I don’t know about you but when it comes to Christmas, I like dragging that old b*tch out.
We all know as soon as you hit an age of double figures, time just seems to evaporate like a red tub of Celebrations, so starting the festive prep sooner rather than later is my way of making sure the excitement of Christmas isn’t short-lived.
I mean, what even is Christmas if we can’t dedicate a whole month (or in my case, two) to eating chocolate for breakfast, applauding our trees like the proud parents that we are, watching Home Alone and 101 Dalmatians daily and attempting to do a whole manner of things we would never normally do with our lives.
Like drying oranges. And baking melting snowman cookies. And decorating every present with a faux sprig of lethal wired holly which, by the way, may look as pretty as Riverdale’s very own Betty Cooper but also cuts you up and rips you apart like the bladddy Black Hood.
It’s actually really very pleasing on the eye. So ya know, as long as my family think the presents look lovely, what’s a few severed fingers and mangled vital arteries, eh? Faccck it, it’s Christmas. This is about others.
I’m not sure how universal the Betty Cooper and Black Hood references are gonna be but I wanted to drop that in there because I’ve finally found a series I will sit down and watch and you guessed it, I’ve got a boner about it.
Me actually watching a series? This is mammoth.
I haven’t been this attached to something since the wiry dog (read all about Lemmy the deerhound here. PS: yes I am on first name terms with the wiry dog now. Progress, non?).
My track record says I’m the very antithesis of Netflix and Chill but Riverdale – for all its god awful singing, farfetched crimes and quite frankly offensive lack of restaurants – has me by the jingle balls.
Admittedly Archie Andrews has a lot to do with its appeal. And while we’re on the subject, I’m gonna throw it out there, Jughead Jones’ dad has a lot to do with it, too.
That’s right, I like my serpents rugged and fresh out of jail. When he rocked up to work shifts in Pop’s – sweet jesus, that was one lucky apron.
As per usual I get a thought and I run away with it, so… back to Christmas.
It will be here and gone again before we know it and then we’ll all be looking over at our loved ones with their smouldering flushed turkey sweats and their hands all covered in Twiglet dust and we’ll think, is it really over?
Already? Oh.
Which is why, this year, we put our tree up in November. It’s also why I spent an inconceivable amount of money on a wreath making class but you can’t put a price on a ring of moss and foliage that no one else will see can you now, old pals.
Why? Context: because we live in a flat so there’s little point in hanging it on our front door. Because we basically live behind a fire door. Because we basically live in a broom cupboard.
So instead, my creation hangs rather proudly on a random nubbin on our wall. I call it the wall nipple.
Let’s call her Brenda.
My wreath is hanging proudly on Brenda’s nipple and she looks banging, if I do say so myself. Honestly, if you’re thinking of making one, DO IT. It’s a great way to stimulate your festive zen.
I did my class with Kate Langdale in Brighton – she’s absolutely lovely and does her classes in small groups of three or four, in her beautiful cosy workshop. Every time I pop in to get some flowers, I have to schedule in an extra 10 minutes just to allow myself enough time to drool over her shop. True. Story.
I want the magic of Christmas to last.
I don’t want to treat it like a smear test and suppress it right up to the day before it arrives – I want to enjoy the build up.
And I don’t know about you but I want to drive around looking for one of those streets where all the neighbours go head to head to win the award for best Christmas display and I want to sit in my car with popcorn and just treat my retinas to a good ol’ flashing light fest.
Crimbob is fleeting and in spite of all the panic buying and the stress that comes with capitalist culture and consumption, it’s a pretty f*cking special time of year.
And not just because of all the cheese.
It comes back to time. I guess one of the things you learn as you get older is that time really is the best gift you can give someone. And not just like half-arsed, one eye on your phone kinda time, but real undivided time.
Time to play stupid games like Poop the Potato. Time to down whatever festive punch your gal pals have been maturing since April (and hold each other’s hair back when it all gets out of hand. Note how I say when, not if). And time to listen to the story about the time my sister dared me to poo on a piece of A4 paper in my parents’ room, for the 48th time.
And yes, of course I stepped up to the plate and got the deed done. I am no poo sissy.
Christmas is a time to be together, like really together. You know?
Right, all this talk of Twiglets has got me feeling peckish. Pass me the bowl of nibbles already.
Love you bye.
