Rex Murphy...Take Two...
Today is Sunday.
Traditionally, Sunday stands for a day of rest, a day of contemplation, a day of watching movies, eating bagels and not picking up the phone unless I damn well feel like it.
Today is not a traditional Sunday.
There are, officially, 27 shopping days left until Christmas. That includes weekends. England -- somewhat thankfully -- is still a country that shuts down on Sundays and few stores are open. Actually, a lot of shops close Friday at sunset and don't reopen until Monday morning...they're hedging all possible Sabbath bets with that one. God may be an Englishman, but that doesn't necessarily mean that Christianity didn't fuck up the calendar.
When you think of it, who *knows* when the Sabbath is anymore...Gregorian Calendars, Julian Calendars...do you think Moses made a note of the time before coming down from Mount Sinai and telling all the newly-freed Israelites to keep the Sabbath Day holy? Sure, Charlton Heston checked his wrist watch, but I'm doubting that the real Moses had a Rolex.
Christmas shopping is a terror that only a true masochist can enjoy. People get on my nerves at the best of times; December is the worst of times. I'm not a female re-incarnation of dear old Ebeneezer Scrooge -- though I do worship the ground that Alistir Sim has walked on -- but there's something about being in a Picadilly Circus megastore surrounded by holly, ivy, and the goddamn Chipmunks singing 'Christmas Don't Be Late' that's worthy of firing Bob Cratchit, bringing in the Ghostbusters to proton-trap and contain those annoying Yuletide spirits, and smashing Tiny Tim's little crutch into much needed firewood.
London has been gearing up for Christmas since Guy Fawkes Day. In other words, reindeer and sugarplums have slowly been dancing their way towards me since the 6th of November. THE 6TH OF NOVEMBER!! Even Santa would say that was a little bit early for the Nutcracker Suite to take over the elevator muzaak station.
Today is the last Sunday of November: it is the calm before the storm, the deep breath before the plunge, the wince before the blow lands. Or, to use a metaphor from my abundant-and-ever-increasing knowledge of the First World War, it's like sitting in a trench near Verdun and hearing the shrill whistle of an incoming shell -- you know it's going to land smack on you and probably drown you in layers of mud and dust and filth, but you can't see it in the sky above...you can only hear it coming and there's no way to turn back the tide.
This is the last Sunday of feigned sanity. I had dreams -- perhaps more aptly called 'delusions' -- that Christmas time in London would be a fantastic, old-fashioned romp through Dickens' re-enactments and Advent services and watching little choir boys make their mouths into perfect 'O's while singing melodic descants to my favourite carols. Then someone informed me that Richard Branson and his Virgin corporation have this country by the balls (and I didn't think that Britannia *had* balls, since she's a woman, but whatever) and my dreams of "A Child's Christmas in Wales" can't come true because Dylan Thomas drank himself to death.
Can't you just feel the joy of the season?
**Attention Christmas shoppers! There is a young woman having a nutty in aisle six. She's frothing at the mouth and beginning to twitch. We'd also like to remind you that's the same aisle where you can find our newest Spongebob Squarepants action figures and the best-selling CD of Britney Spears' Greatest Hits...**
Grab your chocolate Advent calendars, people, and head for the hills!
For the National, I'm Rex Murphy.
- Janers
Traditionally, Sunday stands for a day of rest, a day of contemplation, a day of watching movies, eating bagels and not picking up the phone unless I damn well feel like it.
Today is not a traditional Sunday.
There are, officially, 27 shopping days left until Christmas. That includes weekends. England -- somewhat thankfully -- is still a country that shuts down on Sundays and few stores are open. Actually, a lot of shops close Friday at sunset and don't reopen until Monday morning...they're hedging all possible Sabbath bets with that one. God may be an Englishman, but that doesn't necessarily mean that Christianity didn't fuck up the calendar.
When you think of it, who *knows* when the Sabbath is anymore...Gregorian Calendars, Julian Calendars...do you think Moses made a note of the time before coming down from Mount Sinai and telling all the newly-freed Israelites to keep the Sabbath Day holy? Sure, Charlton Heston checked his wrist watch, but I'm doubting that the real Moses had a Rolex.
Christmas shopping is a terror that only a true masochist can enjoy. People get on my nerves at the best of times; December is the worst of times. I'm not a female re-incarnation of dear old Ebeneezer Scrooge -- though I do worship the ground that Alistir Sim has walked on -- but there's something about being in a Picadilly Circus megastore surrounded by holly, ivy, and the goddamn Chipmunks singing 'Christmas Don't Be Late' that's worthy of firing Bob Cratchit, bringing in the Ghostbusters to proton-trap and contain those annoying Yuletide spirits, and smashing Tiny Tim's little crutch into much needed firewood.
London has been gearing up for Christmas since Guy Fawkes Day. In other words, reindeer and sugarplums have slowly been dancing their way towards me since the 6th of November. THE 6TH OF NOVEMBER!! Even Santa would say that was a little bit early for the Nutcracker Suite to take over the elevator muzaak station.
Today is the last Sunday of November: it is the calm before the storm, the deep breath before the plunge, the wince before the blow lands. Or, to use a metaphor from my abundant-and-ever-increasing knowledge of the First World War, it's like sitting in a trench near Verdun and hearing the shrill whistle of an incoming shell -- you know it's going to land smack on you and probably drown you in layers of mud and dust and filth, but you can't see it in the sky above...you can only hear it coming and there's no way to turn back the tide.
This is the last Sunday of feigned sanity. I had dreams -- perhaps more aptly called 'delusions' -- that Christmas time in London would be a fantastic, old-fashioned romp through Dickens' re-enactments and Advent services and watching little choir boys make their mouths into perfect 'O's while singing melodic descants to my favourite carols. Then someone informed me that Richard Branson and his Virgin corporation have this country by the balls (and I didn't think that Britannia *had* balls, since she's a woman, but whatever) and my dreams of "A Child's Christmas in Wales" can't come true because Dylan Thomas drank himself to death.
Can't you just feel the joy of the season?
**Attention Christmas shoppers! There is a young woman having a nutty in aisle six. She's frothing at the mouth and beginning to twitch. We'd also like to remind you that's the same aisle where you can find our newest Spongebob Squarepants action figures and the best-selling CD of Britney Spears' Greatest Hits...**
Grab your chocolate Advent calendars, people, and head for the hills!
For the National, I'm Rex Murphy.
- Janers