It is women that power Christmas. After all, imagine a Christmas organised by men. Think of the tree for a start, sawn down in a wood by the M4 for a laugh.
As she shakes off the tinselled tat, Queen D is cancelling Christmas – and she is asking for you to join the revolution.
That’s it. Decision made. I’ve cancelled Christmas.
There will no erection of a Christmas tree at Queen D’s drum. No pricks from evil needles or dangling glistening balls. The fairy will be pleased – no conifer twig up her arse this year. No mistletoe either as the only hot thing in my house is the Aga.
Decorations will stay in the attic and any fat git flying reindeers over my chimneys on Christmas Eve will be shot down. I have an excellent venison recipe.
No presents or Christmas cards either. I thought of sending a picture of me dressed as Scrooge shouting, “Bah! Brexit!” but I’m too mean to buy the stamps.
No turkey, no cake, no pudding. The fridge will only host the usual bit of hard cheese, two pots of hated toffee yoghurt and something unidentifiable in a plastic pot growing green hair.
I’ve done Christmas to death for too long. I realized it had to go when not even the thought of telling my mother-in-law she needs a good stuffing brought a glimmer of joy.
Get envious right now, you Shinies out there. Just think of me, sleeping like a baby as you trawl the internet at three in the morning swiveling your crispy eyeballs across the screen in desperate search for green faux leather bum bags. While you heave your enormous trolley through Sainsbury’s to the only till with a queue of less than twenty, I’ll be kicking up leaves in the woods.
I don’t want to play the Christmas glut-fest game any more. I hold my hand up to take a share of the blame for this ever more bloated charade masquerading as a fiesta of love and magic, because it’s us women who have corrupted it.
Imagine a Christmas organised by men. Think of the tree for a start, sawn down in a wood by the M4 for a laugh, and three yards too long. By the time the top and dead branches come off, he’s left with a stick which he props against the sofa and decorates with a beer can. No turkey in a man Christmas. It’s steaks, ribs of beef and 300 sausages. Mustard is the vegetable and roasties and black forest gateau are Aunt Bessie’s.
The four cards he signs get thrown away in January because he doesn’t know anyone’s address.
Presents? Amazon has wiped out the massive Christmas Eve Stakes when men galloped through every shopping mall anywhere but you’ll still get the red lace bra on December 29th.
Stress free, without a troubling thought, and lots of meat, that’s a man’s ideal Christmas. But it doesn’t happen. Why? Because Christmas is organised by women. And it’s only women who can bring an end to this annual madness.
Every year, I leap into the driving seat on the Christmas bandwagon. From the minute I climb aboard, sometime around the beginning of November, to when I stack away the last box of willow stars and wooden trees and fall to the ground exhausted, no-one else can touch the reins. I am the Controller of Christmas, and god help anyone who challenges me.
I am a benevolent despot. I allow a choice between, say, goose or turkey and I allocate tasks I know my little band of elves will enjoy. Buying the wine, for instance, and putting the tree in its stand, a job fraught with frustration and well out of range of my desire to control. But every year, it’s down to me to beat the living hell out of any known credit card in order to produce, direct and star in an impeccable Queen D Christmas Show. One year the Vogue African Safari Christmas, the next Country Living’s gilded teasles or the Irish theme with shamrock pie and goose stuffed with leprechaun thighs….
Buying gifts is the pits. It’s not even as if I enjoy giving. Every year, I choose beautiful things and then bitterly resent wrapping them up and sending them to relatives I don’t like.
And children. Why do other people’s wildly over-excited offspring ram a sugar mouse in my eye at 4am on Christmas morning?
And stay wildly over-excited for the whole day, from the first present they rips to shreds at breakfast to the last chocolate liqueur they pop into their mad little mouths before they are carried, screaming, to bed.
As for Christmas Chowfest, I can’t face any more bulging fridges, cupboards stuffed with every edible luxury food known to man and enough popping corks to start a revolution.
I’m not religious (obviously) but every year we all kidnap Baby Jesus and use his story as an excuse to celebrate his birthday with unlimited excess of everything. Even a heathen like me can see it’s not good that any meaningful message in the Christmas story is suffocated under the towering pile of hideous shiny junk of tinselled tat we call Christmas. Where is the joy of giving and the gratitude in receiving? Not in the monstrous piles of presents torn open by children with mad greedy eyes. Where is the simplicity of sharing? Not in our bulging stomachs, that’s for sure. Where is our sense of decency in the indecent mountains of wasted food and unwanted gifts?
It’s time for women to call a halt.
I’m not scrambling into sackcloth and ashes. I have memories of Christmases I treasure, and there are things I’ll miss this year. The tree and painting Grandpa when he’s asleep after dinner for starters. I will really miss the tree. We always call it Colin.
This will be a Christmas to treasure, I know. On Christmas morning, I will gather around me the ones I love the most, and we will walk through the woods and paddle in the sea. I’ll have a rucksack full of sandwiches, flasks of hot chocolate, and biscuits for the dogs. We’ll light the fire when we get home, eat shepherd’s pie and listen to each other’s favourite music, make each other laugh, dance a little, play some games. We’ll drink a toast to absent friends and family, and another for those now living among the stars. We’ll hug each other and whisper a grateful thank you for our own special Christmas.