The thunder bolt political correctness army screeching from the wireless for a whole week running up to the feast of savages where turkeys are feted fucked,souped to a thousand and one meals within twenty-four hours until only cats purr amongst plastic bin bags as night falls, with only men who read Cumas from well worn,well thumb imprinted paper backs pull up their collars under neon lights, softly foot-falling in ideas thoughts surrounding a summer in Algiers...that perhaps i should not wash my turkey in the kitchen sink in case hairy bugs had me knocking on heavens door,or at least calling to GOD from the porcelain throne.
Maybe they let me pass because i survived Christmas day....i did not have to be pushed up stairs,undressed to oblivion,urinate in some dark corner,dance with the Christmas tree,forget how many bottles of Chardonnay i uncorked,with out dropping,spilling one precious drop.
I survived the in-laws,outlaws...a cat..who poked his head inside the kitchen door,who engaged with me a remarkable conversation surrounding this years Queens speech..which was so political correct that such thoughts as to not bother next year should the leaves of trees once more let me pass,i think the way the cat shook it's ass on leaving will probably linger for a while giving much thoughts on the single word rectum.
Not one political debate came across the mince pies,which either shows my mother and myself are mellowing,or that our separate England's are both floundering in the murky depths of the shopping trolley filled English Channel.In fact so much humour covered the empty plates,crushed napkins,half nibbled chocolate cake eaten by young ones whose eyes are far bigger than their belly's,that i began to wonder if it was Christmas day at all.
And when the conversation gave a hint of perhaps a cruise for next years festive season,that the grip of Christmas is slowly slipping from my mothers grasp..i sighed in relief...zipped off..the annoying screw topped Chardonnay bottle,perhaps corks are on the political arrest order..and drank a toast to myself for surviving fifty-two Christmas days...With this one moving into my top ten Christmas raves..
It was not,a toast of glee,or i told you so,a more of i can now climb down the the turret of the tank piss on the tracks without worrying who is stood behind me,victory for no one..peace maybe..in the crazy mixture bonded by the word family.
Yet my most overriding memories this year go beyond the boundary of that single word tied by my bloodline...
Christmas eve found myself seated in a tiny Chinese eating house so familiar,i can walk in,still in uniform sit eat and scratch my bollocks,amongst the tight paper clothed tables,drink tea from a Savoy Hotel reject teapot, feeling quite happy with the City of Manchester...shrouded in fairy lights for the festive season,with the will to return down the dark gutters dribbling human figures in some form of sanity.
The large lady and young boy sat across could eat real mean, if it had been a human body only a finger nail would have been left and they might have asked for seconds,in contrast as i walked through the night air watching the brightly lit shop windows being dressed by young ladies ready for the throng to cascade as one..the word..SALES...their marching tune.Within the fall of this brightness began the bag people moving in to start their own Christmas special,Cider in paper bags,hunched in two's hunched in four's each thick window ledge punctured bums,as those who dared to wash turkeys in sinks slipped home-wards..i think it was the smiles, laughter, dancing out in echo's beneath street lights..no police moving them on..that night the city was theirs..so too the large lady with her chinese salt and pepper ribs,the contrast so large Moby Dick could have kittens and would not even know.