The man who killed Santa

Christmas 2006 - the year I dropped the ultimate Christmas bollock. It involved - a) alcohol, b) a small child and c) the existence, or otherwise, of a popular but possibly mythical figure who lives at the North Pole and who's initials are S.C.

In my defence, conversation round the table with my mother and father in law on Christmas Eve touched on whether my oldest nephew (age 9) still believed in Santa. We 'phoned his mother and the word came back to the table - apparently not.

So Christmas Day, over to the in-laws. It has to be said, I had had a drink, or two. My nephew and I are sitting there and so I asked 'so, what do you think about Santa then?'.

I suppose, in hindsight, I should have just shut the hell up. But no, I had to prattle on about how different cultures believed in different winter spirits, about man's need to have an anthromorphic visualisation of the season, about Jack Frost and every other Terry Pratchett character.

Nephew goes to bed, I'm struggling into my coat and my sister-in-law appears in front of me, like the Demon King in a panto.

'My son has just told me that you told him that Santa doesn't really exist.'

I don't really recall what happened next, but I think my wife bundled me out of the house. Got me home, put me to bed, waited until the next morning and then gave me what, in some circles, might be described as a 'telling off'. God, there's nothing worse than being on the wrong end of a well-deserved telling off.

So my plan is this - never see my sister or brother in-law, or their children, again.

Somewhat inpractical I know, but best for all in the long run. Best for them because there are two kids aged seven and four who still believe in Santa, best for me because they were just getting to that age when they could beat me on the Nintendo and I hate that.

So, as a result, I have knocked the Ipswitch strangler off of the top of the list as Britain's most evil man! Naturally my friends think this is all hilarious and can't wait for the follow up at Easter 'the truth about Jesus - what even Dan Brown wouldn't tell you'.

Merry Christmas!

Oh my god - they killed Rudolph

Looking at my 'phone last night to check the time, I thought it must be broken. How else, I thought, as I sat there on my neighbour's sofa drinking their wine and chatting, could it say ten to one in the morning?

Invited next door for the traditional Christmas drink, it was a great evening. Oh my Christ though, I hope they enjoyed themselves too. I suspect that I may have been too a) loud b) drunk and c) 'amusing' about Romanians etc. to get invited back.

Whatever I did though could not top the supreme moment of the evening. My neighbour's boyfriend lives in Spain and, as the nuts, pringles and olives were being brought into the room, walked in with - a pigs leg! On its own stand! With its own hoof still attached! To say this caused some comment was an understatement.

It tasted fantastic, fabulous cured ham cut from the leg in front of you.

Of course, I want to borrow it, imagine turning up at the nephew's house tomorrow with it 'you've all been bad boys this year, so no prezzies, I've killed Rudolph and give me your pocket money.' or 'bad news boys, Santa's sleigh hit a 747 - this is all that's left of Rudolph, no sign of Santa but it looks bad!'

After all, what's Christmas without crying children.

The leg was amazing though - how in the name of greek buggery did he get it through customs and so on? I suppose they took one look, thought 'unlikely to be a muslim', and let him on.

Now, I think a huge pig's leg is an essential part of Chistmas, and hanukkah, Dawali and any other festival you care to mention. What day couldn't be imporved by the production of a huge porky leg with trotter still attached.

I bet the turkey's would approve.

Grounded

Ah, the romance of air travel. It used to be all about glamour. Actually, it used to be all about danger, then it was all about bombing Dresden and in-flight entertainment meant dodging flak. Somewhere along the way though it turned into something akin to a national Express coach with wings bolted to the side.

Then some nutters reminded everyone that aeroplanes and tall buildings were mutually incompatible and the next thing you know you’re not allowed to take bottles of fizzy water, or indeed bombs, onto the aircraft. Perrier and semtex were for the hold, thank you very much.

A few blokes with beards resulted in the sort of airport chaos that even the combined might of striking Spanish baggage handlers and French air-traffic controllers could not match. Now it would appear that fog has had the same result. All domestic flights from the UK are grounded.

This has resulted in a lightning reaction from the airport staff. A simple solution would be to arrange alternative ground travel (only domestic flights being cancelled) or put the grounded passengers in hotel rooms. However, they decided to go down the tents and blankets route. WTF? Tents, in December? The scenes are like something from a disaster zone. Tune in to the news and you might think that there’s some sort of weird exchange programme going on, where some wealthy western family are spending Christmas in a tent under a blanket while the Iraq family whose home they helped to bomb the shit out of stay at their place in the Cotswolds.

