Now what did I forget...
LOCKDOWNS and tiers aside, now it’s actually the thick end of December when most blokes realise they maybe, might possibly, have to think about getting some Christmas presents in.
Pandemic or otherwise, some things are simply eternal and unalterable laws of nature.
So, without sounding sexist, it’s a genetic disposition that blokes are pants at Christmas shopping; even the most raging, radical Jesmondista feminist wouldn’t send her gadgie out to purchase the organic cornfed, hand-reared, free-range and privately educated turkey from the ethical butcher.
We just ain’t up to it! The sense of urgency just isn’t there; we might – fleetingly – notice things like advent calendars, the John Lewis adverts and even take the bairns to see the socially-distanced Fenwick’s window, but it’s all just background noise.
This oblivious lack of urgency in the face of impending Christen-tide catastrophe reminds me very much of the attitude of European Royalty and heads of state in the months leading up to the outbreak of the First World War, in August 1914.
To this effect, each December, every man does indeed becomes a Tsar Alexander archduke Ferdinand or Kaiser Wilhelm as he strolls carefree and unaware of the turmoil gripping the masses around him – until finally he too is engulfed when it’s to late to do anything!
To get back to the festive inadequacy of the male gender, we do actually have a time where we acquire an awareness that pressies need to be bought – usually at about 5pm on Christmas Eve!
This year it is obviously gonna be very different, but let’s look back to pre-Covid times.
When most men traditionally prepared for this Yuletide shopathon by spending the afternoon in the pub with the bitter old bloke from accounts and the geek from IT who is just thrilled to be interacting with real people.
Eventually, the sound of Mariah Carey, Slade or Band Aid reminded our boozy bloke that now was the time to sort out that pesky Christmas shopping malarkey.
As a blast of icy air hit him as he toddled up Northumberland Street, he did not achieve any clarity of purpose; his misplaced confidence actually grew as he slurred – “ah divvint knaa what aaal the fuss is aboot with Wor lass and Christmas – a’hl have this lot sorted oot before the lads get the last round in.”
He then, like a true magpie, headed for the brightest lights to purchase the shiniest things a credit card can buy. Indeed , a wise colleague of mine once commented that a sure way to make a fortune would be to open a chain of shops specifically aimed at men entitled ‘Inspiration without effort’ that opened once a year, between the hours of 5 and 7pm on Christmas Eve.
The perfume shop was our beer warrior’s first (and only) port of call; he bought the biggest bottle of that unpronounceable stuff that he knows she adored, smirking as he imagined her eating humble pie because he actually DID remember!
Thank god he was destined to leave it on the back seat of the last bus home, as it was actually the number one choice of ex-girlfriend; and not any old ex either!
It’s that special one that he couldn’t ever mention – but she could and did – but only when he was in a special depth of bother where even the A-Team couldn’t help – a bit like when he finally lands from his ‘Christmas shopping’.
Good luck lads – and divvn’t sweat – there’s plenty time left to hammer the internet – and if you order your ex’s favourite perfume you can blame the internet, the warehouse robot, North Korean Cyber attacks or even Bumbling Boris!
If all else fails, remember that the huffy bed is a form of social distancing and the spare room can count as a separate bubble – so at least you’ll be a responsible hermit/pariah as she’s not gonna let you within 2m till early February!
Have a fabulous Christmas pets – and stay safe !