One Christmas Eve, aged around ten, I heard some odd shuffling noises coming from the landing. Tucked up in bed I decided to investigate, but I had to be cunning since my parents had given me a clear directive, “If you don’t go to sleep Father Christmas won’t come!”
Lifting myself gingerly onto the chest of drawers I managed to have a gander through the window above my door, or as I have since discovered it is called, the transom. In that precise moment the spirit of Christmas evaporated, as I clearly saw my dad inching his way down the staircase with my new bike. The fat bearded one in a red and white jumpsuit was just an illusion. But on the other hand, the presents were real!
So, for the next few years I perpetuated the illusion, especially as there was no charge on my side. Then there came a trigger point, I guess when I started to receive pocket money, when I had to start putting my hand in my skyrocket, learning the depressing fact that money received often lasted a very short time in my possession.
As a parent I repeated the duplicity with my children and so the cycle of consumerism continued.
My kids, Lucy 31, and Adam 28, may not have seen me struggling with two new bikes, but they are both now acutely aware that the clause relevant to Santa Claus is, “This bollocks is for kids!”
My Scrooge status has seen a significant surge in the last few years, but a recent exchange with the younger of the brood finally tipped me over the edge!
After years of ridicule over my choice of crap Christmas presents – who wouldn’t be touched by receiving, amongst other gems, a huge plastic Arsenal gnome (holding a flag), and the ever-present fuck off size box of Jaffa Cakes – I decided to call a truce.
My suggestion that we don’t buy each other any presents, simply because we are in the privileged position to purchase pretty much anything we want under the usual festive benchmark of a hundred pounds, was met with derision!
He wanted to continue this façade of the exchange of shite, wrapped in glitzy paper, with a cumulative equivalence in cost.
Trudging around my all-time favourite tat shop, “Flying Tiger,” yesterday I finally snapped. Surrounded by elegant shite I was encouraged to recall the quote that epitomises Christmas cheer – “It’s the thought that counts.”
Personally I prefer the similar, albeit less known line, uttered by Jack Nicholson – “What’s beautiful is all that counts, pal. That’s ALL that counts.”
Consequently, this Christmas son you are getting this photograph framed, and I’m keeping the other £98, saving you the same!
Merry Christmas!
Bah humbug!
Title photograph Photo by krakenimages on Unsplash
© Ian Kirke 2021 and all uncredited photographs