Have yourself a militant little Christmas

Given all the eating and drinking, it probably won’t surprise you to hear that I LOVE Christmas. I love it so much I’ve been known to buy decorations in June (I do have a strict rule that festivities can not begin until December, but I was on holiday and there was a Christmas shop – I couldn’t help it).

Everyone has their own idea of what Christmas must contain or ‘it’s just not Christmas’ and my passion is such that I have a slight tendency towards the Christmas Commandant (note the reference a ‘strict rule’ above. There are more.) I have very clear ideas on what is and is not Christmassy.

Colours, for instance. Red, green, silver and gold (and white – especially of the snowy variety) – yes. Blue, pink and pastels of any description – NO. And as for matchy-matchy blue or pink (or purple) Christmas trees - HELL NO. This year we accidentally bought coloured lights for our tree (clear lights look much nicer, I’m sure you’ll agree. If not I have ways of making you agree…) While I could make my peace with the red and green ones, they are, after all, permissible Christmas colours, the blue ones had to go. And by go, I mean get duct taped up, one by one, until their non-Christmassy glow was obliterated. What? It’s perfectly normal. *ahem*

NO

But it’s not just about the colours and the gluttony, it’s also about the presents. Not just the receiving (I like diamonds and ponies, in case you were wondering…) I am a big big fan of the giving. I get very excited about giving people presents, especially when I think it’s something they’ll really like. There’s a reason this is my favourite Christmas ad ever:

All together now: ahhhhhhhh… Now that we’re feeling all warm and fuzzy, let’s turn our thoughts back to food (you didn’t think I was going to leave it at one brief mention of gluttony, did you?) This is perhaps the area in which most people (myself included) get the most militant. For some it’s mince pies, for others it’s trifle. I’m not bothered about either (‘what?!’ I hear your inner radical Christmas elf gasp ‘no mince pies?!’) But my Christmas must (MUST!) include my Nana’s stuffing. It is, without doubt, the best stuffing recipe in the world (it contains potatoes) and I defy you to say any different.

Christmas traditions are many and varied it’s always entertaining to see the clash of customs when families come together. As the youngest in the family, I got to look on as my older sibling’s partners were introduced to our family Christmas. Their varied reactions to my mother’s annual Christmas wobbler were always fun to watch (the pressure of catering and general emotional high doe of the season tended to culminate in an episode of some sort, usually involving one or all of; a sudden outburst, a tea-towel flung dramatically to the floor, a slammed door, tears). I particularly remember the looks of horror when new boyfriends or girlfriends were told we didn’t open our presents until everyone was fully dressed and had been to mass (mass - and yet my father never appreciates our singing ‘Happy Birthday dear Jesus, Happy Birthday tooo yooouuuuu…’ It’s disrespectful apparently). The belated presents tradition was nothing but cruel if you ask me, and I was in full support of the mutiny led by my eldest sister’s husband the year we stormed the living room in our pyjamas and let rip under the tree.

This year we’ll be taking it one further and opening our presents on Christmas Eve, because that’s how they do it here in Sweden. Yes, we get to share a whole new set of Swedish traditions with our friends which essentially means TWO Christmases. Excited does not even begin to describe it.

See? Lovely Christmassy colours. Much better.

28 days later...

I can happily report Sweden is not overrun by Zombies / a rage virus. 2 ‘grown-ups’ (debatable: see photo*) and 2 cats left Edinburgh for the land of Volvos, Abba and Ikea 28 days ago, much like my Viking ancestors in reverse, but in a small truck rather than a long boat (much 10/4-10/4 rubber duckie fun was had by all). Since then, there has been much to surprise, delight and disgust me.

*These make me giggle. Every time.

Having been warned that the Swedish peoples tend to be shy / standoffish (this was by Swedes, so it’s not racism…) I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how friendly and helpful everyone has been, from the smiley ladies at the tax office to the nice people who helped me push my friend’s trusty old Volvo (which is as old as me, if not older) away from the petrol pumps in the rain, when it wouldn’t start (I’d managed to flood the engine. Clever me.)

