In the US they get Mariah Carey warbling “All I Want for Christmas Is You” and re-runs of Home Alone (1990), turkey stuffing that tastes like ass and everybody pretending they drink eggnog.
In the UK it’s Love, Actually (2003) and roast potatoes with their turkey, “Fairytale of New York” by The Pogues and mulled wine, which is made by taking perfectly good wine and holding it in your mouth for three minutes before spitting it back in the bottle, ready to serve.
In Canada they like their Bublé and The Grinch (2018), enjoy gobbling turkey as much as their southern fried neighbour, but drink this loathesome shit called wassail which is what rich people gave starving carollers to make them fuck off.
Here in Australia we eat prawns at Christmas, drink beer or maybe sangria if you’re fancy, watch Die Hard (1988) and listen to “How to Make Gravy” by Paul Kelly.
Yep, we win. Sucks to be you.
I don’t have favourites, but I know “Fairytale of New York” is better than “Jesus Refulsit Omnium”. I’ll allow myself a G&T heavy on lime, and it wouldn’t be Christmas without the Griswolds. I’ll eat myself into a food coma, and be greatful not to be homeless.
But I don’t believe in Christmas.
While I’d be tempted to frolic naked in the woods in pagan celebration of the winter equinox in the country of my birth, I don’t live there anymore.
Snow-frosted fir trees and “jingle bells” in Australia, tho? Come on.
Christ was a character in a badly-written book, a bit like Peekay in The Power of One. The idea of attending a liturgical service because some kid was born in a barn is absurd.
May as well bend the knee to Charlie Bucket or beg forgiveness from Holden Caulfield, confess my sins to Piggy.
So it’s always been a weird day, Christmas.
Never really questioned it until Seinfeld. Now I know what I’ve been doing all along. I’ve just kept it quiet because I don’t want to be persecuted for my beliefs!
Festivus.
The airing of grievances, followed by feats of strength. And prawns. Sounds like the perfect way to cap off another shitty year!