Blog season 2, episode 5: Jingle Hell
Did you know Christmas is an anagram of Capitalism? It’s true.
In writing this, I’m not attempting to convince anyone to hate the birthday of little baby Jesus. Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and if you enjoy eating and drinking until you feel ill, paper hats flimsier than a politician’s promise, and movies with more cheese than France, you do you.
This isn’t about conversion. This is about consideration.
If you love Christmas, excellent. I’m genuinely glad that individually-wrapped chocolates and a yelling Noddy Holder bring you happiness in these dark times. But your love of Christmas doesn’t mean everyone else has to love it too.
Anti Claus hadn’t anticipated quite how flipping cold it would be at the pointed top of the Shard.
Would it have been warmer to have his underpants on the outside of his costume? He doubts it. He would’ve wrapped himself in a cape, if he had one, but everyone knows they’re a hazard since Gavin got his caught in that combine harvester. Poor Captain Cornwall.
Picking a colour for his costume had been difficult. As the anti-Santa, he’d considered the colour-wheel opposite of red, but that’s green, which is still too Christmassy. In the end, he’d plumped for black. It makes him feel like a ninja. A Christmas-killing ninja.
An absolutely freezing Christmas-killing ninja. He’d much rather be at home, and would be if he’d been able to employ decent goons. He didn’t get one application, and despite his protests, the government wouldn’t add “henchperson” to the Skilled Worker list; their evidence of “every action film ever” was difficult to argue against.
Come on, Santa, where are you? He’s had all year to prepare, he has no excuse for running late.
Ah, finally! The telltale red glow from Rudolf’s nose zips through the sky (Anti’s never understood why Santa hasn’t been pulled over; red lights are only allowed on the rear of vehicles), and is coming his direction.
Anti crouches, readying himself. Timing is everything.
As the sleigh is about to pass below, he flings himself off the building and falls, and falls…
Inclusion should not be assumed. Exclusion should not be stigmatising.
I’m not going to list every reason there is to hate Christmas, or this piece would be longer than my first novel. But even people who love it have to accept some things about it suck (Christmas, that is, not my novel).
Outside of the general commercialisation and encouragement of excess that infect every facet, here’s a few specific dislikes:
- The bizarre lie of Santa Claus, a way for parents to threaten kids with fewer presents for bad behaviour and blame it on a mythical fat man.
- Christmas adverts – companies’ efforts to sell you tat you don’t need, let’s not forget – somehow being newsworthy, or something someone would look forward to.
- The same damn songs every year, everywhere, for at least a month.
- Pressuring introverts into acting extroverted.
- Flashing lights on the outside of a home, where the people who live there can’t see them but everyone else can.
- Tinsel.
But most of all, it’s the ubiquity of it. It’s inescapable. And that is inarguably unfair.
…and falls, until he lands with a thump on the garishly-wrapped presents in the back of the sleigh. From the multiple crunches he heard on impact, a few kids are going to be disappointed Christmas morning.
If this goes well, there won’t be a Christmas morning.
He forces himself unsteadily to his feet to find Santa pointing a t-shirt cannon at his face.
“It ends tonight!” Anti Claus yells, barely able to hear his own voice over the roaring wind.
“I understand why you hate it, I do,” Santa Claus shouts back. “But think of the corporations. What would they do without this bump in sales every year?”
Anti reaches into a pouch on his utility belt for a flashbang pellet and…
There’s nothing in it! The item description on Amazon said it was a “fully-stocked” utility belt. And it’s past the return date! He bellows in frustration, grabs a wrapped racket of some kind from the pile of gifts, and leaps at Santa. A balled-up t-shirt whizzes past his ear as he swings the racket with all his might at the big red blob.
Santa ducks with impressive grace for a man of his size, discards his cannon, and pulls a colourful square box from under his seat. It has a crank on the side which he rapidly rotates, and it plays a song.
Anti recognises that tune, but it’s too fast. Wait, is that…?
It reaches the “And a partridge in a pear tree” climax, and a boxing glove springs out the top of the box, thumping Anti flush on the chin and sending him over the edge of the sleigh.
He was right. It is ending tonight. Just not as he hoped.
His plummet jerks to a stop almost as soon as it begins; Santa has a hold of his ankle, dangling him dangerously as the buildings speed past far below.
Some people have very personal reasons for hating Christmas, for instance a time-of-year-triggered trauma. What are they supposed to do for the whole of December? Live in a bomb shelter? (Actually, that sounds appealing, has anybody got one I can rent for a few weeks?)
The more that people try to make Christmas compulsory for those who don’t like it, the more they’ll hate it, and the more they’ll resist.
You may have the perspective that the haters shouldn’t ruin it for everyone else. I can understand that (kind of), but I don’t think it’s reasonable to make it so one-sided for such a long period of time (and Christmas does get earlier every year).
Tolerance can be maintained for short spells, and the day itself may actually be enjoyable, but no-one should be forced to participate in something they actively dislike for weeks on end – not without being paid anyway.
“Let me go!” Anti shouts to Santa, all the blood rushing to his head as he’s buffeted by air resistance. It’s difficult to read his face whilst swinging upside down, but he swears he sees surprise beneath the white beard and that stupid red hat.
“No,” Santa shouts back. “Tell me what you want for Christmas.”
“This wasn’t enough to get me on the naughty list?!” Anti’s taken aback. “It’s a scam, isn’t it?”
Santa shrugs and readjusts his grip on Anti’s ankle, holding him with both hands. “There must be something you want?”
“A bit of restraint with the adverts and music? Oh, and to sell loads of copies of my book.”
“I give gifts, not miracles.” He shakes his head. “Can you reach up and give me your hand?”
He still doesn’t understand. “No, let me go!”
Anti bucks and struggles, and kicks Santa’s grip with his free foot, trying to get himself free, but it’s no use. He can’t escape. He’s never been able to escape.
He stops fighting it and hangs loose. “I’ll never accept it. You need to let me go.”
Santa sighs. “You’re so stubborn.”
“You’re the one holding on.” He closes his eyes and whispers, “Let me go. Let me go. Let me…”
Finally, he’s released, and he drops into the blissfully quiet night sky below…
Christmas is supposed to be about peace on Earth and goodwill toward men (and women); we can all get behind that. But goodwill to all means considering what they want, not what we think they should want.
Let people hate Christmas.
If you don’t shove it down their throats for the whole of December, they might even enjoy it. (Maybe. A little bit.)
A turkey dinner is placed in front of Anti Claus and he smiles a, “Thank you,” to his mother.
She sits at the head of the table, opposite his father, who tells him, “Remove your mask at the dinner table.”
“It’s how I maintain my anonymity,” Anti protests.
His sister pipes up. “But we all know you!”
The feeble pop of a cracker interrupts them; his two nephews couldn’t wait. The youngest, the wielder of the larger half of the cracker, reads the joke, groans, and hands it to Anti to read out.
“What did Santa say when he saw a prostitute carrying two garden tools?”
No-one answers.
“Hoe, Hoe, Ho.”
More groans, and more pops as everyone decides they may as well do their crackers now too. The rest of the jokes are just as bad, and the prizes are worse, but no-one cares.
As Anti tucks into his dinner, delicious as always, Anti wonders whether he’d actually be a fan of Christmas if it wasn’t for the two months of preparation and build up. Not that he’d admit that to anyone; it might encourage them to think he can be turned. But the day itself – whisper it – ain’t too bad.
“Put your hat on, Uncle [redacted].”
“Don’t push it.”
Featured image background photo by Nadiia Ganzhyi on Unsplash.
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