Hiding Away Until the Tinsel Melts

When I was younger, in a younger man’s—no, a younger boy’s—shoes, I bought into the magic of the Saturnalian festivities that followed the last fall of brown leaves onto concrete and grass. The frenzy of family colliding for food, for drink, for the exchange of gifts and the anecdotal evidence that we were here at all, all tucked under the loose lore of a Messianic birth. It was joyous in its pomposity and, for me, rooted in imperfect humanity.

But as the turn from autumn to winter brings its cold snap—a reminder that change is necessary but not always gentle—so too did my summer-loving embrace of Christmas turn to a wintry dissonance. I grew up. I saw that so much of Christmas outside clan Cafolla was performative, perfunctory, and putrid in its capitalistic, materialistic marinations. Not leanings—marinations. Steeped as it is, the modern holiday is driven as much by fear of missing out, guilt, and shame as by love, peace, and joy.

Resentment simmers beneath the tinsel. There’s the insistence that forced company is better than honest solitude, that Scrooge was wrong for hiding away. And yes, he was wrong—for greed and tyranny—but not for refusing the pretence of acted familial familiarities.

So my winter ritual became the opposite of celebration: hide away, and don’t deal with much beyond winter gigs and the hum of natural-gas central heating. Batten down the hatch. Batten down myself. Give in to the homing instinct, the need to wear more layers than a human should be allowed. Whisper apologies to the sun for not appreciating its majesty, even though it barely shows its face in my corner of the northern hemisphere.

This is the time when I should write, but will I? Will I? Will I.

Please, sun, stop hiding—though it’s our own tilt that draws us away from your presence.

I don’t do Christmas anymore. The wife and I make it our aim to avoid all the godawful gaudy crap of ’tis the season. ’Tis the season to go fuck yourself. Keep your overweight German or Polish or Icelandic or Norwegian demigod Demogorgon on his flying sleigh to your fucking self. I’ll be over here minding my goddamn business, practicing my ritual of winter: retreat, quiet, warmth, and the refusal to pretend.

It’s also cold. Have you noticed? In the northern hemisphere, it’s fucking cold. In Britain, in Scotland, it’s freezing. I can’t overstate that. I don’t mind the crisp, sanitised chill for an hour or so, maybe a morning or afternoon, but when it continues relentlessly, that’s when I draw the fucking line.

We incorporated Doctor Who into our winter ritual because, during its reboot that started in 2005, there was a Christmas special every year, and we would take advantage of the tasty treats available in the stores. While there were religious reasons for opting out of Christmas, by the time I was 21 I had completely turned against the concept as anything other than an excuse to fill my cake hole with food and drink.

Aside from the family side, Christmas was lonely and a reminder of my lack of friends. There was that gamification before it was even a thing, turning people into players in a video game of life, where they were the best if they could afford the best presents. I know it’s not like that for everyone, but I am not picking apart individuals. I am taking a big wide sweeping generalisation at the whole concept.

The more-more-more mentality, the keeping up with the fucking Jonesies, the annoying Christmas songs—aside from Happy Xmas (War Is Over) and Fairytale of New York, of course. It is all just too much, and so many people buy into it, and it is also a sad time. Even if I didn’t have a stack of reasons to not celebrate Christmas, since my Nonna died, Christmas lost any grip it had on me.

If you choose to celebrate Christmas and enjoy it, well fucking great. Like I say, I will be hiding away and trying to stay in my home cave until all the tinsel and snow melts away.

No guilt, no shame, no trying to work my arse off to pay for presents forgotten halfway through the year.

Just don’t wish me a merry Christmas, a happy Christmas, or a bonnie fucking Xmas.