Wednesday, 5 December 2012

The Joy Of Christmas - Part One

Bing Crosby spent most of his time dreaming of a white one, Andy Williams believed that it was the most wonderful time of the year, and not wanting to feel left out in the cold, Perry Como joined forces with David Bowie, to entertain us with a delightful song about a little drummer boy.
And love them or hate them, one thing is for sure, if you don't find yourself whistling a Christmas tune by the end of this month - whether stuck in a lift, waiting to see a dentist, sitting behind your computer, taking a shower, waiting in the queue at the supermarket checkout or emptying your bowels - you're not really human, are you?

Ahhh...God bless Perry, Bing, Andy and a host of others, including Roger Whittaker, Slade, Wham and just about every other recording artist of the last century, and this one, for making Christmas such a special time of year.
As I write, I am overcome with nostalgia and the effects of cheap red wine, thinking about spending many a Christmas Eve in a fine English pub, drinking lager, smoking my cheap cigars, laughing and joking with the other customers, nibbling away at the free cheese and onion sandwiches, and listening to the jukebox, as another sad bastard paid fifty pence to listen to another Christmas song - knowing that The Sex Pistols, Iron Maiden, The Smiths and The Who would certainly not be permitted to fill the air with their fine music, at such a special time of year.
Then came more lager, more cigars, more crude and vulgar jokes and more stale cheese and onion sandwiches. Then, as is the norm at this time of year, enter the charity collector - dressed in a Santa Claus outfit - collecting on behalf of the local puppy hospice. Ahhh...out comes a banknote, because not even a hard-faced bugger like Luke Ryman can allow a poor puppy to suffer at this time of year. And then, out comes another coin, as I trudge off towards the jukebox, to blast away the thoughts of puppies suffering with the sound of God Save The Queen, sung delightfully by The Sex Pistols. 
And that's when the looks come. What the hell have I done? Well, in my half-drunken state, I have stuck two fingers up to tradition, belched at the dreary bastards who I've been laughing and joking with, and decided that although white Christmases are all very nice, I don't need to overload my brain with Bing's sentimental slush, and Andy's irritating refrains. NO! I want music to shake the pub, music to wake us all from our slumber, and music to help me forget about this time of year.
Even the landlord gives me a filthy look. It's best, his face says, if I finish my drink and go to another pub, where my kind of people are welcome to pollute the air with vile lyrics, at the time of year when the anniversary of the birth of our Lord should not be celebrated with punks singing a song about the monarchy.
I tell the landlord that his sandwiches are crap. I tell the landlord that his lager is warm. I wish the other customers a MERRY F**KING CHRISTMAS, and in my drunken state, I send a couple of baubles flying across the pub.
The landlord isn't angry with me, for after all, this is Christmas, when peace and goodwill to all men is what this most wonderful time of the year is all about!


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