I have, of course, also provided many moments of entertainment, and simple confusion, for the natives in my attempts to get my head around their mother tongue. When a couple of friends got engaged I told them I was so ‘upphetsad’ (excited) for them. You can imagine their amusement (and slight fear) at the fact that upphetsad tends to mean excited in the aroused sense.

When I told our bin man I’d lived in Edinburgh for 70 years, rather than 17, he was kind enough to point out I didn’t look old enough to have lived there that long, despite the fact that I had just got out of bed and ran out of the house like a demented leprechaun to catch the bin collection. The lady who offered to help me in a shop to be told: ‘No thanks, I’m dainty’ just looked confused. Given my distinct lack of daintiness, I’d say she was very confused.

Speaking of shops brings me on to something I like a whole lot about Sweden. No queues. You take a numbered ticket when you go anywhere you might need counter service and wait until your number is called. This means you can browse, sit, or even leave and come back if your timing’s good, rather than stand in a queue like a fool. Logic. I like it.

Another thrilling observation I’ve made is that of the Swedish dustpan and brush. OK thrilling may be pushing it a bit, but it’s the little things… And, in this case, the long handles. Simple, effective, logical. I ask myself: Why are people in other countries still bending over? 

Why do we bend and scrape?

I considered calling this ‘Confessions of a Swedophile’, but thought people might get the wrong idea. Also, there are some things over here that I am not a fan of. And some that are just plain wrong. I give you... salted liquorice. WHY? Why take something revolting and make it even more so? Also: Emmerdale and Holby City. Yes, you read correctly. Of all the British TV on offer, they import Emmerdale and Holby City. All I can think is that there’s a bargain bin in the TV show shop (or wherever it is these TV executive types buy their programming) and they were in it.

If you were hoping for me to wax lyrical about the beautiful Swedish countryside, gorgeous buildings and fascinating history I think you know by now, if you’ve made it this far, that you’ll be waiting. If you really want to see how beautiful it is watch this. We’re getting down to the nitty gritty. I did mention disgust earlier and, let’s face it, this is what you’ve been waiting for. The toilet.

Beautiful Sweden. But that's not what this is about.

Yes they have toilets, and yes, they look pretty similar to most toilets in the western hemisphere (aside from Italy – no holes in the ground here thankfully), but when you live in the countryside, as we do, there are other aspects to consider, like shit tanks. Not every home is linked up to the main sewerage system, so when you flush your ablutions (as my Nana called them) are not taken to the ocean, like Nemo, they’re taken to a big smelly tank under your garden (where you will certainly not find Nemo). And, more logic, these tanks need to be emptied every so often.

Now it’s not that we didn’t check the tank, it’s more that we neglected to check it for a few days, and the day it unexpectedly reached capacity happened to coincide with a class 2 storm. Excellent. A shit-storm it was not, but it did mean having to use the outside toilet which, when the wind is howling in the pitch-black night, is atmospheric to say the least. That said, given outside toilets don’t flush, there are times when the phrase ‘I can’t see shit’ is a positive.

As God is my witness, I will never take a flushing toilet for granted again.

So long Scotland

I've lived in Edinburgh for 17 years. 17! That's nearly half my life. So in honour of my gypsy roots (apparently...) it's time to move on. There's a lot I'll miss about Auld Reekie, but not the smell. I jest – it doesn’t smell anymore, unless you're downwind of Leith. I jest again! Leith isn’t even in Edinburgh... (Sorry. Local joke for local people.)

Unsurprisingly there are various pubs I'll think of longingly from time to time and restaurants I'll salivate at the memory of, what with food and drink being top of my priority list. You could say this is down to greed, I prefer to think of it as a keen survival instinct.

I remember, back in the mists of time, before I moved to Edinburgh, numerous people telling me how beautiful it was, which struck me as very odd. Having mainly Irish towns as a reference point, I had never really seen any scope for an urban area to be 'beautiful'. This was a word reserved for the countryside. But on arrival I discovered than Edinburgh was indeed very beautiful. The striking view of the castle and Royal Mile towering over Princes St Gardens was described ever so eloquently by my brother; "F*$kin' hell! ...d'y'ever just stop and go: 'F*$kin' hell!'?"  An English degree was not wasted on that boy.

