So This Is Christmas?

Christmas is bollocks. The miserable ones among us don't need to be told that. I know if I was home right now I would be squeezing past the millions of people lining the streets of Manchester in a stressed attempt to find a present that the recipient might at least look at twice before giving me that 'well, at least you tried' look. No doubt, to add to misery, it would be torrential rain, minus 5 temperatures and darker than the dark side of the moon. So you'd think I'd be happy that in comparison, Christmas barely gets a mention in Brisbane. Of course I'm not happy. That would go against my beliefs.

I must admit that despite my hatred of the British winter, the weeks building up to Christmas are some of my favourite of the year. I love looking out into a darkened night, watching a passer by struggle against the elements as I sit snuggly in a dimly lit and cosy room, fire ablaze and Christmas film just about to start. Or finding yourself in countless pubs, all huddled around with your friends enjoying the seasonal atmosphere and jocularities. It's like that feeling when you wake up early on a Sunday morning, look at the clock and realise there's no need to get up until your ready to. With that you wrap the warm duvet around you and sink back to sleep. Love it.

It all feels a bit odd here. We went shopping in the city today and there were no more people around than another other weekend. There's barely any decorations up anywhere. Even in the city centre you struggle to find some. No C list celebrity to turn on the lights. The TV scheduling has barely changed. Where's my 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' on Chrismtas day morning? It's not going to be on is it? I'm trying to get home my point of just how different it is and I think here is the biggy: I haven't heard Paul McCartney, Wham, Shane McGowan and Kirsty McCall, John Lennon, East 17 or any of the other Christmas anthems. NOT ONCE! Now you understand don't you? I've come to realise that apart from maybe the Yanks, nobody does it better. You just can't do Christmas properly when it's boiling hot. There should be snow and snowmen, real English pubs and plates of hot food, town squares completely altered, a constant buzz in the air, Cliff Richard, a battle for Christmas number 1, over spending, over eating, over the rainbow way up high. I miss Kansas. Wait, I've turned into Dorothy. I miss home. I miss Christmas at home. I miss you lot and the nights you'll be having. Granted, once it's over then you all have to go through the January blues, or 'suicide season' as I like to call it. When that time comes I won't envy you in the slightest. But for now, have a pint in the pub for me will you? And as Slade comes on that juke box for the fourteenth time in the evening, sing your heart out just for me.

Merry Christmas.