I have always viewed Christmas, decorative and wholesome reader, as a time of cheer tempered by appropriate reflection on one’s good fortune and the possibility that there are others who are not as resilient to the blows of fate as one may be oneself. I think it is important to leave a little something for the (oh so discreetly named) dustman and to ensure that the Christmas tree at the supermarket has a tin of Big Sister plum pudding or similar under it to be distributed to the grateful poor.
I don’t seek any thanks for these small sacrifices nor do I imagine that I am alone in seeking to share my good fortune around. Indeed it is clear that I am not. A quick look under the tree at my local Central Provision Store shows that there is a lovely plastic cricket set and a delightful Barbina ™ dolly that some little girl will surely cherish until her brother twists its arm off and the hollow body doesn’t provide enough resistance for her father to push it back on again. Or its hair peels off. Or the dog gets it.
Indeed the mental picture of the pleasure that the local poor child will get when she is able to console herself with a mouthful of processed flour and Turkish raisins is such that I am tempted to wait until Christmas Eve, pop ‘round to the little mite’s hovel and lovingly place the canned pud straight onto her (no doubt urine soaked) mattress myself. Dressed as Father Christmas, or not, subject to costume availability.
Such is the depth of my feeling for my fellow man at Christmastide.
Anyway, it was in this spirit that I tuned into “Christmas Favourites” on the wireless the other night and settled back with a tepid eggnog to enjoy the revels.
I cannot claim that it was all I had hoped it would be. Rather than a selection of Carols, I was greeted by commercialism at its worst. The program consisted mainly of dreadful pop style songs which had been created with the all too obvious aim of cashing in on the universal feelings of warmth toward humanity which we all enjoy at this time of year.
You may tolerate the cynical grab for cash that is “White Christmas” by Bingo Crosby but I remain unmoved. My nerveless fingers groped for the bakelite knob. Unfortunately I was unable to shut the accursed din off before I heard the nauseating opening bars of “The Little Drummer Boy”.
How vile. Honest emotion made me drop the eggnog on the Berber and don’t know if it will ever be the same. The egg really makes a nasty cleaning problem.
What ever happened to the old songs, I wonder? How can we have moved so far from the spirit and intention of the celebration of Christmas? Why have we sacrificed so many of the proud traditions of this humble religious feast in the interests of an annual grab for money?
I am not one to sit back and watch our proud traditions be eroded in this way. It is time that the public, no doubt thirsty for a return to the values of another time are given an unapologetic dose of proper traditional Christmas music. How better to do so than with a close examination of the lyrics of such a song?
On that basis, I am proud to provide you with my seasonal offering, my own “take” as my nephew would have it, on that perennial favourite “Last Christmas” by Mr. George Michael, known to and loved by us all. I think he done it when he was in Wham (or perhaps Wham!) with that other bloke who no-one remembers but who seems to have been rather better than George at keeping his nose etc clean.
But I digress. To the lyric!
“Last Christmas, intones the lugubrious Mr. Michael, “I gave you my heart”.
I do not for one minute imagine that he is referring to his physical heart. He means that he gave his affections. Not his affectations, that would have been too much to fit under the tree. I don’t think this line gives great cause for pause and consideration. It is reasonably straightforward.
He continues:
“The very next day you gave it away”.
How extraordinary. Consider this.
The day after Christmas day is, of course, Boxing Day. Boxing Day is so called because it is traditionally the day on which one presents the staff with a token of one’s appreciation for the year of backbreaking toil they have put in for you. I assume that the gift is given on the day after Christmas in the hope that the butler will be less tempted to despoil the goose if he thinks it will put his small flask of Cypress sherry at risk.
So the ungrateful recipient of Mr. Michael’s heart (whatever that means) appears to have given it to the servants.
How extraordinary. What on earth is the chambermaid, the chauffeur or the boy who cleans the boots and knives going to do with such a thing? I mean to say one would like to think that someone who is sufficiently high on the social scale to still have a staff in this day and age would also have sufficient courtesy to pen a simple note of thanks and put the unwanted gift away for a decent time. Then perhaps give it to the Vicar for the Jumble Sale.
Anyway, Mr. Michael does not seem too disturbed by this. He mournfully insists;
“This year, to save me from tears I’ll give it to someone special.”
I mean to say, what on earth was he doing giving it away in the first place if the recipient was not “someone special”. And if it was given away a year ago, how did Mr. Michael get it back?
This is all enough to make one swoon. The numbers just don’t add up. Indeed, the song concludes thus:
“A face on a lover with a fire in his heart
A man under cover but you tore him apart
Maybe next year I’ll give it to someone
I’ll give it to someone special.”
I don’t pretend to understand the first bit, but the second bit causes even more concern. Having earlier in the song claimed that this year he is going to give his heart to someone special, he is now saying that perhaps next year he will again give it to someone special.
If he is going to do that, he is going to have to get it back again from whoever is the recipient this year. In the same way that he has already done. But that was the upset that caused him to go public with this musical complaint about the person he gave it to last Christmas.
I don’t follow the song at all. But it is a damn sight finer than “White Christmas”.
