I used to love Christmas.
Like most kids, December was the bestest of all months. Stephen Hawking is not required to explain why that might be—children are unbridled in their selfishness–receiving presents is something to look forward to.
My mum left when I was eleven.
Blimey, where’s that small violin… Ah, here it is: 🎻
And that meant Christmas would no longer be The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year. So began the push-me pull-you of acrimony and warring parents. Dad would declare Mum public enemy number one and I was encouraged to feel the same, lest I experience the full effects of his emotional blackmail. The only reminder of maternal influence on Jesus’ birthday was the copious amount of guilt gifts under the tree—a tree my dad begrudgingly bought and had me decorate. Christmases before my parents split were lovely and that’s because Mum was Christmas. She did everything whilst Dad did fuck all.
Which brings me to the second reason why, for me, Christmas sucks: women do all the work.
Ok, Kieth, I understand your struggle with critical thinking so just for you (and your ilk) I appreciate #NotAllMenAreFuckingUselessAtChristmas. I’m sure you do all the cooking/cleaning/gifting/decorating/dogsbodying in your household but you’re an anomaly. Women still, in general, do the lion’s share.
Women not only buy/wrap gifts and write cards for their friends/family/work colleagues but they do that for their partners too. I watch as the women in my own family organise and direct grown-arse men in the ways of Christmas. These bitches rally—they perfect their diplomacy skills with bigoted relatives—and they sweat their sweet arses off in the kitchen, so the reason Chrimbo is full of cherished memories for lots of families is down to the labour of women. It’s a scam.
And that brings me to the third reason why the festive season is terrible: it’s a commercial money spinner.
Well, no shit, you say and yet you’re still, quite literally, buying into that shit.
Why the hell do we continue to play along with the fake seasonal sentiment corporations spew in their cynical attempt to have us part with cash we don’t have? All this Buy Now, Have A Mental Breakdown In January is just the pits. Like absolute mugs, we spend on crap we can’t afford for people who don’t want it. Uncle Bernard didn’t ask for a collection of small wooden puzzles. And no, Aunt Gert does NOT require a candle-making kit (she’s a pyromaniac).
Alas, you can’t voice your yearning to escape the onslaught of forced fun without being branded a miserable bastard. But wanting to avoid conventional celebrations and traditions doesn’t mean you’re grumpy, that’s a misconception. I can think of nothing more festive than to retreat (very much alone) to a snowy cabin in the Scottish Highlands where I binge-watch the entire collection of Jesse Stone whilst reclining in front of a roaring fire devouring continental cheeses.
This brings me to my final reason why Christmas is lame: I’m an outsider looking in.
I often feel disconnected from others. If you can imagine someone pressed up against a window, observing everyone else, well, that’s me. I’m a bit like Scrooge watching scenes from a Christmas past. The melancholy that bathed me as a kid has, without a doubt, shaped my outlook. And that’s probably why A Christmas Carol is my favourite festive story. Yes, it’s redemptive and hopeful but it's not over-sentimental which is where so many modern Christmas stories go wrong.
If you’re someone who gets glassy-eyed at the John Lewis advert (or like my sister, cries at the latest offering from Tesco) all this bah humbuging won’t sit well with you. But please, don’t misunderstand me. I do believe that Christmas is what we make it. When we remove the stress and expectation it can be truly magic. When we allow it to be about sharing time (and lovely grub) with friends and relatives—ones we genuinely like and not ones we’re obliged to accommodate—that’s Christmassy. When we start saying no to the things we hate doing and yes to things we love doing—that’s real enjoyment.
So if this season makes you feel like you’re treading water, may you be granted resbite. Afford yourself a little mental solitude. And I hope your contemplations will bring about good things in the coming year.
In the parting words of the late great Bob Ross, god bless, my friend.