When it comes to Christmas, you’ve got Elves or Humbugs. You either embrace the tradition in whatever form suits you, or you’re sworn against it as if Christmas is trying to lick your face- But each to their own.
I’ll admit, there are some tropes of Christmas that are less appealing than others. Oceans of people in town shopping. The cold. The repeated adverts. How people working in retail are still on minimum wage. The forced, festive ‘office do’ where the boss can finally let their hair down, pull a cracker and wear a paper hat thinner than toilet paper whilst the rest of us all compare how much we loathe our jobs, and promise that this will be the year we finally take the plunge and leave.
But overall, the good outweighs the bad. Reunions, indulgences, time off, pigs in blankets, carols, celebrations, more pigs in blankets, potential presents and traditions of comfort. There’s a lot of ticks in boxes. Whether you’re of the church going nature and in it for the sermon and wine, looking to feel the sweet cold side of the pillow in the morning instead of going to work, or the fanatic who started their Christmas shopping in the January sales, and to them, Christmas is like opening night at the theatre.
Either way, I think it’s safe to say that usually, someone gets something out of the festivities Christmas bestows. … Except retail workers…
But I think there’s something gutturally nostalgic about Christmas; it manifests an impulsive need to clutch to fragments and mementoes of one’s childhood, and in doing so, provides an escapism and significance to an event that anchors people to traditions, family and other universal tropes. Although I’m all for this, they can become a reliant crutch that’s too heavily leaned on by association. But as Christmas is but once a year, I understand the reliance for continuity and in some cases, impulse for grandeur.
Then again, you could just be looking to enjoy some time off work and sit in your pants… It’s pretty good.
Although I have my own seasonal traditions and rituals, I usually don’t like imposing these on others. Besides, these are usually limited to a film suggestion or a type of dish to cook or bottle to bring. So, although these are rather mundane, but appropriate within the Christmas arena, they’re usually met with equal enthusiasm. After all, no one’s going to say no to putting on Muppets Christmas Carol.
But although I have very fond memories of Christmas as a child, they were also torturous and came at the cost of traditions. I’d wake up Christmas day, unwrap the motherload, and relish in an ecstasy of excitement at the hours of fun I was going to have.
But no- Family traditions...
Instead, we’d get in a car and drive for around eight hours to see an elderly relative who not only resembled Miss. Havisham in appearance, but also the manner in which she lived. It was an old, dark, cold house where you’d smell a bouquet of tea, lavender, mould and dust as you walked in. It really couldn’t have been less appealing or exciting to children. For example, one particularly enforced rule was ‘No television’ incase it gave us ‘square eyes’. So why own one? Why have it sitting there taunting us?
‘And no, you can’t bring any toys’.
I realise I sound like a brat, but I was just a child looking to bank some hours playing with my Action Men.
So, it wasn’t ideal, and not necessarily the most magical Christmas experience three children thought of when staying up all night waiting for Santa. I can also appreciate how ‘No Television’ may tickle some people and should warrant the opportunity for us to adopt a stiff upper lip and respect your elders. But speaking on behalf of my generation, we were reliant on television for entertainment- it was all we had. For long before the times of iPhones, memes and TikTok, there was floppy discs, dial-up and scheduled TV. But here, with Miss. Haversham, we’d gone back even further in time.
So instead, we’d either spend the day counting the veins on her translucent hands or end up throwing Werther’s originals at each other and blame the other when we got caught. You couldn’t win; if boredom sunk in, it would soon be drowned out by the endless Guantanamo repeat cycle of Cliff Richard. Or you were on edge and terrified that the veiled, skeleton relative would beckon you forward like the Ghost of Christmas Future to pinch your cheeks with her cold, Victorian hands and repeatedly comment on our youthfulness. Either way, it certainly wasn’t the Christmas experience the films or carols had promised us.