'F*$kin hell'

Now the festival is very much a double-edged sword. Aside from the obvious comedy and culture type stuff, it's fantastic for people-watching, late night revelry (drinking) and general atmosphere, but it also brings with it hordes of overconfident drama students and general knobheads, flyers (so many flyers...), queues (I don’t do queues) and price hikes (don’t think we don’t notice, you robbing bastard taxi drivers).

Drama... hmmmmm.

Where's Superman supposed to get changed?

Although they are in increased abundance during the festival, tourists are never in short supply, and neither is their stupidity. Classic questions include, but are not exclusive to:

• 'Do they put the castle up every year especially for the Tattoo?'
• 'Where's the castle?' (when asked stranding on Princes St / in Princes St Gardens which, as mentioned, the castle towers over.)
• 'What time does the one o'clock gun go off?'

No gift shop is safe from touristica stupiticus

My personal favourite, though, is a conversation I overheard between an American couple by the Scott Monument:

Her: 'Gee that's high.'

Him: 'Yeah, but they gotta have an elevator in there.'

Yes, lifts were all the rage in the 1800s.

Which floor sir?

            Another bunch I won't miss are the yas. Every year a fresh batch of Ruperts, Tarquins and Penelopes descend on Edinburgh, or more specifically the University of Edinburgh, ready to spend as much of Mummy and Daddy's money as possible. If you manage to catch one when the braying and guffawing isn’t giving them away (YA! *snort snort*), their 'eccentric' (poor = crazy, rich = eccentric) attire will help you identify, and avoid, them. Think pearls, deerstalkers, pyjamas, blazers and brogues. All at the same time. And that's just the boys.

            On the other side of the social spectrum, and sadly never wearing very much at all, are the NEDs. Particularly virulent in the green spaces of Edinburgh when the sun makes a rare appearance are the skinny pasty torsos of the city's Non-Educated Delinquents, their t-shirts stylishly tucked into their tracksuit bottoms. The bawbags.

            Which brings me to another thing I’ll miss about Edinburgh, and Scotland in general. The expressions. Aside from the aforementioned ‘bawbag’, there’s fannybaws; a lovely term of gentle mockery, often used with great affection, and a great example of a ridiculous joined-up word formed well. It’s no surprise that the Scottish do profanity well, and you know I'm a fan of the sweary word, but it’s really their talent for getting their point across that I love. To have a blether with someone, for instance, describes the ebbs and flows of conversation so much better than a ‘chat’. My all-time favourite, though, is ‘nippy sweetie’, also know as ‘an irritable, sharp-tongued person’, also know as me trying to get anywhere in Edinburgh during the festival.

            When all’s said and done though, ‘haste ye back’ will always bring a little tear to my eye and a tonne of happy memories to my mind.

Let's get ready to rumble: Facebook V Twitter

I've wittered on about networking socially (children) before but a year is a long time on the Internet and much has changed. Facebook is going downhill rapidly. For me it took a downturn when my mother signed up (sorry mother, I love you dearly, but the Internet is no place for you) but it's been plummeting further and further of late.

The front runners in the bloodthirsty battle of my grievances are ads (do I want to learn the latest celebrity secret to a flatter stomach? Of course! Let me just click on this link and give you my credit card details!) and 'inspirational' quotes with pictures of sunsets put together (badly) in PowerPoint. The latter, in particular, must STOP. I'm all for counting your blessings and looking on the bright side - as I've said before, more than once; in this world, if you know where your next meal is coming from and you're not having the arse shot off you, you're doing pretty well - but twee pictures and saccharine sick-making sentiment in flowery fonts do not inspire me. They make me want to punch people, especially the people that post them.

As for candy crush feckin' saga…Shove your invites. Shove them right up your arse. They're almost as bad as farmville. And to the 'like of you hate cancer'/'scroll on if you don't have a heart' brigade I say; If you care that much, don't share and like this crap – get out and do something useful. Raise some money. Give some blood. Not only are these posts a scam, they are patronising, infuriating and undermine people trying to actually make a difference. We all hate cancer – you take that as a given you fools.