Apparently the Israeli’s have already tried to bulldoze the tented ‘refugee camp’ three times. Not bad going.

The question is though - why are these people there at all? These are domestic flights we’re talking about. The solution, surely, is to get on a tube, get on a train and, ta dah, several hours later you’re wherever you wanted to be and probably all the better for a few drinks along the way - what’s the issue?

Airships have to be the answer. Never mind this tedious having to take off from a runway and maybe hitting something, like a 747 or a jolly fat man in an airborne sleigh. Just release the rope, go 400 foot straight up above the fog and then drop her into first. Three or four days pleasant cruising over the Atlantic say - made all the more fun by dropping things on the QE2 as you pass her - and you’re in New York. Top! It would also put the glamour back into travel as, if I were running the airship service, I would insist that everyone wear evening dress at all times.

Tailor made

Thanks to the magic of getting pissed and Amazon, Christmas shopping has been fairly easy this year. That’s not to say that the run-up to yule has not been without its pressures - because I’ve been (gasp) working, the trees have only been dressed in the last few days. That said, they do look great, the good thing about a real tree is that they are BIG, which means you can get a shitload of lights on them. My front room looks like the final scene from close encounters when all the lights are on.

I’ve read that some people find modern life stressful. I find this a little hard to believe considering that they consider stress as being generated by not being able, for instance, to get just the right present for their kid. Is the truth that the stress is generated by your kid on Christmas morning when they start whining? In which case I have the perfect present - those shoes that have wheels popping out of them - heelies? Saw a girl with them at the supermarket last night and it looked like great fun. Wonder if they make them for adults? Anyhoo, get your whining kid those and, if you live on a hill, give him a shove for Christmas. Problem solved.

Not that I’m suggesting child cruelty at Christmas - though I believe Herod did.

If you do feel stressed though - I suggest a visit to your tailor. There’s nothing like being herded into the back room and gently touched up in a way that would normally only happen in a) a small but decent public school or b) a committed relationship. Also, one’s tailor is the only chap who one can be honest with. When taking a waist measurement he will strike up a conversation and talk of this and that while holding the tape. After a minute or so it becomes impossible to hold your gut in and one relaxes. The proper measurement is taken and, importantly, no number is ever mentioned.

At most he will say ‘I shall adjust for Christmas’. Such is the understanding between tailor and client.

Wii not try one?

While the rewards of a good life are spiritual well-being and arguably a fast-track ticket to heaven, rewards in this life do not depend upon spiritual well-being but rather upon an ability to spend enough to make you happy. Some may say that friends, family and so on make you happy and this is true. But if you already have this and can add ‘nintendo’ to that formula then you move from ‘happy’ to ‘very happy indeed’. To liken it to a karmic wheel, the Nintendo Wii is Nirvana.

I tried the Wii this weekend (wiikend?) and oh-my-ghod it’s the future of gaming.

Walking into a small computer games shop, I saw that the three members of staff were huddled round the wii in the corner. Smelling an alpha-male games geek I was invited to have a go by them, and tried my hand at the bowling, while the shop owner burbled and enthused about the new console. The kicker - he wasn’t even trying to sell me one - they are sold out until February.

It’s more fun than sex with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in the front car of a roller coaster, on crack, drinking a beer.

As we played (I was harder to get off the thing than a limpet) various shoppers came into the shop, tried to get the attention of the staff, failed and left. To be honest, I think the staff would have done better to put a basket on the counter and asked people to take what they wanted and leave the cash.

Normally such behaviour would cause major gasket blowage but really, I couldn’t fail to be charmed by the whole experience. There’s nothing like full major geekage and this was it, this was geeks playing with a toy nobody else had and everybody else wanted. The tee shirts the staff were wearing (which I suspect had not been washed since launch day the week previously) said ‘wii’ but should have had ‘no girlfriend - no worries.’

Christmas Countdown

Interesting article in the paper this morning - under the 'bleeding obvious when you think about it for a second' banner - about the plot to ban Christmas. This explores the truth behind the myth of the various attempts by Councils 'ban' Christmas by stopping the use of the word, or lights, or celebrations.

Predictably, in the words of Birmingham's press officer, 'it's all bollocks'. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Still, stories about stories about banning Christmas taking over from stories about banning Christmas are a sure sign that Christmas is on the way.

