which is always a personal favourite to read upon. Born into a wealthy middle-class family, it appears he has had a very nice time of it; yet sure there may have been hardships: in 2002, his double-fronted, American-styled refrigerator broke…or something like that. Maybe not the most exhilarating of life stories…give me My Story So Far by Stacey Solomon, any day of the week. At least she realised the marketability of life as a commodity, “so far” suggests so much more…an air of suspense suddenly fills the room (something I think we agree Jesus, like McIntyre did not: hence the definitive nature of their titles: My Story and The Bible, respectively).

So what? What do I really desire from this wintry wonderland, which appears as the grey sludge of days’ old snow? I wish to reclaim the festivity. Christmas must be stripped back, like a Turkey on Christmas Day. We must go to the bare bones of it: the carcass, if you will. We must come to reawaken our sense of justice in the world; you know, remember those living in the cold, frosty nights, with very few who understand them, and even less who desire to help them. How will they cook their turkeys on a camping-stove: the people of St Pauls…Occupy London Stock Exchange…whilst all them bloody bankers enjoy pheasant or goose, or something else ridiculous, like, the White-Throated Rock Thrush.

We all know what Christmas is truly about, and we must come to realise this; we must, we must. Presents. And fucking good ones at that. That’s what it’s all about…so don’t buy me a shit book I still haven’t read, regardless of my interest, education, and demeanour…

“You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it’s our last”