Festive Cheer from Bah Humbug

The mall spills festive cheer from every orifice.

The perfect Yule confection towers above us as we enter the centre atrium. The conical tree is bedecked with this years colours. Unsubtle silver and aqua baubles clamour for our attention – a surface covering of shiny pustules.

The silvered house for Santa and his reindeer is like a beacon to Mammon, beckoning all the little children to come unto it. Where they can spill their avarice into good ole Santa’s ears whilst the adult carers spill the contents of their purses and wallets into the hands of Santa’s little helpers.

I remember I was as greedy as any other child. I didn’t noticeably curb the excesses of my letter to Santa. Though I was well aware – by the age of 8 and thanks to the ridiculous impossibility of aspirations to the clandestine or furtive in a cramped two bedroom terraced Cooncil Hoose – that my Ma n Pa were ‘Santa’.

I did modify my list so as to include those items that Ma n Pa could reasonably afford. Though of course I stretched the boundaries of affordability.

I remember the building frenzy of excited anticipation that peaked on Xmas Eve. My brother Derek and I would be swept along in a perfect cataract of desire and satiated pleasure; of sweeties and wrapping-ripping; of giving and taking in return.

There was never a Xmas that disappointed. Though I remember Scottish Granny giving me a hairdryer one year that melted two weeks later – and which she returned to the shop but never ever replaced. And a t-shirt that I hated instantaneously on sight – and which I buried at the bottom of my drawer.

I look back now and can see into the perfect bleb of the memories and at the centre of it all is the family-visiting, the noisy hustle and bustle of our big extended family.

The 25th of December to the 2nd of January were the busiest and ecstatically happiest – spent with my hard-drinking and hard-partying and simply religious Irish Granny and my Communist Granpa and all my aunts and uncles and cousins and the Irish relatives. The small two-up two-down house just down from the Steel Works would be bursting at its seams. The never-ending trail of neighbours bearing bottles of whisky and vodka and rum. The singing. When you were sweet 16… When Irish eyes are smiling…Wee Cooper O Fife… Wee Deoch n Doris…Auld Lang Syne…Ae Fond Kiss… The vast meaty cauldrons of Scotch Broth and the huge metal ashettes of steak pie. The perpetual peeling of tatties and scrubbing of carrots and shelling of peas. The steamy kitchen opening into the small garden and Granpa’s Doo Hut and the old 18th Century trunk which Granny hated and which had been banished under a lino covering to the garden space under the back window.

Granny had a kitchen hatch which opened into the small space that served as Dining Room. I was fascinated by the hatch. A hole in the wall through which bowl after bowl after plate after plate and glass after glass would be served up.

Granpa made the food. Though Granny controlled it all. The men would be served first. I remember that. Then the women who would fuss over plates and cutlery. Our Tennants and McEwans and Bells and Grouse. And then us wains. Too numerous to be fed in one sitting, there would be several sittings. The food would go on all day it would feel to me.

Granny would have decked the house in gaudy tinsel. Chasing, twinkling, lanterns and jaggy floral bauble-shaped lights lined the outside window-frame. There was a Baby Jesus in his manger on the table at the window – sleeping peacefully under the sparkly wee tree. Later there were garlands of metallic red and green and gold to festoon the low ceiling. And the lava lamp would be outshone for a change.

The trim phone would trim-trim-trim with messages from over-the-seas and from the next street over who wanted to announce their setting off to join us.

I remember the house sung to the Belfast Brogue and raw Lanarkshire dialect. And my Granny’s voice would remember itself as strong and Northern Irish.

And in the middle of it my Mother’s beauty would be incandescent and light up the room – outdoing the fairy lights. Every man’s eyes would be on her. But even then, every woman would love her. Her glamorous but tasteful make-up; her subtle jewellery; the scarf tied just so; the dress cut to accentuate the turn of her waist, her fine bones, her generous breasts.  My Granny would say ‘Catch yer self oan. Our Mary was born t’ be a lady but thur was no room fur her’ and every one would laugh and nod and say ‘Sure and Mary is a beauty still, Martha’.

And Great Uncle Alex would search me out with his eyes and gesture toward me with his wide-open arm and always say ‘and where’s our wee stunner. Yer a beautiful lassie sure. Come and sing us all a song.’

They were mostly all dead by the time I was 16. Granny and her brother Alex of cruel cancers. Aunty Nessie later became too frail to travel. Communist Granpa would drown his bereaved sorrow for years before joining them when I was 21. So, by the time I met R and was pitched womb-first into a home of my own, the circle of extended family had shrunk.