But not a sure a sign as my advent calendar. Unfortunately I left it a little late (third of December) to buy my advent calendar and discovered first-hand the bleeding obvious - they sell out before December starts. I wrestled some toddler for the last one, a fairtrade job and can now proudly state that I have contributed to the wellbeing of a third world coca farmer. Judging by the price of the thing I did this by putting them through school, college and university with enough left over to put towards a new tractor.

Still, on a cold wet morning when you pop open that door and gobble that choc - it's worth it. Diabetic by Christmas or bust!

Training

What ho proles! Travelling on business and that means - First Class! Of course, casually flicking the 'V' sign at those packed like cattle in the lower classes could, in these egalitarian times, be considered rude or out of touch - but fuck them, they should have kissed arse like me, go promoted and finally been allowed to travel first class on business.

Mind you, we are talking train, so there's the tremendous drag factor of bouncing along on rails unmaintained since Brunell laid them, but it's still great fun - and you get as much tea as you can drink (a lot, in case you're wondering).

Travelled from St Pancras. This station will house the new Eurostar terminal next year and, I have to say, is an excellent example of what happens when you get a hose with an eight inch bore, stick one end in a huge pot of money and then turn that bad boy to 'blow'. The new station interface with the underground is fantastic. I remember the shitty old one - scene of that horrible fire - it was like a natural cave, not a station. Cranes dominate the skyline and everything is wrapped in protective plastic. The place is already looking good - they've cleaned the dome that sits over the top of the platforms (must have a technical name) - probably for the first time since it was glazed.

Not complete yet is the first class lounge. This is currently what could charitably be described as a Portakabin. Okay, on the inside it might be opulent beyond the dreams of normal men, but I wasn't going to cross the threshold.

The trains are all shiny and new - the rolling stock, however, is still the old, old stuff. Refurbished, but with slam doors. Maybe they decided that they'll just wait a few years, call it 'heritage' stock and charge you extra for travelling in it.

I caught an early train and, taking my seat, saw that the seat across from me was reserved as well. There I sat, wondering who my travelling companion would be, hoping for some glamour model, knowing it was more likely to be a turetts spitter. In the end, it was a no show, so I am by turns melancholy and relieved.

Odd to be the only one without a suit. When travelling I prefer jeans and gor-tex - you never know what a journey might involve. As a result I look ready to attack the north face of the Eiger, rather than a tricky spreadsheet. David Lodge writes an excellent description of first class and mufti in his book 'Therapy'. Once again, my life is imitating art...except I have more hair than his hero.

Of course the journey back is fraught with peril. First of all one comes onto the platform in the middle of the train and the first class accommodation is 'towards the front'. But which end is the front? Trek past various smokers dragging their last on the platform to get to the wrong end. Then troop back up the length of the train, looking into the standard class carriages. This leads to a quandary - go into standard class and strike up a conversation with one of the common - but filthy - looking girls sitting therein, or be lured by free tea to first class, where you will enjoy the company of fat businessmen.

I chose the latter, of course.

Extreme Weather

Another example this week of what happens when weather (tornado in this case) meets urban area (North London in this case, a street of semi-detached houses in particular). The result was predictable - a rapid redistribution of masonary and double-glazing throughout the area and quite a lot of hysterical press coverage.

The North London Tornado has been cited as yet another example of 'extreme weather Britain' and been linked to climate change, global warming, crop circles and, probably by now, foot and mouth. A few years ago there was an earthquake in Birmingham causing, as Londoners commented, literally tens of pounds worth of damage. Wind of course is different - climatic innit?

But is it all that extreme? Or unusual? Certainly we're living in places now in places we were not before. Might this tornado not happen every few hundred years? Maybe the last time it happened the only witness was a very surprised sheep. This theory is particularly appropriate when it comes to flooding. How, we wonder, can so much damage be caused to so much property by flooding - it's climate change, it's global warming...or is it that you built on a flood plain?

Brits are used to two types of weather - the sort that stops trains and rain. Tornados are a new one on us, hence the lack of storm shelters in cellars and the abundance of garden sheds. The only time we see them is when we watch programmes like 'when nature goes ape-shit crazy!' which, to be fair, should be called 'you built a trailer park where? - Are you out of your fucking mind?'.

Americans of course have 'tornado alley'. Not as you might imagine a narrow strip of tarmac running between buildings and filled with litter, but a large section of the Mid-West populated by people who shit themselves at the sound of a windchime going 'clang'. Why tornadoes should choose to rip through the most christian, least educated states is a puzzle - maybe God's got a sense of humour.