This made no sense to me at the time and to this day, I still ponder the point of the trip. Throughout the years, it continued to bewilder my Mother more than The DaVinci code that none of us would be backflipping to the car rearing to go Christmas morning. But this was a tradition we were sentenced to every year until we moved out. So, once I flew the nest, I made sure my Cliff Richard days were behind me, and instead, I’d do whatever I wanted to mark the occasion.
- Chicken wings in bed? – Count me in.
- Spend the day playing video games in my pants? – Of course.
- Sit in a fort eating meat off the bone like a festive caveman? – Yes, and I’d do it again.
Then again, you’ve also got the option of working- if you wanted to. Sure, it’ll be a busy shift, but when everyone else is feeling the pinch at the start of the new year, you’ll come out smelling mildly of roses in comparison.
But as I’ve grown older and wearier, I’ve found myself swaying back to traditions of the past once again. I’m not entirely sure when it happened, but they’ve returned with an unfathomable appetite for nostalgia, sentimentality and comfort. Although I wouldn’t necessarily say that I’m fully on the Elf side of the fence, its possibly just a Christmas itch that I haven’t quite managed to get.
This will be the third Christmas I’ve spent with Burty, but the first in a long while, so I’m keen to see what his approach is. Although I lived and celebrated with him in the past, I wouldn’t count a pint at midnight after a double shift down the local boozer. Or the one proceeding year when Burty caught a back draft of Covid and spent Christmas spluttering and sweating behind the walls of his fortress.
Overall Burty isn’t a fan of Christmas; he’d rather be working and get the money if he could. But historically, he’s also had a great distaste for forced festivities and finds the experience to be hammy and cringy as if we’re all going to burst out into a choreographed Christmas dance in the middle of the town centre.
But with Christmas approaching, I scaled the stairs of scurvy to broach the topic. To which he candidly declared
‘I don’t give a s**t about Christmas.’
This isn’t necessarily a surprise; we’ve got a humbug – I can deal with that. But what followed was a waterfall of festive resentment and slander that matched every Christmas movie antagonist turned believer I could think of.
‘Bah Humbug-It’s a waste of time-It’s a waste of money- It’s tacky- It’s cold- It’s just another day-It’s pointless- They should cancel Christmas.’
All the cliché heavy hitters were there.
Despite the prickly reception, I countered with a number of suggestions of what I thought we could do together to mark the occasion- Such as a small, festive themed meal together or a movie.
His face dropped and he paused his game with a heavy sigh.
‘Please tell me you’re not decorating the house…’ he exclaimed wearily.
No, I don’t decorate the house. Unless you count fairy lights on a cardboard cutout of Arnold Schwarzenegger and a pile of already eaten galaxy advent calendar trays. Besides, tinsel and pine needles with my hunger for hoovering? Madness…. Not to mention what Minion would do.
Although Burty wasn’t enthused with the idea, after some fiercely un-festive negotiations, he reluctantly agreed. I was given an allocated time slot which would include food, drinks and potentially a communal food coma in front of the TV afterwards-Not bad.
‘You can be our Christmas tree this year- on account of your height.’ I comically quipped. Although my face lit with elation at the comical comparison, Burty’s did not. I now understand this was because Burty knew full well that this wasn’t the last time he would hear this joke.
Then Burty’s final request; no presents. In Burty’s mind, he doesn’t expect them, and as such, he’s a firm believer in keeping up the mantra across the board- no exceptions.
‘What about secret Santa at work?’ I chimed.
He gives another deep, exhausted sigh.
‘I’ll do it if I have to.’
I know secret Santa is sometimes inconvenient and the last thing on most people’s mind. But considering the effort to reward ratio of potentially brightening someone’s day, just for a little bit, I found the approach very cut and dry. I appreciate the best you’re going to receive is the equivalent of a Lynx Africa shower gel set or a funky mug, but it’s something and requires minimal thought. I also understand that it’s a chore; especially if it’s for someone you ether don’t know, or someone you’ve never spoken to before in your life. But suck it up buttercup, because you can get away with buying just about anything, and that’s what makes it fun.
