ah, Christmas.... a mere fortnight away no less. Wasn't it only last Thursday we were having our annual moan about how the shops are starting to sell Christmas cheer earlier every year?
Christmas this year in the Chomper household is going to be a quiet affair, and all the better for it - we've limited ourselves to one present each and are instead going to focus on chilling out and getting drunk. Initially I thought this would take all the stress out of the pre-Chrimbo run in, with fewer present ideas to bandy about. Alas, it has proven otherwise, as now all the pressure is on choosing the right gift from the range of options available. Normally, due to my fortuitous monthly pay day on the 18th, I am relatively flush with cash in the last week before the big day, and thus can afford to run about buying everything on people's wish lists, saving myself the hassle of making any decisions whatsoever, whilst simultaneously covering every base and looking downright generous to boot.
My own present list - which my mum insists on - is looking decidedly more mature than in previous years, no doubt connected to my passing the crest of the hill in October and cultivating more grey hairs than is possible to count on my head these days. Previous years saw a range of cds by popular beat combos, stupid books, gadgets and a variety of other stuff place themselves firmly at the front of my brain screaming "you need me!". This year, all I would like is (one of) a new bag for work, a teach-yourself-Polish CD, a new wallet, or a lead to connect my PC to my telly. Rock, and indeed, roll. It reminds me of the year I couldn't think of anything to buy my dad for Christmas and ended up buying him a belt.
All this Christmas present thought reminds me of when I was a kid, and a gullible kid to boot - I firmly believed in the presence of the big man until I was at least 11 or 12. Old enough, at any rate, to enter secondary school still too scared to waken up in the middle of the night for fear of disturbing him. Of course, things were simpler back then, and kids didn't grow up as fast as they do now, although I think perhaps I grew up a bit slower than most. But then, there was the proof - the mince pie eaten and whisky drunk; the muddy boot prints leading up to our back door on Christmas morning (given the lack of snow in those pre-Global warming days).
I remember once coming downstairs to my parents at some ungodly hour (probably about 9.30pm) on Christmas Eve, totally stressed that I couldn't get to sleep. What would happen if Santa came and I was asleep? Pretending wouldn't fool him - if he could communicate with Robin Redbreasts to find out if you were behaving, he could sure as hell tell if you were pretending to be asleep when he squeezed his fat belly down the chimney. Thankfully my mum, who I think was friends with Santa or at least had met him, had the solution, and my stocking was removed from the end of my bed and placed in the living room, at the opposite end of the house to me.
Poor old Santa got a rough deal from me on more than one occasion - and my parents were the ones who had to sit there, consoling their only son on Christmas morning and I wailed about the unfairness of it all that Santa hadn't got me exactly what I wanted. I mean, to me he was something like first cousin once removed from Jesus, and therefore should be telepathic as well as capable of commandeering 6 reindeer and a sleigh big enough to carry presents for all of the Western world.
So, one year I asked for a radio. I got a radio. I cried. What I actually wanted was a radio with a cassette player on it like my sister's - I mean, surely Santa would have realised that? My parents were there to console me. As they were the year I asked for a guitar. Santa bought me a guitar - a very beautiful child's size acoustic guitar, that would no doubt have cost an absolute fortune if it had been bought in a local shop rather than manufactured in an elven sweatshop at the North Pole. Again, I was gutted. I wanted an electric guitar, not an acoustic one. Surely Santa would have realised that? Again, my parents were there to comfort me and explain that, from what I'd written in my letter, Santa probably thought that he'd got me the right thing. Poor old Santa - I'm just glad he wasn't there to hear me whinge and moan and be genuinely distraught that these lovingly bought presents hadn't gone down as well as he no doubt thought and hoped they would when he chose them. And I want to take this opportunity to apologise for being such an ungrateful, naive little shit for not appreciating them the way I should - they were amazing presents and I was incredibly privileged to grow up in an environment where I could act like such a little snotrag over the "wrong type" of very expensive present.
Of course, the fact these two episodes came to me years later as I thought back and cringed about them only goes to demonstrate how wonderful all my Christmases were growing up. I was one of those kids who were fortunate enough to be in a position where, if I asked Santa or my parents for a "big" present, I generally got it. I still have all my Christmas presents from over the years - from my Scalextric, to my remote control car, to my "Manta Force" (an early and disgraceful example of marketing to kids via their classroom which I shall explain at some point), my Amiga, my Nintendo - even my stereo, which I got (I think) when I was 11 years old, and is still pumping out the tunes in my bedroom as I speak. I loved them all, even the radio and the guitar, and with hindsight wish I'd made that more clear.
I'm waiting for payback when I have kids.
and, erm, have to give feedback to Santa.
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