I’ve managed to avoid the crimbo cooks up to now, all promising to deliver to us the moistest birds. But tonight it’s Nigella’s turn (insert your own joke here). I don’t know if I can watch though..
You see, I’ve caught a couple of her shows lately and thought, i’m sure she’s deliberately taken to talking more slowly. But like, sometimes, really drawling. Maybe this is the producer’s idea, to make her sound even more sensuous and sexy. Then I saw her in an a advert recently where the draggy speech became so pronounced, it sounded like she was slurring. I even began to wonder if they’d added the effect, afterwards, in the edit. Or maybe it was actually Ronnie Ancona, doing Nigella who’d slipped into a bit of Kerry Katona, mid-impression. At one point I thought, Jesus, she sounds like she’s coming round from Rohypnol – ”Weeell, nooo..I don’t remembeerr a thing..I just woke up feeeling reeeaaly groggy and there were theeese perrrfectly crisp roooast potatoes done in goooose fat, a turkey and black bean saaalsa and some craaanberry fudge. Did I make them aaaall myself? Oh, I suppooooose, I must haave..’
I, myself, will be avoiding any rich food late in the evening, this Yule. I’m already feeling bah humbuggy about speding my first Christmas for many years under a Tory PM and would now be worried that some errant piece of stilton too close to bedtime would lead to a dreadful Scrooge like nightmare where I end up being visited by the Ghosts of Tories past (Thatcher) Present (Cameron) and Future (still fucking Cameron). I’d whimper and plead as he forced me to look at the things to come. A Big Society, where the benefitless, sick and lame, roam uncared for and young bright sparks, unable to afford an education are put to work cleaning grafifiti off the walls of skint council buildings. I might recoil in horror as a homeless, unemployed disabled kid shakes his begging bowl at me..hang on..that’s not Tiny Tim. It’s Jody Mcintyre! And then, before I get the chance to drop a few coins in, Bob Cratchett, dressed as a riot cop pulls him from his chair and drags him roughly across the ground. Cameron grins and looks over his work, at the chair on it’s side, wheels spinning..Gawd help us one and all..
The future being too worrisome to contemplate, we increasingly find ourselves searching for succour in the warm comfort of Christmases past, no? I was thinking back to my childhood and I realised that I have no recall of being upset about Father Christmas not being real. Most kids become suspicious about him quite early on, don’t they? Each year you find another clue, like one year you come downstairs, unable to sleep and the mince pie you left out for him has gone, but the presents haven’t yet been delivered. Hmm..contaversial. Anyway, I considered Santa to be rather an aloof figure and he always seemed far too busy to actually play games and have fun. So, no, I wasn’t too overcome with grief at that particular reality check. There were other examples of childhood bubble bursts that cut me deep, though..
Unicorns, for one. My sister had a book with a beautiful white unicorn on the front cover, that always fired my imagination, and I was very sad when I realised that they weren’t for real. There’s a Unicorn hoax on Youtube and when watching it not long ago, it got me right in that little part of the brain that retains childhood memory and I remembered feeling sad about it all over again. But what if? that little part of me stirred…That book cover was from The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe. And that was another let down.I became a little bit obsessed with Narnia being real. I really did stand inside the wardrobe at home and wished and willed there to be a magical land at the back of it. Very disappointing. Then there were The Borrowers. I absolutely loved them and when my mum sometimes searched for a box of matches or something, saying ‘I literally just put it down right there. How can it have gone missing’? My mind woiuld tick over and then how crestfallen i’d be at the object’s re-discovery, shaking my little head and thinking. but why can’t they be real? It’s just not fair..
But one of the most disappointing things I found out as a kid was about Seahorses. I had a turqoise bath towel when I was little, with seahorses all over it. (I spelled it ‘turkoys’, back then). I still have this, albeit a bit ragged and folded away in the airing cupboard. I don’t use it now, it’s so thin and started to develop holes when washed, I hang onto it for sentimental reasons. Succour. But the thing is, I thought that seahorses were actually proper actual horse sized. I don’t know how I got this into my head but I was convinced they were about six foot long and so, at last there was a magical looking creature that really lived in the world. Then I found out the truth. They’re diddy. Cute, but you can’t ride on their backs and stuff can you? Bah humbug!
Anyhoo, here are a few pics of various London lights, a dinky snowman and one of my old turkoys towel. These civic illuminations might not be the brightest and best out there but we should make the most of em cos I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re scrapped next year as councils strive to cope with the hefty budget cuts imposed by this ruthless cuntage we call a government. Have a safe and peaceful Christmas. And thanks for reading my blogs.
Right, I’m off for a ride around on a six foot sea-horse.. sorry, what am I saying?..i’m delirious..must’ve been that Nigella inspired Christmas Trifle, the one where she replaces the sherry with Rohypnol..
Seahorses have a single mate for life. Every morning, they come together, dance, change their color, twirl around with linked tails and then separate for the rest of the day. They usually mate under a full moon. Now that’s fucking magic..