bicker

Having barely begun this missive I feel somewhat humbled by the whirlwind of emotive seasonal ramblings already posted hereabouts by one or two or three individuals who's creative capsule has provided entertainment and warmth over the last month or so. This Christmas story, whatever it is, has always been consumed by the medium of it's recital, from the idle Christmas skuttlebutt of three zoroastrian kings as they camellled back to Iran following their exhausting journey to see that kid, a scene endlessly unfolded before us on greeting cards depicting showy frocked blokes atop camels, pointing and waving sticks at the searing light of that bloody glitter-glued star. As history catapults the story-telling forward into the twenty-first century the immaculate message has become a celebration of recital, for the sake of telling alone and consequently it's blogging now provides the antithesis of the first tongue-tied gassings of those Judean shepherds as they tramped back to their flocks, perhaps on donkeys, once the fuss was all over in the town of David.

Christmas for me is now studded with the ranting repertoire of Den & Angie's divorce,
with Arthur Fowler's unhinging,
with the trampy old angel in It's a Wonderful Life,
with Dougal's "Perfume is a woman's present isn't it Ted ? Yes Dougal, God designed it so we wouldn't have to put any thought into it at all",
with Blackadder's "There's something in the bottom of this stocking for you Baldrick, I've made you a fist, it's for hitting, and what's wonderful is you can use it again and again",
with Dawn French's "Yes, you've got a mince pie stuck up your bottom, but you're in luck, because I've got some cream for that",
with Brian's mother "Do you do a lot of this praying? So he's the son of God is he, king of the Jews... so that's Capricorn is it?",
with Shane MacGowen & Kirtsty Maccoll's "You scumbag you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, Happy Christmas your arse, I prey God it's our last", and
with Matt Dillon, in the latter, because he's Matt Dillon.

Here enacted, with a kind of tiptoeing adolescence, out of place in this arena characterised by self-prophecy, Catholic confessional and the need to be discovered, perhaps coupled with one of the following - excitation, panic, despair - I plot my own meandering course around the ghostly marshmallow sentimentality of Christmas present, in no specific order:

find refuge to be alone / drink enough to fall asleep so blanking out the plaintive pleadings of niece and nephew, kith and kin and The Snowman / enjoy a bottle of great wine in preference to knocking back all the cheap bottles that someone brought back from a £60 booze-cruise to Calais / ignore Delia's advice to stop and relax at 9.30am in order to have a cup of coffee and tidy the house having already prepared the lunch arrangements / remain seated in order to avoid stepping on a new ipod nano and breaking it / distract mum from hauling out the Playstation dance mat for another years exertions / remain seated in order to avoid stepping on the giant Amazonian ants and breaking their delicate little legs off before they've all been eaten up.

Against the glass the rain doth beat and bicker - merry Christmas.