This drivel must STOP

'Well why don’t you bin the bloody thing then?' I hear you ask. I would, but it does still have its uses, like staying in touch with people that I don’t have the time, or proximity, to catch up with individually. And I get to see what the offspring of friends and family in far away lands look like (yes I actually like the baby photos – WITHIN REASON. Don’t go too wild people…)

That said, there is also the sense of obligation to be 'friends' with people you barely know/like, especially those dull individuals who feel the need to update their status every time they have a cup of tea (we don't need or want to know). But you can hide their posts and carry on in blissful ignorance of the inane twaddle that's being spouted (yes – that includes my inane twaddle).

As my Facebook use has declined my Twitter use has seen a significant increase. I actually say things now (more of that inane twaddle) rather than simply chuckling and pawing at my phone screen. I don’t just follow famous people; I now follow strangers (some of them very strange indeed). Rest assured I do not accept sweets from them though.

Buoyed by partial or complete anonymity, people are far more honest on Twitter, and far funnier as a result. Very random people make me chuckle on a daily basis with their very random comments, indeed I often laugh out loud (note I do not LOL. The term LOL vexes me and also needs to STOP). It is especially amusing to read the running commentary on popular TV shows, especially the shameful ones (you don’t even have to watch said shows, you can get all the entertainment you need from the viewing tweeters).

No need to actually watch it. Thank god.

Twitter is a bit of a nut to crack. There's often a sense of 'you had to be there' and finding decent random strangers can be hard, but it's worth it for the resultant witty repartee and general silliness. To think I used to take the piss out of my friend and her penchant for Internet chat rooms at university, and here I am frolicking virtually in their mutated offspring (with actual mutants some of the time).

Sometimes 'you had to be there'...

There is, of course, also a serious side to Twitter. Several times in the past few years people have used it as a means of sharing information when traditional media fails, or is controlled by governments. But I wouldn’t know too much about the political side of things, I'm too busy retweeting fart jokes and making smart-arse remarks.

He he he

Topical Twitter

Can’t we all just get along?

In a word: no. I get on with most people, and try to give people the benefit of the doubt, but every so often I take agin’ someone and once I have taken said agin there is no coming back.

Just as I really really like some people from the first time I meet them, there are individuals I take a pretty much instant dislike to. I try to fight this and not make snap judgements. It doesn’t work. All it does is dampen the dislike so it festers, breeds maggots and becomes an altogether more virulent beast.

My hackles rise at the very sight of them, my ears smart at the sound of their voice and my lips purse violently in an attempt to avoid exclaiming 'oh do feck off / shut up!' as they whinge on about something incredibly dull. I find whinging extremely annoying and dull chat, well, very dull, so when the two combine it's like a perfect storm of pet peevery (it’s a word…)

It’s particularly unfortunate (for me) when I get stuck with one at work, where it is quite inappropriate to exclaim 'oh do feck off / shut up!' when they’re whining on about how hot/cold it is in the office for the 327^th time. I manage to avoid throwing things at these types through a mighty combination of self-restraint and headphones. Thank you Nathaniel Baldwin, thank you (for the headphones, you can keep the Mormon stuff).

Luckily (for me and my co-workers) most of my aginsters are of the celebrity variety and I can release the tension that builds up on sighting them by screaming at the TV. These ‘famous’ people I dislike intensely (hate is a strong word, but if the cap fits…) include:

• ·       Jedward (Louis Walsh – I will never, ever, forgive you for THEM)
• ·       Bruce Forsyth (national treasure my arse)
• ·       Piers Morgan (I think we can all agree on that one…)
• ·       Amanda Holden (fake phony forgery of the highest order)
• ·       Alex Salmond (trout-faced moron)

Please note that said intense dislike extends only to the aforementioned shouting at the TV. A troll I am not (although I do tend to look like one after a night out). This is merely my personal opinion and if you want to consider Brucie a national feckin' treasure, you go right ahead. But you might want to consider counselling of some sort at the same time. I find him incredibly annoying and mildly creepy (in a Yewtree kinda way…)

Hungover / hater