Christmas Trees! Everythings red! Father Christmas! WHY WHY WHY?
Christmas, an excuse to get drunk before lunch. And traditions. And farty sprout bums. And goodwill to all people.
But mostly traditions.
But why all these traditions?
Is it because of the Christmas police, who burst through our doors every year, waving their batons and screaming “DO YOU ALL HAVE YOUR PARTY HATS ON!” and “WHY DOES THIS 5 YEAR OLD NOT HAVE A BADLY WRAPPED UP BICYCLE UNDER THE TREE!”
This week I asked myself some of the big questions about Christmas traditions.
Why do we eat turkey?
Why do we eat turkeys on Jesus birthday? Turkeys are lameo. Everyone knows it.
Its telling that the only people who eat turkey outside of Christmas are the permanently spandex-clad fitspirationtwitterati with their 12% body fat and their healthy eating food blogs and their recipes posts called “4000 things to do with Turkey other than fuck it,” and “how to get that muscle in your neck to stick out so shirts don’t fit properly.”
Because turkeys are effort. They always need to be put in the oven at least six hours before you want to wake up and even then they always come out dry and crumbly and weird.
This year we are fucking tradition in its goddam face and eating a chicken because of the Great Turkey Crown Incident of 2014, where my mum bought a turkey crown (I didn’t know it wore a hat either) instead of a turkey, and then left it in the warmest part of her slightly broken fridge for a week, where it proceeded to turn green.
At the time she remarked, “I wondered what that smell was.”
Why do we have to talk to our extended family?
(N.B I like my family – this is a satirical rant exploited for comedy reasons)
Why do we as a nation have to spend the time with our whole entire family, including our most racist of relations? Isn’t it telling that a national holiday had to be invented in order for us to exchange gifts with people who think we like the same things we did when we were 15, and therefore only buy us scrunchies and Rimmel eyeshadow and 15 year old boys? I know its the ‘right thing to do,’ and I happen to like my family but I am a fortunate one. Think of the thousands of people who spend Christmas eve memorising Guardian articles in order to explain the economical benefits of immigration through a haze of baileys to their daily mail loving uncle, who dismisses everything they say as the wild ramblings of a disenfranchised youth.
Why Bread Sauce?
Every year my mother insists on making five loaves worth of bread sauce, which no one eats, apart from her obligatory barely touched dollop because “its tradition.” Apparently it’s something her mother use to do, and her mothers mother use to do back in the day. Well back in the day they thought Jim Davidson was funny and use to ride around on horses so excuse me if I don’t trust anything pre 2000.
Every year I attempt to make the bread+milk+butter dish taste like something other than a mound of wet dough by adding cloves or salt or sugar or the cat and every year it’s still tastes like a mound of wet dough. This year I’m adding in a bottle of brandy, and then accidentally setting it on fire.
Why are we watching the Queens Speech again?
Every year she gets wheeled out by the controllers of BBC from the dusty cupboard she lives in, having woken from a sherry-infused stupor, wondering why no one is handing her flowers before she reads out the same autocue from last year, before a montage of clips of her touching peasants is shown alongside videos of overdressed children singing hymns – and you know that’s going to be the highlight of their lives.
She never says anything interesting and she’s always filmed in front of one of her 50 grand fireplaces talking about the plight of the less fortunate, but it’s okay guys because you know, God.
Why aren’t the jokes in the crackers funnier?
Who is writing these damn pun based groan-inducing recycled hack jokes? Is that what top billing performers at Jongleurs do the rest of the year? Why can’t they slip in the odd surrealist bit of humour, like:
Why does Santa have three gardens?
Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?
Did Rudolph go to school?
No. He’s a deer.
What song do you sing at a snowman’s birthday party?
HOW ARE YOU ALIVE YOU’RE A SNOWMAN
To be fair – we tend to have crackers from the lower scale of supermarket, so maybe the jokes reflect the economical level of our humour. I guess M & S or Waitrose crackers probably have jokes written by Stephen Fry and Sandi Toksvig, and the prizes inside are tickets on the Virgin Galactic or a free rub of Boris Johnsons belly.
Why do we have to watch it’s a Wonderful Life?
Despite claims of it being the most uplifting film about a failed suicide attempt, I have no urge to watch this movie. I have also been alive for a while now so I know every single thing that happens in this movie and personally I would rather see a version where James Stewarts character is shown what everyone’s life would be like if he hadn’t been born, and you know what? Marginally better for it.
Why do we set the pudding on fire?
According to wikipedia its because it’s so disgusting there is no alternative.
Why does Father Christmas exist?
My poor mother, raising us as a single parent, slaving away all year to earn enough money to buy us Barbies and then having to give all the credit to some immortal wizard guy. Typical patriarchy taking all credit from women as normal. Why can’t parents just be honest and say ‘guys, these are from us – there is no Santa, or tooth fairy, also you will probably never be able to afford to buy a house, and Clarrissa, no chocolate for you this year because as a woman you can not legally let yourself go until you are 65.”
Okay – investigation over because deep down I fucking love Christmas. I love writing “happy Christmas – your adopted” on my sisters gift tags, I love that bucks fizz is the first thing I put in my body in the morning, I love playing the game of life, and making my sister and mum watch some kind of film for 10-year-olds (this year I’m forcing them to watch Paddington) and I love sprouts.
I fucking love sprouts guys. They make me gassy and happy.
Gappy. or Hassy. Either way, deep down I do love Christmas, and when the Christmas police raid my house on Christmas day with their grenades, I will say “nothing to see here.” And hand them a mince pie.