Jin­gle all the way to the rub­bish bin

Irish Examiner - Farming - - NEWS -

While I’m far from a band­wagon jumper, I’m all for the re­cent ban­ning by a ra­dio sta­tion of the Christ­mas ditty ‘Baby It’s Cold Out­side.’ The song is an abom­i­na­tion, even I know that. ‘Baby It’s Cold Out­side,’ me arse. It’s a kick up the back­side the writer of the song des­per­ately needs, or needed back in 1944 when he was putting one word in front of the other.

I may not know the first thing about writ­ing a good lyric, or pen­ning a tune­ful com­po­si­tion, but I know a dud when I hear one. ‘Baby, It’s Cold Out­side’ has been putting a shiver down my spine for don­keys years. Ban the blasted thing, be­fore I con­tract pneu­mo­nia. But don’t stop there. The ra­dio sta­tions this Christ­mas are packed full of sea­sonal songs that have no busi­ness be­ing played at this time of the year.

‘Santa Claus Is Com­ing to Town,’ is an­other old stinker of a lul­laby. A ter­ri­fy­ing Christ­mas an­them foisted upon a na­tion of in­no­cents each year with lit­tle care or con­sid­er­a­tion.

It needs ban­ning too. “You bet­ter watch out, you bet­ter not cry, bet­ter not pout, I’m telling you why.” Who in their right mind would is­sue such a dire warn­ing? These are surely the words of a mad­man. It’s like some­thing the Bull Mccabe said in ‘The Field.’ And the Bull, in fair­ness to him­self, had good rea­son to be los­ing the head. Santa has no busi­ness shout­ing such threats at us, es­pe­cially in front of the chil­dren.

And it gets worse, for then the song goes on, “He sees you when you’re sleep­ing, he knows when you’re awake.” Who does? How? These are the kind of ques­tions that can keep a fel­low awake at night. It’s a fright­en­ing song. I wouldn’t sing it to a dog, never mind sing it to an im­pres­sion­able young­ster. How about that other sea­sonal favourite that con­tains the line, ‘Chest­nuts roast­ing on an open fire.’ Could there be any­thing more painful? It gets worse, there are more sea­sonal scares to be found in the hellish wail­ing of ‘Walk­ing In The Air.’ There are only two types of crea­ture, to my mind, who walk on air. Phan­toms and those flaked out on drugs. And nei­ther party is a de­sir­able Christ­mas com­pan­ion. Walk­ing in the air? It’s more like walk­ing into trou­ble.

The video that goes along with the song isn’t much bet­ter, and fea­tures a snow­man com­ing to life! Hitch­cock at his wildest couldn’t have dreamed up such a night­mare. It’s about as Christ­mas as my back­side. Then, you have ‘Driv­ing Home For Christ­mas’ which, while not a scary song, is still de­press­ingly sor­row­ful. It’s a class of a goad­ing tune. How can we drive home? How can we, out here in ru­ral Ire­land, drive home from any place, be it a lounge bar or pub­lic house?

It’s im­pos­si­ble. I’m blue in the face from telling you. The days of driv­ing home are long gone. We all have to walk now.

The song is a townie song made all too real with the line, “I got red lights all around,” which to my mind sig­ni­fies the guards and “the bag”. I was asked to blow the bag a few years ago my­self, and found it to be no plea­sure at all.

Driv­ing home for Christ­mas could have a fel­low fac­ing a mag­is­trate be­fore the New Year.

So while they are harp­ing on about ban­ning ‘Baby It’s Cold Out­side,’ I feel ’tis only the tip of the ice­berg. There are plenty more Christ­mas songs that could be “grinched“.

‘Driv­ing Home For Christ­mas’... I got red lights all around, a song which only re­minds De­nis of the drink-driv­ing clam­p­down.

“You bet­ter watch out, you bet­ter not cry...” an­other Christ­mas song for the bin.

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