The absolute very first time I must've heard about Father Christmas was in the late 60s when I was a toddler. The second time was the following year when my brother, who was quite a bit older than me, told me that Santa didn’t exist and our chimney was clogged up with broken roofing tiles and dead birds so nobody could inch their way down it anyway. Also reindeer couldn’t fly and Icelandic people ate them. Possibly as a direct consequence.
In those days, we were happy to find pictures of nativity scenes behind the windows of our advent calendars rather than some trinket from Louis Vuitton which wouldn’t seem out of place in a goodie bag at the Oscars. We never got garage-loads of presents and nor did our stockings look like they were Hattie Jacques’ hand-me-downs. Instead, they were actual socks - usually short ones we’d grown out of 3 years earlier – and only big enough to hold some chocolate money and an orange (and not a nice chocolate one from Terrys but a real one which mum had bought from Gateway or Fine Fare several weeks earlier).
My kids have grown up now but, like we did when we were young, they used to jump on our bed shockingly early on Xmas morning to open their stocking presents. That’s where the similarities ended though as the small socks of our youth had turned into industrial-sized sacks which they struggled to drag through the door. I’d nearly wrecked my back the night before lifting them onto the kids’ beds as I tiptoed into their rooms after midnight trying not to disturb them. They were wide awake though, only pausing from their Nintendo DS so that they could video me to prove that Santa didn’t exist if, at any time in the future, I tried to bribe them into behaving themselves with any claim to the contrary.
The gifts themselves had increased in size (and cost) as well. The only way our kids would’ve accepted the sort of stuff we were given when we were younger was if the orange was a type of mobile phone and the money wasn’t chocolate but legal tender, preferably in high denomination banknotes.
Back in the old days, we had to wait for Dad to fetch my grandparents before we could open our presents under the tree (both of them…and one was a book). We could’ve got stuck in far earlier if Nana & Grandpa had got a taxi or hitched or not turned up at all....although that would’ve deprived us of their not-so-silent but deadly farts at the dinner table, drawing a slap from Mum if we weren’t able to stifle a laugh – for us not them, just to be clear, although it would’ve been far fairer if they'd been the ones to get a clip round the ear.
It was tough for Dad to distribute the presents because they tended to be covered by a sightscreen of tinsel. My mum always insisted on getting a real Xmas tree and then obscuring it with so much decoration that you wouldn't know it wasn’t artificial anyway (until it toppled under the weight and fell onto the stereo system which was the name we gave to our version of the iPhone in the 70s & 80s).
Once we’d unwrapped our book, clearly the second present was the big one. For me, I was hoping for either Subbuteo or one of the Action Man figures, ideally with realistic hair and gripping hands. Instead, I’d often get a) a second book, b) something which belonged to my elder brother or sister or, if I’d presumably been the world’s naughtiest child, c) a book belonging to my elder brother and sister.
We were then given a couple of hours to play with our presents – which was more than enough time because there was only so much fun you could get out of an orange, some reading material and a bit of money in the days before our pop stars managed to figure out something more exciting.
In the meantime, an army of people invaded our house to get pissed. Dad always managed to secure 2 pins (over 80 pints) of Abbot Ale at Xmas (we never asked him where from but he was a member of the rugby club and those lads could lift a few barrels pretty quickly if the landlord of the pub was unexpectedly called to the telephone). Abbot had an ABV of 5% but this was effectively doubled if consumed before midday so, as more people arrived, I was often called on for bar-tender duties. I was 9 when I was first trusted to fill up the tankards and 12 when I was allowed (ok, encouraged) to take a sip myself. Quality parenting.
Lunches around my home town were postponed, sometimes indefinitely, as our house shook to the mis-remembered lyrics of Any Old Iron and anything by Ray Conniff or the Black & White Minstrels (the less said about them the better – I tell my kids they were a fictitious rumour dreamed up by the woke brigade).
Once most of the stragglers had gone (including one chap who'd only knocked on the door to ask for directions to his cousin's house - true story), it was time for lunch....or supper as it was called by then. We had a Hostess heated trolley which needed to make the journey between the kitchen and the dining room over shag carpets and several rugs. It was a tricky obstacle course at the best of times but, after several pints of Abbot, it became virtually impassable. We actually had a serving hatch between the 2 rooms which would have been far easier and quicker to negotiate but Mum and Dad had saved up several books of Green Shield Stamps to buy the Hostess trolley so we had to make full use out of it.
After the Xmas pud - full of such low value coins that, even if one of us had eaten the whole thing on our own, we’d only have collected enough cash to buy a couple of Banjo bars - and the obligatory arguments (usually over helping with the washing up which, in those dishwasher-less days, was worse than hard labour), we would settle down to a board game in the evening. Originally, it was Totopoly or Cluedo before we moved on to more cerebral challenges like Pictionary and Trivial Pursuit where it was wise to avoid partnering with Dad once the Abbot had made him more interested in playing with the cheese wedges on the board than helping his young son answer some obscure question on the Suez Crisis.
Looking back, it’s interesting how many of these traditions I’ve introduced to my own family years later...whilst obviously improving on a couple. Dad had a decent system for distribution of the presents, ensuring the best was dished out last, but much as I approved of the general principle behind his approach, the execution was frankly a little on the amateurish side. Once I had children of my own, I developed a far more professional process with all the gift tags colour-coded and numbered to ensure an Amazon-efficient logistics exercise. I’m genuinely not joking. My kids think I’m weird but I bet, when it comes to their turn, they’ll be the ones copying my approach and, almost certainly, I’ll be the one farting at the dinner table.
Merry Xmas to everyone and thanks for sticking with me for 45 weeks. I hope I’ve brought a smile to your face every once in a while. And, if I haven’t, well, there’s always the Sound of Music to enjoy instead.
Next: ABSOLUTE VERY FIRST TIME...SCOOBY DOO (probably!)
If you like this blog, please take a look elsewhere on the website (here) for similar nostalgic takes on Grease, mixed tapes, Magic Roundabout and the Young Ones amongst others.
And if you don't want to miss a new post, subscribe for free here
Σχόλια