Personally, I think there’s something traditional about making a secret Santa gift as hilariously crap as possible. Or more accurately, it’s better to go with something crap than nice. If you go too far the latter way, then you’re just a creep. It’s a strange time of year where you can get away with buying someone a custom-made face pillow, a box of popping chocolate c**ks, or even a new work cup reading ‘Busier than a cucumber in a woman’s prison’. Just to be clear, those are all gifts I’ve seen being given, and not by myself- apart from the popping c**ks. But on the other hand, buy someone a nice bottle of alcohol, or maybe a picture frame on account of their newborn baby, then you’re Dahmer for some reason.
I digress.
Nevertheless, an agreement for a festive interaction was underway, and to sweeten the deal, I reassured Burty that not only would I cover the cost of the food, but I would also handle the cooking. It felt like this was fair; You wouldn’t invite someone to dinner and rope them into chopping and peeling vegetables. But in hindsight, the whole invitation and affair had an air of malevolence and menace to it, as if it was The Red Wedding, and I knew Burty had growing suspicions. But despite this, I only had the best of intentions in making this Christmas something different for Burty and I. After all, ’tis the season to come together, and if Burty doesn’t want to do anything like buy a gift, then that’s absolutely and unequivocally his choice. But it doesn’t have to be mine.
As December rolled on, the food shop was done, Arnold was glowing, and I was already two Christmas calendars down. It was about this time that I found I was starting to fall (yet again) for the cliché faux pas I’ve often rolled my eyes at. But in reality, this was the first real Christmas I’d had since at least Covid. I tried to fight it, but wherever I went, I was sniped by a transmittable feeling of jolly festiveness and good will. Carol singers, festive greetings, a battalion of Santa Clauses’ and awful music that unlocks those core festive memories and leaves you hungry for the past and traditional flavours. I soon became giddy; teetering at the endless possibilities Christmas could offer and as such, I began reviewing the small print in our Christmas arrangement.
At the risk of sounding like a Christmas film soundbite, but I wanted to celebrate and roll around in Christmas like a pig rolls in s**t. I’ll admit it was a selfish point of view, but I’m not asking Burty for a Christmas morning b****ob underneath the mistletoe- Just an openness to appreciate what the season can offer, with his full cooperation. And although I’m sure there has to be some sort of service somewhere on the dark web that lets you hire someone to sit with you at Christmas, I’d rather not, and the dark web scares me. Besides, as far as I was concerned, it was a good deal all-round. I’d get my pigs in blankets and Burty was getting a proper cooked meal that wasn’t from the freezer without lifting a branch. What’s more, what cat doesn’t circle its owner’s feet whilst mewing and wide eyed when there’s fresh meat on the table? So even Minion would benefit from a slice of Christmas. As such, I was convinced more than ever that we’d be singing along to Muppets Christmas Carol in no time, and Burty would soon shed his sour leaves and transform into a Christmas tree.
Lastly, because I’m a bad boy and don’t play by the rules (I’m not), I bought Burty a small gift that verged more on the sentimental end of the spectrum, rather than the slap on the back, hilariously bad sort of gift that’s reserved for secret Santas. This wasn’t to make a statement or to make him feel put on the spot, but it was something small and slightly meaningful that I wanted to give him, that didn’t revolve around cleaning up cat hair. By and large, I wanted a day where there wasn’t a landlord tenant dynamic and instead, Christmas would lend us the opportunity to spend some quality time together letting our hair down.
Nevertheless, the day arrived, the food was cooked, Arnold was glowing, we sat, we ate, and it was -fine.
Truth be told, it was noneventful.
Have you ever been to a restaurant and people watched? Have you ever seen a man; presumably a father sitting opposite their child and try to make conversation whilst said child is wearing headphones and prodding their tablet? It felt like that. Although the sighs, chomps and noises of pleasure were potent, Burty was clearly out of his comfort zone like a tree in the artic. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like Christmas…He wants to hibernate.
