Christmas Present :: Bye, Humbug!

If I knew then what I know now, I’m not sure it would have made much difference, but it would have made some, and that would have been the difference between feeling ashamed and self-pitiful, and feeling self-pitiful and somehow immune. But I didn’t know then what I know now. All I knew then was that Christmas was a time that other people seemed to love but that I really hated.



Humbug.

I hated Christmas because my parents would use it as an excuse to drink themselves into oblivion.

I hated Christmas because I had to go to midnight mass and pretend that I believed in the concepts which I invariably heard expressed there, concepts such as love, acceptance, forgiveness, peace and compassion. Concepts such as God and the family. I hated church. I hated church because my parents would also be pretending, and they would put on a show for the people they knew at church, the people they called friends, and then when we got home they would revert to the scowling, cursing, ruthless vulgarians that deep inside they truly were.

I hated Christmas because I was a child like any other and I wanted Sonic the Hedgehog and a PC and I wanted videos, hundreds and hundreds of videos, but unfortunately Christmas gifts that were anything other than absolutely necessary were in our house deemed frivolous and irrelevant. One year I received a new school blazer. Another year I received a new carpet for my bedroom. Sometimes however, if I was lucky and my parents were feeling particularly festive, one of them would bung twenty quid in an envelope. We never had a tree.

I hated Christmas because I had to stay at home for most of it and pretend.

I hated Christmas because the only bit of Christmas I loved was spending time round Keith’s house. This caused a real schism within me. On the one hand, it was wonderful to be given the opportunity to be able to understand what Christmas was all about and to see why other people enjoyed it so much; on the other hand, it brought home everything that was lacking in my own family. On the whole though, I cherished the time I spent at Keith’s house, or – as I came to know it – The Great Escape.



And then I escaped for good, and was miserable to discover that I had begun to hate Christmas for new reasons.

Primarily, I hated it because I was scarred, and because hating it had become a habit.

As an adult, I spent quite a few Christmases alone, despite protests from people who knew me – to some people there is no greater crime against nature than spending Christmas alone. For the most part I never minded those Christmases though. I’d tell myself I was going to write, then I’d watch six films back to back instead. It was fun, but yeah, kind of sad fun. One Christmas I had a tin of meatballs for Christmas lunch. That was quite sad actually. I remember feeling rather unhappy at that point.

Then last year there was change and I had excellent fun. Christmas with kids is a a whole new kettle of fish and I hope to spend many more Christmases in future with children. Inshallah. Last Christmas seems like a long time ago now, and indeed it was. It was almost a year. It marked the beginning though, of a turning point.

This year promises to be even better, and this is the first time I can actually remember actively looking forward to Christmas.

This feels like the first Christmas of the rest of my life.

I can’t wait. I'm going to go mental this year.

The particularly great thing about this Christmas is that I already have everything I could possibly want, so everything else is a bonus.

Awww.



And what about you? What do you want for Christmas?

Whatever it is, I really hope you get it.

Feedback Friday :: Glad To Be Glad

I don’t know if this is some kind of manic episode – I know I’ve teetered on the meniscus of manic in the past – but I just can’t help feeling incredibly glad at the moment. Change is a remarkable thing. And the future is bright.

With all of this in mind, this week’s feedback comes in the form of 15 Things I Am Glad About. Oh yes, I’m going to have you puking up your pelvis before this passes…

1) I’m glad that my reactions to the challenges of life are much more robust now than they were just a year ago.

2) I’m glad that because of my reactions to the challenges of life, there are finally opportunities on the horizon.

3) I’m glad I’ve got the day off.

4) I’m glad that Keith is doing something noble and selfless and good, whether he sees it that way or not.

5) I’m glad that I have a chance to undo some of the ungood that was done to my family.

6) I’m glad that more people are starting to send me photos of bad English. Very glad indeed. It’s a great feeling. I’m also particularly glad that compared to the poor old bugger to whom this chart belongs, I am in incredibly good health.

7) I’m glad I found out how easy it is to change one's life, whilst also discovering that it’s even easier to change back.

8) I’m glad I have friends.

9) I’m glad that a couple of nights ago I took MDMA and had a big soapy bath in the middle of the night, with apples and candles and good old me-time.

10) I’m glad I’ve found a nice house where I can live and grow. (Green fingers crossed.) I’m so looking forward to growing again.

11) I’m glad that the landlady of the new place said it was OK to have a kitten. Oh, yes, she did! A kitten! Actually, to hell with glad. I’m absolutely ecstatic about that.

12) I’m glad I’ll soon have something else to write about, because frankly, I’m beginning to tire of the sound of my own voice.

13) I’m glad that athlete’s foot is treatable.

14) I’m glad that I’m running out of things to be glad about because, frankly, if it was that easy, it wouldn’t really count for that much.

15) Oh, and finally, I have to say, I’m very glad that I’ll be popping down to Brighton this weekend. Say no more.

So what are you glad about? Come on, it’s a beautiful day. Share your gladness with me at once, you gorgeous thing!

