Of Christmas, cricket and good old carols
CHRISTMAS is coming and the geese are getting fat, so please put a penny in the old man’s hat. Wee Willy Winky, my son John, went to bed with his trousers on. One shoe off and one shoe on, Wee Willy Winky, my son john.
My dad’s got a face like a squashed tomato and a nose ten feet long. Etc, etc, etc.
These are examples of the meaningless trash that gets placed before us not least at Christmas time with the kids on holidays and we are trying to concentrate on the cricket.
It’s a fantastic time of year and most families seem capable of surviving long enough to roast the turkey.
If it were England it would likely be snowing and watching football on a wet Saturday afternoon.
It’s probably only a small relief from the prospect of prawns for tea. Scotch and dry are the saving grace, and I’m looking forward to them as I eat my wife’s Christmas cake.
I have my annual worry about whether we have enough food in the house to meet the needs of any visiting neighbours and whether there is enough for a gin and tonic to satisfy exotic drinking habits. None of this tomfoolery can put them off or stop me loving the sound of the old-fashioned Christmas carols.
What is it about Christmas that allows one to be happy?
Why is it that we can ignore thousands and thousands of people, many of whom will be penniless before the end of the holiday.
It only needs continuing success by the Australian cricket team to make the holiday complete.
The spirit of neighbours’ kids enjoying themselves always manages to catch the spirit of the season back in the UK. The Boxing Day holiday was generally a feast of football and freezing temperatures which could be greatly offset by another scotch and dry.
I know all this is rubbish compared to the real meaning of Christmas. Whether one is religious or not is almost irrelevant provided that families can allow room for Jesus if that is there particular pleasure.
In my childhood, the family seemed to generate goodwill and happiness almost every day of the year and the feeling that the world would become an even better place as we move into a new year.
For example, it might even mean that cricketers would never in the future contemplate bowling underarm. After all, in those days of the early 80s, bowling underarm did not break any rules and the mincepies bought at Woolies in the last day were nearly as good as those made by your longgone parents.
The home ground for my soccer team was Beveree where the wind cut through you like steel through butter and beer was too cold even for the bloke in the duffel coat down near the corner flag.
I was always amused by how thin the referee’s legs were supporting a stomach for a Christmas pudding and goodwill …
It is not fair from my fellow Australians to have their bodies criticised in this way. They probably liked the taste of Christmas as much as I did, and anyway there was always some sport to watch on TV while clutching the first slurp before the annual clash with relatives.
I’m missing almost nothing of my birthplace in the London suburbs, but I’m glad that I don’t have the experience with or without the scotch.
I want Christian people to rejoice in the love of their God, especially if Manchester United is top of the table and there is no underarm bowling.