But even my reserve plan of luring Minion with meat and treats fell flat; she didn’t buy it for a second. Instead of entwining herself between our legs under the table as I’d hoped, the furry shadow lingered around the corner, wailing and clawing at everything in sight until Burty was near her. I can only assume that she wanted the laid-out bowl of cooling turkey that was causing her to profusely drool and have a meltdown. But as long as I was in the vicinity, her iron will would not relent. Inevitably, Burty soon succumbed, and began hand delivering succulent slithers of deliciousness to her around the corner and out of sight.
So-If anything the experience has probably set Minion, and I back a few steps on the road to becoming best friends. Not only does she probably think Burty did all the cooking, but she probably saw me as some sort of turkey guarding bouncer and took it as a personal jab. Still though, at least she didn’t do a poo in the corner. Although I tried to press on, I could see the pressures of Christmas and the social pressures and etiquette that comes with it were almost unbearable on Burty. So, after several attempts at ice breaker conversations, Burty politely excused himself and retreated back to his lair.
He stuttered, ‘I think I’ll enjoy this better upstairs’ as he and Minion disappeared.
Although I was disappointed, I can’t entirely blame Burty; and needless to say, I don’t think pulling out a Christmas cracker helped. But even though my subconscious, elderly instincts told me to throw down a dish towel, complain about how I slaved over a hot stove and declare Christmas was ruined whilst I grasped my pearls- I didn’t. I finished my meal, went on my phone and made the most of the situation.
In reality Burty is a creature of summer; he yearns for the sun and gets excited if it means he can wear a t-shirt and sunglasses. Like Superman, the sun reinvigorates Burty; it gives him life and is the source of his leafy power. As a comparison, where I predominantly take time off at the end of the year, Burty saves his for the days when he can strap his bass to his back and serenade the locals at the beach. If anything, Christmas day is just another Saturday or day off equivalent to him. In fact, I began to question whether or not I would indulge him if the roles were reversed; if Burty had offered to cook me a meal, wanted to watch films together and do some other weird s**t that I had zero interest in on my day off. Absolutely not. But the more I reflected on it, the more it resonated as a haunting re-telling of my childhood Christmases, but where I’ve become my Mother. So, with that, I left the table and ventured to Burty’s lair to apologise for any untoward pressure and give him his present.
I was spotted on route by the furry scout who scampered and shape-shifted her way through the partially cracked open door to her turkey treasure and warn of my arrival. As I entered through the creaking door, there she was, standing upright on the arm of a chair, whispering into her Master’s ear like Nagini. Then, Burty’s game is paused. and his chair swivels around to reveal a gravy and crumb covered Augustus Gloop equivalent.
Whilst being very awkward and English, I delivered the gift and promptly went to spin around to leave. However, the tear and rips of the wrapping paper were too tantalising and tempting to ignore. So out of pure indulgence and under the watchful eye of Minion, I found myself accidentally ticking off another beguiling trope of the holidays; Gawkily standing and smiling whilst you watch someone else open their gift like an awkward Christmas pervert. But as Burty opened his gift and his face lit up, it was clear that it had all been worthwhile. For a moment, I wasn’t ‘the landlord’. I was a friend again, rather than a roommate or someone who complains, whinges and can’t finish a sentence unless it contains the word ‘hoover’.
‘Anyway, I’m in the middle of a game..’ he awkwardly spluttered. And with that, I left Burty and retreated upstairs to my tower of solace with the re-affirmed knowledge of ‘You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink’. Lesson learned.
Or so I thought..
Maybe it was because I tend to canter around the house like a child whilst whistling or humming my own musical rendition of the theme tune when I’m excited or in a rush. Or maybe it was because Burty knows about my deep and arguably, understandable man-crush on Harrison Ford. Or maybe Burty saw it in a bargain bin and thought ‘Teddy likes films, I’ve heard of that one’. Or maybe Burty got it as a way to humour me and appease my appetite for festivities this year. Either way, on my bed, offhandedly wrapped in a Tesco carrier bag was proof that Burty wasn’t as much of a Humbug as he likes to let on.
Merry Christmas Burty.
