The true meaning of Christmas is, as any nine year old could tell you, the loot. Booty. Swag. Plunder. Gelt. It is rich food and rich drink, too. It’s a nap in the afternoon if you damn well want one. It’s one thoroughly sybaritic day at the ass end of a long, tough year, just before Winter turns deeply nasty.
I wish you well, you folk who observe the 2007th birthday of that Middle Eastern rabbi fellow today, but it makes me sad to think you’re missing out on the real spirit of the thing.
Happily, the rampant consumerism, crass commercialism and secular character of Christmas is alive and well, even today.
I’m sprawled on the couch before a coal fire in a rat’s nest of empty boxes and wrapping paper, wearing my new black high-tech thermal underwear, wool hiking socks and Hobgoblin t-shirt. I look like some particularly obscure, unloved supervillain (bow before the great Repulso, puny hu-mans!).
It’s two hours after Nap Time and an hour before Drinking Time and I’m officially feeling no pain. We’ll start with a nice bottle of fizz and improvise after that. Later — in the wee hours of the morning — a full Christmas dinner. Because that’s the way we like it.
Here’s hoping yours was as delightful as ours.