A CHRISTMAS TALE

Christmas is an event like a penalty shoot out is a game of football. Both anticipated and anti-climactic, the day is a psychological and cultural landmark that in some sense is cataclysmic; we have an advent that begins circa July and when it comes, our holiday cheer fizzles out with the season itself, until we’re left with the sudden realisation that time neither slows down nor stops at this time of year, the world continues to turn and 2005 is not a distant future with flying automobiles, pills for dinner and William Shatner as the saviour of mankind. No, when the last Rose is munched, when the novelty jumper loses its limited impact of mild kitsch humour and the space under the tree becomes a near-void awash with scraps of wrapping paper and the coffee creams you tried to hide - you realise that the future is here. Neither Christmas, nor the New Year is a landmark you can effectively divide your time between, it’s a glimmer of relaxation and oblivious happiness, and indeed this is how we should see it. We should resolve ourselves to the fact that all “I’ll have it done by Christmas” resolutions were fanciful, and the spirit of lazy contentment is not entirely consistent with that plan to catch up with everyone in your phone book. I was queuing on Christmas Eve for the last bits of pieces, feeling my seasonal spirit dissipate in amongst the crowd-heat and bustle, when I thought of all this. Christmas is supposed to be the antithesis of pressure, not its synonym. So I emptied my mind of all thoughts, a process which by all accounts doesn’t really take very long, and in this claustrophobic rushed environment, a sudden ease fell upon me, that nearly made me so comfy that I had to fight the temptation to lazily scratch my ass and stretch to the point of farting. There’ll be plenty of time for that in the days to come. Ah yes, irresponsible consumption and flatulence: the real meaning of Christmas.

And what would yer man Jaysus have to say about all this. My heart goes out to him really, it must be a pain in the arse having your birthday on Christmas day. Not only that, but that Santa bloke is stealing all your wind. Imagine the scenario, circa 4th century A.D, a bunch mythical pagan cratures:
“What’s the craic with this Christianity thing?” says Seamus the Leprechaun.
“I dunno, I mean no-one believes in us anymore,” the Elf says, “I mean, how many babies do we have to steal and bloody forests do we have to enchant to get any attention anymore?”
“It’s alright for you,” says the Fairy “but being a Fairy is now a ‘mortal sin’ and I’m going to go to hell for apparently packing the brown.”
Stavros, the big Greek Centaur sighed. “It’s not easy being a Centaur either. It’s impossible to find a pair of pants that fit, and wherever I go, I am followed by a horse’s ass.”
“Well, I for one am going to do something about this!” says the elf, rising from his enchanted stone, “me and my elf mates have a terrorist plan to stem the flow of this ‘Christianity’ thing!”
So, on a cold and eerily still night in Myra, in Turkey, a bunch of determined Elves are hiding in a shrubbery of a rather shabby looking tenement villa. There is not a creature stirring, not even a mouse. They are watching a faintly lighted window with grim anticipation, their beady silvian eyes searching the window for a sign of their target.
Inside, stands Nicholas, future saint and all–round decent bloke. He watches the licks of fire casting a wavy luminescence about the tiny room, the dying hearth painting the faces of two young sleeping girls with a soft orange glow. Without a sound, he carefully places two bags of gold - one for each of the maidens - at the end of their bed, allowing himself a satisfied smile at his own charitable act. Earlier that day, the girls’ father had been sobbing in confession, begging for forgiveness for the fact that he will have to sell his two young daughters into harlotry, because he can no longer afford to keep them or marry them off. So this Christmas Eve, Nicholas was leaving two dowries for the girls, saving them from a life of shameful prostitution, completely unaware of the fate that was to await him. Noiselessly, he descends the aperture of the room into the shrubbery below.
“Get him lads!”
Suddenly, old Nick is jumped upon by a dozen pint-sized tormenters, who bite, scratch, tear, punch, kick and nipple-pinch him into submission. Finally, when the fight in him is spent, the elves pour him into a sack and dump him as far away from away from civilisation as they can physically manage.

And in the North Pole he remains, his Elfin captors still waiting for their ransom from the Vatican. In the mean time though, they are content to allow St. Nick out one day a year, and are content to build toys and deliver them as per Coca-Cola sponsorship agreement. St. Nicholas, who changed his name to Santa Claus to make himself make sound more cosmopolitan and sexy, still performs his act of Christian charity, but must honour the secular clause (no pun intended) of his merchandising deals. So as you are enjoying all those Santa goodies, bear in mind that Amnesty International are trying in earnest to get the North Pole sweat shops closed down.
Something to think about.

THE ANGELES: THE DIRECTOR'S CUT

Well the next phase of my Cork life has begun: I've started working for a big international corporation which shall remain nameless. Not that I'm afraid of getting sued or anything it's just that in many circles it's a dirty word. We handle calls here from all over the planet, confirming for me now what Corkonians have always known: This really is the centre of the world.

Trying my best to double-job too. About 5 minutes of research in the morning and then off to earn some cash. This morning, passing throughg UCC, The bells of the Honan chapel seemed to be clanging non-stop, it was like a marathon session of the Angeles. Mind you, have you ever seen the Director's Cut? It features a cameo by the pope. Except he can't look contempaltively in the air, he just sort of wiggles a bit with a tiny but noticable bit of dribble working its way onto his shoulder. Honestly though, the Angeles is a great programme, especially that funky themetune, I'm just waiting for the dance version to come out. I'm not sure if the Honan Chapel bells was an extended angeles though, it was more like God had slept through his alarm. Again. Honestly, the lad seems to spend most of his time on 'snooze.'