Having flown across the middle bit of the US, I can confirm that there is actually fuck-all there. As a result, when tornados strike, the only damage is to corn, cows and yokels.

As for extreme weather - well, we can hope that this will manifest in snow for Christmas Day. I remember the last time it snowed at Christmas and it was genuinely magical - who needs Christmas cards when the real thing is outside your window. Nothing makes a Christmas day like a good few inches and a satisfying amount of white stuff.

The sexualisation of schoolgirls

To be frank, my job is short on travel and long on endless grind, pride-swallowing, shit-eating tediousness. Not that I don't enjoy it. So when an opportunity to travel presents itself I grab it like Madonna and Angelina having a tug of war over some brown kid.

Of course travel means anything from a walk to a nearby office (or 'theatre of terror' as they are also known) to a tube trip to a train trip...and that's just about it.

So it was I found myself on the tube this morning, during the rush hour. At one point I actually thought that if I got any closer to the person next to me I'd need lubricant, but then we pulled into some station and the passengers emptied from the tube like fizz from a bottle opened at the top of a Formula 1 podium. This left me, a few others and a Japanese schoolgirl.

It's been a while since I saw a Japanese schoolgirl. When I lived in the north of London you saw them all the time, moving in flocks. Now the only time I see them is when I look on Google for a recipe for 'Bukcake' (a cake of oats, venison and lard) and am confronted with an image of a surprised looking oriental lass with what appears to be a pot of yoghurt emptied all over her face.

There she was, sitting there in her uniform, thick kilt, sweater, blazer, overcoat. All that was missing was a huge sign saying 'public school'. The reality of the japanese schoolgirl was a million miles away from anything prefaced by 'www' and gave pleasing confirmation that I'm not a kiddyfiddler as, believe me, there was nothing remotely sexy about her.

The sexualisation of schoolgirls is a worry. Mainly though I think it's a worry to the media and to parents of schoolgirls. Schoolgirls are not sexy to men. No, let me qualify that, schoolgirls of today are not sexy to men. On this I can speak with absolute authority as I share my morning commute for a few stops with gaggles of schoolgirls. They are one-up on private schoolgirls - these are convent girls - the crack of schoolgirls who will one day be the leading wives, bitter spinsters and lesbians of this nation. The uniform is like anti-sex. The kilt is the exact colour of dung and the blazer matches. The socks - always worn at half mast - are of a thickness that would make a 1920's footballer proud. All this is as nothing though to the overall effect of putting lots of young women in an enclosed space - it's the perfect storm of acne, menustral frustration and chatter. My response is usually to crank the iPod to 11 and pray.

Given their ability to attract spotty scowling teen boys like a moon pulling a comet into orbit though, I'm obviously just too old. As a middle aged fart, a what makes a woman attractive to me is either the phrase 'Have another one, I'll drive' or 'Hello, I'm Gillian Anderson'. If that last one could be followed by 'Have another one before I drive you back to my place for a night of screwing like crazed bunnies', so much the better.

So maybe the schoolgirls of today are attractive - to the schoolboys of today. This would explain why the schoolgirls I went to school with are attractive to me now as I flick through my mental photo album, and were bloody attractive to me then. There's nothing quite like adolescent girls when you're an adolescent boy. I mean, when I think of the girls at my school, it's a wonder I wasn't permanently bent double trying to conceal an involuntary erection with the hem of my parka. Did I say hem of my parka, I mean my satchel, er schoolbag - sports bag...for cricket, with the rest of the teams gear in it too.

A recent post on 'Losers who are bored in their present relationship and fancy shagging somebody they used to sit next to through double maths Reunited.com' mooted a school reunion for my year. This is a bad idea, especially as we're all approaching 40 at a rate usually described by the phrase 'escape velocity'. The last thing I want to do is see what happened to the pert, willowy girls I went to school with. I prefer to think of them preserved in the 1980s, crap hair, Wham! tee-shirs and all.

As for the patron saint of the sexualisation of schoolgirls, Brittney. First of all, no schoolgirl EVER looked like that and secondly, she's fast-forwarded in just a few years from the hot girl at school to the one you dive behind the curtains at a reunion to avoid. The only people who think schoolgirls are sexy? Pedophiles, music-video directors and MTV execs. Oh, and schoolboys. But that's allowed. Also - lesbian schoolgirls - though that's harder to find 'innocently' on Google.