Dan Morris: Tunes, cheese and Kermit as Cratchit
It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank.
Every December 24 since I was about 18, I've made a point of taking a few minutes of solitude to listen to that absolute belter, alone and smiling reflectively.
Fairytale of New York by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl is quite simply the only Christmas song that is too good to only be a Christmas song, and if I could get away with blasting it in August, I would.
It is an undisputed highlight of the festive airwaves all December long, yet there is something about listening to it on the day to which its lyrics refer (and with the full concentration) that gives me goosebumps. Therefore, to do so is part of my unshakable Christmas Eve ritual.
Today will be no exception, and with a Guinness in hand I will get misty-eyed and nod to the dulcet tones of Shane MacGowan as he reacquaints me with all of my ghosts of Christmases past.
This will be followed very swiftly with a viewing of the Muppet Christmas Carol, as I do the best job a bloke can do of wrapping presents while imbibing a second Guinness and some lovely Christmas cheese. Bellissimo.
The acceptability of the at-home cheese board is one of the things I love most about Christmas. If, of course, unlike me, you live in the prim and proper civilised world, you may keep a decent variety of the old fromage in to keep guests (and more importantly, yourself) sated throughout the year. But – as much as I love it – not I. Granted, you'll always find my fridge beholden with an ample stock of cheddar. But Brie, Boursin and Bavarian smoked – these fine treats only rear their heads in my house at about the same time as Bublé comes out of his cave each year. And as he retreats come January 6, so does the Roquefort, Raclette and Ricotta.
Yet, for the other 11 months of the year, absence of a cheese board at Casa del Dan is out of sheer forgetfulness rather than self-control. And so, as we move towards 2023, I think I'll try and keep the platter prolific for a bit longer. Who knows – if guests play their cards right this coming March, they might find their palm crossed with the odd Dairylea triangle. Nectar of the Gods.
As rock-solid as I like to believe it is, my Christmas Eve ritual has mutated somewhat over the years.
From 19 to 25 it revolved around a fancy dress pub crawl that I swore I would never give up. Though once you've spent six successive December 24s as a boozed-up Jack Sparrow, William Wallace, Jack Sparrow, Marc Anthony, The Joker, and Jack Sparrow (I've told you before – it's a pirate's life for me), your liver starts to admit defeat and admirably lay down its sword.
Also exorcised has been the ritual of buying all of my presents with less than 24 hours to go.
Over the last four years I've got a lot better, and now do all of my Christmas shopping on the much more industrious December 22. What can I say – I can perform under pressure better than Freddie Mercury.
Truth be told, like many blokes I enjoy doing a quick-fire and last-minute present shop – paying a visit to some garden centre-esque wonderland of pop-up festive retailers and smashing out everything for every family member in one fell swoop. And I do a lot better when the range of choice is minimal. The internet is a wonderful thing, but with every gift option on the planet available at your fingertips, it can be hard to narrow things down. I like a bit more direction, and a bit more streamlining. When a pirate's life is off the table, it's 'the simple life' for me. Let's hope the fam-a-lam enjoy their equally simple gifts.
So folks, here's to a day of tunes, cheese, Kermit as Cratchit, and getting the gubbins under the tree just in time. Like many of you, I'll be slaving away over the stove tomorrow (wish me luck) so today is one to enjoy.
Merry Christmas all, and thanks for your fantastic support this year. It's been a privilege to bore you senseless with my inadequate musings, and hopefully give you the occasional laugh when you've needed it.
However you're spending Christmas, I hope it's a cracker. Cheers!
