I used to love Christmas when I was a kid. I loved going to the pool, and then I'd walk down the street and hear the Christmas carols wafting through the conical loudspeakers attached to the top of the telegraph pole. My dad would bring home a cardboard box from his employers, stuffed full of Christmas pudding (which I happen to hate, but never mind), and walnuts and brazil nuts packed in a string bag kind of contraption, not dissimilar to the way onions are packaged. I remember the sharp, rifle-shot onomatopoeic qualities of the sound a walnut shell being cracked open with some instrument that could have been used to extract information from captured spies. Or to maybe cut my father's yellowing, keratin-horned toenails.
Nowadays I'm kind of wondering is there a red button I can press in order to stop the planet and climb off. Seriously. Every year there are the usual apocryphal tales about how we cannot say 'Merry Christmas'. It seems someone is trying to say that this innocuous greeting is going to offend other cultures. This just in, folks: by and large the Muslims, Jews, and Hindus don't give a shit if we celebrate Christmas. Take a moment to let that sink in.
Whack-job politicians try to sway us from buying what kids might actually LIKE for Christmas, and instead buy some beige, neutered, um, thing. I ranted and raved about this in my previous post, and haven't the energy to re-type it, so just re-read my last post.
And today's fresh Hell comes in the form of a notion put forward for children to not sit on Santa's lap for photographs. It's getting like the 1950s, only instead of Reds under the Bed, we have PEDS under the Bed! I liked going to see Santa at my local supermarket when I was a kid. I would be playing at the local pub (my grandmother owned it), and my older siblings and a cousin would excitedly say, 'Come down to Campbells (the supermarket) and see Santa Claus, Bing!' And they would escort me down there, my sister holding one hand, and my cousin holding the other, and we would wait with the other children as some poor sap who drew the short straw and had to bung on the outfit in the Australian rural heat would come in with a shopping trolley full of white paper bags stuffed with lollies. Now, Santa might have driven that sleigh like a boss, assisted by Donner, Blixen et al, but he's total pants at wielding a shopping trolley. The fat bugger ran over my foot with it. I was a little disenchanted with Santa that day because of this, but soon forgot about my sore foot when I was handed a white paper bag of lollies.
But now we've got another truckload of shit to contend with, that being the suggestion that kids don't sit on Santa's lap. Here's an idea: if the kid doesn't want to, don't force them to. If they want to, let them. My two weren't keen on the local Santa because whoever did the job actually scared kids. Memo to shopping centre managers: as well as police checks, it is a good idea to make sure your Santa Claus is not repellent to children, because this can prove problematic. To all the PC crowd: what the fuck do you think is going to happen? Prospective Santa Clauses have to go through stringent police checks (and yes, I know, they COULD be a perve who just hasn't yet been caught - I KNOW that!) before they're even let within an ass's roar of the big chair in the grotto. As well as Santa, there is a photographer, parents and/or guardians hovering, a photographer in an elf costume, various shoppers, sometimes other kids queuing for a picture, and at all times Santa must have both hands in full view. So, get real, would you?
Dr Seuss got it wrong. It's not the Grinch thieving Christmas, it's a pack of misguided and complete imbeciles.
PS: stuck for Christmas presents? Check the links in my bio, maybe your 'recipients' might like some books. *Cough - hint - cough*
No comments:
Post a Comment