Feedback Friday :: Late Night Ramble/Looks Like We Got Ourselves A Feeder

bulk :: 15st 13
alcohol units imbibed :: 20ish
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 2 (both stupid)
swims swum :: 0 (There’s just not enough hours in a day. How do people do this stuff?)
shocking revelations :: 1
great shafts of sun-flavoured hope :: 1

Every now and then, I find myself drifting off and fantasising about all of the ghastly, miserable things which could descend upon me at any moment. Not that I’m willing them to happen or anything, but all this ceaseless happiness is beginning to get me down. You know? Where's the conflict? What the hell am I supposed to be blogging about now? I really think I need something dark and unpleasant to come along and wipe this saccharine smirk off my increasingly self-satisfied face.

No, I'm just kidding. If it came to a toss-up between happiness and an exciting blog, there'd be no question. Sally would be history. I joke, I joke.

Anyway, there’s always conflict.

But before we get to the conflict, let me say this: years ago, on the telly, Philip Roth said that he always makes a point of saying to the people in his life: ‘If you don’t want it going in a book, don’t tell me.’ And he said it with a kind of arrogant, don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you swagger. At the time, I thought he was distinctly lacking in moral fibre. But now I’m forced to agree with him.

If I meet you and you know I keep a blog, there’s a good chance you’ll feature. (Unless you’re just really, unspeakably dull.) And if you don’t know I keep a blog, you’re easy pickings.

So I was reminded of this late last night, when Sally and I fell into a quite intense telephone conversation about some of her many deep-rooted psychological issues. (They’re like meercats, Sally’s issues. Just when you think the coast is clear, one will pop its head above the parapet and twitch at you.) After one particularly amusing exchange, I rather drifted off for a moment. Quick as a flash, Sally said, ‘You’re thinking about blogging what I just said, aren’t you?’ And I couldn’t lie.

‘Is that alright?’ I asked. ‘It’s actually probably a bit weird, isn’t it? Is it?’

‘It’s very weird,’ she said. Then: ‘If I asked you to stop, would you not do it anymore? Writing about me, I mean.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to use my blog for Evil. If it makes good people feel bad, then it must die. Do you want me to stop?’

Pause

‘No.’ Fame whore. ‘Just try and steer clear of the megapersonal stuff.’

‘You mean like how you like me to push your face into the pillow and thrash your bumcheeks raw with the IKEA spatula?’

‘Yeah. All that stuff is off limits, please.’

‘I know, baby-girl. I know.’

So.

I discovered yesterday that Sally – my girlfriend – is a feeder. This is how it came out:

Sally: What did you have to eat tonight?

Me: Not a sausage.

Sally: Not even a little chipolata?

Me: No, and I don’t miss it. I think I feel another fast coming on.

Sally: Don’t you dare. There shall be no fasting on my watch, Biggles. Gandhi wasn't sexy.

Me: But it cleanses my soul. It’s good for me.

Sally: Eat, man! What's wrong with you? Not eating is sick. It’s a disorder. And besides any of that, you’re a growing lad.

Me: But I’m fed up with growing.

Sally: You need to eat. You need fuel.

Me: I want to shrink myself.

Sally: Well, I don’t approve. You’re going to waste away if you’re not careful. Promise me you’ll eat something, Stan. Promise.

Me: Absolutely not! If anything, I’m promising you I won’t eat. I have no intention of eating. And I’m beginning to worry about you. I’m beginning to think you might be a feeder.

Sally: I like a big man. There's nothing wrong with that.

Me: You like a fat man. That’s different. That’s weird.

Sally: I'm going to buy you some baggy clothes, so you can grow into them.

Me: No.

So anyway, usually, feeders are men who want to control their wives or girlfriends by making sure they’re at home eating and piling on the pounds, rather than out and about looking slim and sexy and attracting other men. So it’s kind of an abusive thing borne of hideous insecurity. But I don’t think Sally’s is like that at all. I think she just gets off on being pinned down and taken roughly from behind by massive sweaty fat blokes.

Another one of her other madnesses is her really quite passionate belief in homeopathy. Or ho-ho-homeopathy, as I refer to it when I’m being witty. Now I like to keep a half-open mind as far as homeopathy is concerned (incidentally, no mind should ever be any more than half-open, otherwise stuff gets out), but my instinct is to damn it as errant tosh for the desperate and gullible.

However, Sally maintains that it works. She swears by it. Her mother even recently qualified as a proper homeopath, if that isn’t an oxymoron. Also, when she was younger, Sally suffered from migraines for years, had all kinds of prescribed medicines and conventional wisdoms and nothing. Then she went a homeopath and they cleared up almost immediately. This makes me doubt my knee-jerk cynicism a little, I must say.

What has me yammering about this however, is the fact that I started to rash up last night after spending a couple of hours in the lovely hot sun. Just a mild itch at first, but blotching and bubbling are in the post if I persist. And when I told Sally about it, she said, ‘Mum could knock you up a remedy.’

So I’m going to give it a shot. Apparently I have to sit down with her and tell her everything about my life, including but by no means limited to my medical history. It actually sounded like a therapy session the way Sally described it. It sounds great. And I really want to be able to go out in the sun without blistering like a vampire. So I’m going to give witchcraft a go.

Wish me luck.

Have a smashing weekend.