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.

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.

I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do

I've talked before of the wedding circus mafia and the arseholery that goes on, but there is also a very bright side to the nonsense. Being a guest. Sadly the wedding 'party' themselves often get too wrapped up in the photocalls, speech nerves and potential family feuds to actually remember to enjoy the day, but as a guest; no public speaking, no months (or years) of organising, no weeping wallet, just the bubbles and the dancing.

There is a little preparation involved, granted, but it never fails to amuse me how quickly the wedding visage crumbles. The hours, and sometimes days, we spend making sure we look as good as we possibly can (for some that's just about presentable, but all I can do is work with the ginger raw materials I was given) only for it all to be destroyed in a matter of hours.

We find ourselves on the dance floor in our bare feet, the shoes so carefully matched to the dress abandoned under a table, with a tie around our head and our dignity whimpering beneath an avalanche of Michael Jackson/Mick Jagger/Pigeon inspired dance 'moves'. Oh yes - we've got the moves like Jagger. The makeup, hair dos and manicures are long forgotten as we swing our sweaty mane in time with the 80s power ballads.

In addition to revisiting my rock star (*ahem*) youth, I tend to unearth a worrying passion for interpretive dance after a few dry sherries. My Kate Bush impressions are 'inspiring', so I've been told (look out for me on got to dance next year; I'll be the one who inspires the phrase 'would her family not tell her...?')

There is a delightfully unhinged quality that is unique to a wedding dance floor. Maybe it’s because it’s such a happy occasion, or that some of the guests don’t get out much, or perhaps it’s the unique mix of ‘performers’; where else do you get to share the floor with an 80 and an eight year old?

On a more serious note, I must issue a word of warning to wedding bands/DJs. If you will play Tiffany and Footloose back-to-back, be prepared with a crash cart/ambulance on standby. Some of us are not as young as we used to be, but we can’t seem to stop ourselves.

From this...

..to this...

...to Kiss.

Milk, Milk, Lemonade...

 I was watching Father Ted recently (I'm Irish, so I have to watch it at least once a week. It's the law.) and as Pat Mustard was putting his enormous tool in Mrs Doyle's box, it made me wonder - what are all the milkmen doing now?

Popular myth would have us believe that they used to shag all round the neighbourhood, so now that having milk delivered is largely a thing of the past they must be gagging for it. Have they transitioned into the adult film industry maybe?

When I was growing up not only did we have a milkman (yes, he was ginger, but my family preferred the 'you came from the knackers' story) we also had D'egg Woman. She was so named, bless her, for her fine dis-dat-dese-and-dose Cork accent and she provided us many happy moments of amusement, as well as d'eggs, when she regularly exclaimed 'Jesus, Mary, Joseph and de dunkey!'

We had a seafood guy too, but we kept our distance - there was something fishy about him. BA-BOOM, TISH! Thank you, thank you, I'm here all week, try the horse…

Speaking of meat and entertainment, my Nana used visit Billy Farrell, her local butcher, practically every day. I'm not saying she stalked him, but she definitely had strong feelings for Billy and I'm not sure if it was his meat or his witty repartee she was more interested in. That came out all wrong. Oh god... Nanas and innuendo should not mix. Moving swiftly on…

Nowadays it seems local fresh produce (and its associated friendly producer) is confined to Farmer's Markets, which carry a much higher than average risk of rubbing shoulders with Barbour-clad types called Crispin and Tarquin, because they 'simply have to try the olives!', or dreadlocked tree-huggers in search of all-natural fair-trade organic wheat germ soap infused with the essence of bee tears.

Not only have the big bad supermarkets been killing ponies, they've wiped out our local shopkeepers and delivery folk. Damn you Tesco /Sainsburys /Waitrose /Asda / Dunnes/ Super Valu/ Aldi /Lidl /Morrisons /Farmfoods /Iceland <Delete according to income level / likelihood of appearance on Jeremy Kyle> Damn you to hell!

In other milk-based ponderings, I remembered a popular little ditty from my childhood:

Milk, Milk *point to boobs*

Lemonade *point to front 'area' *

Round the corner *point to back 'area' *

Chocolate's made!

I think I'd better leave it there.