Stop the Christmas cavalry... it’s too soon!

IT is that time of year when newspapers start featuring columns that begin with the words, well, it is that time of year again. I know, I know. But don’t shoot the messenger, it isn’t my fault that Christmas seems to begin earlier with each passing year.

More than a decade ago, I had an important dinner to attend in Dublin city centre on the first day of December.

I had arranged to meet someone out in the ’burbs in the afternoon and, working on the basis that this was in the middle of the week, I assumed I’d have no difficulty getting a taxi into town afterwards.

How wrong I was. Even though it was only early evening, I couldn’t get a cab for love nor money. There were none available for hire on the streets and, when I eventually called a local hackney firm, I was told they’d probably be able to get someone around to me in early January.

Disaster was only averted when a friend agreed to help me out and drive me at least part of the way into town.

We were almost halfway into the city before I spotted a vacant taxi stopped at a set of traffic lights. I jumped into it and, by the skin of my teeth, managed to make it to the dinner on time.

The point I’m making is that I was surprised back then.

It seemed odd to me that the place was gripped by Christmas madness as soon as December dawned. I suppose it felt like a trip switch had been flipped.

Little did I know what was coming down the tracks. Though it sounds a bit like stating the bleeding obvious, it increasingly seems like the countdown to Christmas begins some time in the middle of summer.

Even so, I was still surprised to hear Stop The Cavalry – Jona Lewie’s evergreen seasonal ditty – playing over the PA system in a shop over the weekend. But I guess that shouldn’t have shocked me in the slightest, given that my local pub put up their Christmas baubles almost immediately after the Halloween ones had been taken down.

The explanation there was that the bloke they hire to do their decorations only had two available dates between then and the big day. Talk about the good times being back.

Apologies if all of this makes me sound like something of a Grinch. Even if it all drags on a bit too long, I actually enjoy most of the Christmas experience.

THERE is much to like about it. Granted, I am no great fan of either mulled wine or mince pies. Nor, to be brutally frank, am I particularly fond of turkey, ham and all the trimmings. But, look, there is a lot to be said for the bonhomie, convivial atmosphere and – pardon the inevitable cliché – sense of peace and goodwill to all men that prevails at this time of year.

Yet there is no avoiding the brutal truth that there is also much to dislike about the festive season. Personally speaking, I take particular exception to hearing woeful Cliff Richard dirges like Saviour’s Day and Mistletoe And Wine being played on a seemingly endless loop.

Let’s be frank, it is also a stressful time in the vast majority of households. When extended family members are stuck together for too long, long-simmering tensions and resentments tend to arise. It must have something to do with the claustrophobic nature of the whole experience.

By far the worst part of the whole thing, though, is the Twelve Pubs of Christmas nonsense. First of all, I’ve never understood why people feel the need to congregate in crowds at any time of the year. Two’s company, three’s a crowd and all of that.

Nor can I fathom how anyone would even think of going on a pub crawl at the busiest period in the calendar. As to why they would do so while wearing silly jumpers with fairy lights attached (not to forget, of course, the mindless pranks and ‘forfeits’ that go with the whole thing), your guess is as good as mine.

All I do know is that they’ll be descending on a pub near you before the week is out. And on all the ones near me as well. Which is why, frankly, I’ll be reacquainting myself with the local off-licence between now and the New Year.

Roll on 2019.