And R had no experience of family. I had to teach him how they worked. Introduce him to ‘the rules’.

Perhaps that is why we have 5 children. But even if that is not one of the reasons it has always been my sorrow that they cannot ever know what that little house was like, filled with the generosity and joy of a family that spanned the generations. So I have tried to create my own pale copy.

We have tried to steer them from the gross want-want-want. We taught them a socialist redistributive Saint Nick who might take what money your parents could afford to give him – but who would decide how to equalise the distribution across a world of children. Though they also joined the nativity at the Salvation Army…

Every Xmas Eve we would sprinkle magic dust on the road outside to guide Santa to our house… Though later they each would be ‘reported’ to their School Teachers by angry parents who complained that they had debunked Santa and made children cry…

Ana at 9 yrs is well aware that there is no Santa. But she enjoys a charade of whisky and shortbread for Santa and carrots for his reindeer. The older two stumble home on Xmas Eve at 3am from the pub celebrations – and suffer for it in the little ones’ enforced 5.30am rise.

But they all want to be here. Stirring bread or cranberry or mint or apple sauce. Carving turkey and lamb and ham. Lighting the Xmas pud. Fighting, squabbling, laughing.

It’s a cliche of middle-age to bemoan the appalling and rampant consumerism; the loss of the Xmas message in the mountain of tinsel and pound notes.

I was like Pavlov’s dog in that mall yesterday. All bristling and indignant at the stark monuments and little alters to Mammon. I’ve recovered myself in time.

We imagine the past as some better place where minds and motives were purer; where there was an innocence; where greed was not as greedy and want was not as naked.

It’s all balooney of course. Greed and want are still greed and want, regardless of the scale.

And when you scratch the surface, when you speak to people of what they enjoy about their Christmas rituals, we come down to the same base: that we value most the time spent together, simply sharing company and whatever victuals we have.

I can’t believe that I’m writing of Christmas and it’s only October. I was going to moan about the mall and the consumerist industrialisation of what could otherwise be special (even for an atheist). But having gone through all of the above I’m actually looking forward to my December.

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The Spirit of Christmas – or Saturday night after the Christmas Fair (cont 3)

Blood cooling. Thick black pavement coating. Viscous, congealing. Scarlet spatters on the fluorescent vests covering his prone body, a flimsy shield against shock and cold.

They were getting bored. Had started to think about their bellies and began spilling into the Curry House. I stood hugging myself despite the heat from the kebab stake. I was waiting on the order, on my name being called, when the paramedics green flashing urgency overwhelmed the fairy lights, filling up the Main Street.

The interest reignited. The pavement filled again with gawkers. Hangers-on.

There is a curious silence – reverential – as the professional unpacks his kit and makes the assessment. A radio can be heard, garbled in the night air. There is a request for back-up, just when the police arrive, followed by the ambulance. Again the curious silence. Ears straining to hear the barmaid give details and names – pointing, gesticulating, being told to slow down by the young policeman. The police woman – tiny, blond, large-voiced – pushes the crowd back.

Robert and I unconsciously lean into one another. Then turn, suddenly ashamed by prurient interest, into the Curry House again. To be enveloped in the noise of pot-boiling and stirring and chopping, by the chefs Gujerati swearing. And we stood silent, unsettled by the working indifference. Just life going on, as always.

The Spirit of Christmas – or Saturday Night after the Christmas Fair (cont)

And in the waiting I felt the slow rage build. And impatience with the gawking teens grew into irritation which flamed into anger and then washed lava-like over the boy who pushed me against the curry house door jamb as he laughed and jostled for a better view.

I grabbed him and pushed him back with an acid fury. Have some fucking respect. It
s not a fucking freak show ya little prick . That guy could die.

Surprised, he recovered himself and laughed me off and I stood there, struggling with a visceral craving to do him some violence.


They all eyed me warily. A couple laughed. Haw Grum whit u daen tae that wummin? Is she no auld enuff tae be yer maw?



Ha fucking ha I thought.

A feral crowd was gathering. Emitting high yips and laughs. Some girl was squealing. Something about jist lovin yer converse man. Am gonna git a per lik that tae.



I felt the ground shudder. Supping blood. But the moon still shone. St Nick still leapt. 


Robert remained across the road. Bent over the body. I shifted away from the gathering crowd. Stood looking at the menu. Guilty. Struggling to recall why I was there in the first place. What was a curry? Where was the greedy joy of self-indulgence?


A worried wee face from over the other side of the high counter said dae yi think somebuddies cawed the polis? Dae yi think hell be awright? 


A don’t know hen I said. And I didn’t.