December Newsletter
Christmas in England lasts for a week. From Christmas Eve until New Year’s Day, the country remains largely closed. It’s both a wonderful time of the year and, for many, an anxiety-ridden one. There are fewer cars on the road, but more people report accidents. Pets receive more presents, but dog bites increase threefold. Fewer people get burgled, but more people get arrested for drunken driving. Fewer people watch the King’s speech than watch Doctor Who specials. Otherwise, Christmas in England has remained largely unchanged since the reign of Henry the Eighth.
My parents always had elaborate Christmases that seemed to go on forever. Decorations from Harrods were in abundance. Christmas cards covered every beam in the house. The highlight was always the Bell Ringers. They would arrive on Christmas Eve and march into the living room. The sound was quickly turned down on the TV. They put their bells on a small portable card table and kept picking them up and putting them down with a sort of sustained patience. If you listened very carefully and had an ear for music, it was possible to discern some kind of tune. They would receive half a crown each for their performance before they trudged up the road to the next house.
My father, an actor who often portrayed upper-class Englishmen, enjoyed playing the part of the local squire during the festive season. His younger son would be dispatched to deliver bottles of whiskey around the village. With my bicycle basket full to the brim, I would receive a nod and a smile from the butcher, the greengrocer, the doctor, the barber, the policeman, and even the convent, but very seldom a half crown.
Piled high under our tree were presents of all shapes and sizes—well wrapped, badly wrapped, or in some cases not wrapped at all, all to be undone in as short a time as possible. Later there would be the obligatory search for some present or part of a present that had been inadvertently thrown away with the wrapping paper. The television was kept on all day, even though there was nothing on for more hours than not, as this was the 1950s and television in England was in its infancy. It almost always snowed, so tobogganing went on for days along with leftovers and half-opened boxes of chocolates. Once it was all over, there was both a sense of relief and a longing for it all to be repeated.
Christmas in Australia, on the other hand, is gotten over with as fast as possible for the simple reason that it’s usually boiling hot and therefore doesn’t remotely resemble Christmastime. You need cooler weather to make Christmas work. Pubs extend their hours Down Under, and the number of kangaroo attacks increases. Almost nobody watches the King’s speech.
Most pubs in England, by contrast, are only open for limited hours, and that’s if the publican lives over the premises and wants to curry favor with the villagers. He is unlikely to go to the trouble of serving a hot meal, but Smiths crisps are always on hand in various flavors. Christmas at the pub is a time of profound pronouncements. “I’d like to drink a toast to my wife Jean and her sister Doris for preparing the dinner. They can’t be here with us now as they got a bit behind with the veggies, but she’s been a great little wife to me for more years than I care to count.” A lot of that goes on.
Christmas at the new Mad Dogs will be fun. Please drop in on your way down MacDill so we can thank you for making this first year so successful.
If you aren’t busy on Dec. 8th, join us for our annual show at the Oxford Exchange. This year it’s London in the Swinging Sixties.
