On Christmas Day, in the morning.

Having swerved the usual glass of bucks fizz I find I am a little more focused this morning than I normally would be, and so here’s some festive thoughts. You’re welcome.

 

Later on we’ll be hearing all about how 2019 has been for The Queen and her thoroughly redundant family. She’s taken understatement to a whole new level by describing their collected experience this year as “bumpy”, which is so far off the mark that’s it’s much like describing Gary Glitter as a misunderstood national treasure. I wonder who his favourite royal is. This may be the year that the royal family finally start to unravel. It seems bizarre that the main news headline yesterday was about Prince Philip leaving hospital to spend Christmas at home (or rather just one of them). I should suggest that they might want to save the gravitas for the day that Prince Philip doesn’t leave hospital. He already looks like he’s been exhumed.

 
Yesterday afternoon we landed at relatives to start our mission of spending Christmas Day with my deeply burdened mother in law. We’ll ‘lunch’ with her later. First stop was a village church Christingle service, which was as warming as it was clunky. The lady vicar person explained the origins of Christingle to the underwhelming (and in my case at least, underwhelmed) congregation: it’s something to do with Lincoln Cathedral and someone having a rubbish idea. At this point she brandished an orange being penetrated by a candle and decorated with raisins and jelly tots on cocktail sticks. She reminded us that we should think about those amongst God’s children less fortunate than us, the ones that litter the poorer corners of the world, and it occurred to me that, well, you know what those starving kids would probably quite benefit from right now? An orange and some raisins. Like the 20 or so that she handed out, guaranteed to be flung into the nearest bin upon exit. Misguided Christian gestures such as these are often the hardest to swallow, as they say, at this time of year.

 
This morning we share Christmas with an seriously excited 8 year old who has reminded me just how fabulous Christmas is when you get it right. It may be materialistic and wasteful, but it is quite fun. Later we’ll have a questionable meal in a care home, which will serve as wide eyed dilution to all this Santa related joy; sometimes you just have to get on with it. The news as I read it is just as bleak as one would expect: deaths in the sun, Archbishop Welby keen to ‘reflect’ on the London Bridge terror attack (which is all very well, but not really very useful) and that bastion of ludicrous rococo the Pope reminding us that God loves ‘even the worst of us’. Does He? Well then he’s a fool. And speaking of fools we also get the treat of (yes, them again) Prince William kissing his Prince Louis in a photo taken by his wife. He’s wearing a flat cap, not because he’s trying to connect with the masses and enjoys the odd episode of Peaky Blinders, but because he’s a balding bell end. It does take one to know one.

 
And that neatly takes us on to one final Olympian bell end as we are reminded that this world is still, alas, a world where Ed Sheeran still exists. Such is the crass, boundless nature of his ego (though like all arch egotists he insists he is merely a humble jester) that he has seen fit to choose Christmas Day to announce he is taking a break from everything to “travel, write and read”, but has promised to bob back up to the surface like a persistently un-flushable stool once he has “lived a little more to actually have something to write about”. Some promises are there to be broken, though I suppose it might be interesting to hear him sing about something a little more advanced than drinking Tizer and having his first period. You take a break Ed, may your travels require quite some time. His is the Christmas gift that keeps giving nothing at all.
Just thoughts. Merry Christmas everyone. And so on and so forth.

 
G B Hewitt. 25.12.2019

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