The international day of: Insert Name Here
International days are a fine idea, international days celebrating something are a great idea, international days castigating or berating something or someone? Less of a great idea.
In truth, days where something is berated rather than celebrated tend to be on a national rather than international level, examples including Denmark’s annual ‘the-Goons-weren’t-actually-that-funny’ day, Argentina’s annual ‘No! to broccoli’ day and of course our very own forthcoming national ‘I do not fully understand Alternative Voting, but I don’t like it. Is it European?’ day (May 5th). Indeed just about the only international day of condemnation is: ‘is it just me, or is ‘Black Swan’ a bit over-rated?’ day (37 countries signed up so far (on Facebook at least) and counting).
As a species, we like to celebrate things. It brings us closer as a community, and by a community I of course mean as a collection of people who like a drink. That’s the great thing about The World, everyone in it likes a drink; I don’t care if you are in the desert or at the Poles, somebody somewhere will find a way to ferment their way to a fun time and invent a national beverage, even if it means adding clear spirit normally used to clean your snowmobile spark plugs to reindeer piss (known locally as a ‘vodka Red Nose’).
Of course, for real disagreements you have to go ultra local. Look, the fact that an individual can be undecided about something as simple as the purchase of a pair of purple socks (Don’t! the scarf was a mistake, let’s not compound things), essentially having an argument with themselves means that humans can have an argument at, basically, the cellular level. This is what allows two rational people to have a falling out about who’s turn it is to load the dishwasher and share the same bed while still seething with principles (but, importantly, not stabbing one another with cutlery…well, not until it’s clean).
Siblings and spouses can argue, as can villages; a few years ago there was a case of keen competition between two neighbouring villages for the regional title of ‘Britain in Bloom’. One morning, the villages of Little Twatting (or whatever) came out to find their blooms blighted. Skulduggery was suspected and, although nothing was ever proved, the subsequent success of Great Twatting (or whatever) coupled with the fact that the B&Q at Great Twatting (or whatever) had totally sold out of weedkiller the week before cast rather a shadow over what had, up until then, been a rather jolly affair.
Organised fun is no fun at all. Just look at ‘The Wicker Man’. That’s why the calendar if stuffed with Saints days and feast days and other forgotten religious festivals, mostly observed by only the most pious and an increasingly bitter clergy, who want their flock to understand the message of St Fistima (feast day 17th March, message: Romans have no sense of humour whatsoever about their gods).
If you want to have your local, regional, national or international day observed and celebrated, you’ve got to have a gimmick. You don’t even need alcohol, although it helps. You can mark a day of celebration with a pancake, or chasing a fast cheese down a steep slope (and if that doesn’t mark St John’s day, it should). It also helps if you can get the card and confectionary markets on side. In my more heretical moments I often wonder of Christianity was a scam cooked up by Cadbury’s and Hallmark to shift some product at an otherwise quiet time of year. And the initial launch went so well they decided to repeat the whole thing in a few months later and call it Easter. Proof positive will come when they announce that in addition to his birth and death, the church have decided to mark that other important rite of passage in a bloke’s life and that henceforth, 17 September shall be ‘Christ’s First Pint’ day.
It’s good to celebrate something positive. It was world book day this week and I celebrated the world flavour of this by reading a Chinese book. Untranslated. Didn’t understand a bloody word (pictogram, whatever) but I rather hope that somewhere in Liang Shang Po province some farmer stopped killing snakes in his paddy field long enough to read a P G Wodehouse short story, also untranslated…but then laugh half way down page two anyway. Some things really are universal and cross the language divide, and your valet disproving of your choice of cravat is one of them.
In truth, days where something is berated rather than celebrated tend to be on a national rather than international level, examples including Denmark’s annual ‘the-Goons-weren’t-actually-that-funny’ day, Argentina’s annual ‘No! to broccoli’ day and of course our very own forthcoming national ‘I do not fully understand Alternative Voting, but I don’t like it. Is it European?’ day (May 5th). Indeed just about the only international day of condemnation is: ‘is it just me, or is ‘Black Swan’ a bit over-rated?’ day (37 countries signed up so far (on Facebook at least) and counting).
As a species, we like to celebrate things. It brings us closer as a community, and by a community I of course mean as a collection of people who like a drink. That’s the great thing about The World, everyone in it likes a drink; I don’t care if you are in the desert or at the Poles, somebody somewhere will find a way to ferment their way to a fun time and invent a national beverage, even if it means adding clear spirit normally used to clean your snowmobile spark plugs to reindeer piss (known locally as a ‘vodka Red Nose’).
Of course, for real disagreements you have to go ultra local. Look, the fact that an individual can be undecided about something as simple as the purchase of a pair of purple socks (Don’t! the scarf was a mistake, let’s not compound things), essentially having an argument with themselves means that humans can have an argument at, basically, the cellular level. This is what allows two rational people to have a falling out about who’s turn it is to load the dishwasher and share the same bed while still seething with principles (but, importantly, not stabbing one another with cutlery…well, not until it’s clean).
Siblings and spouses can argue, as can villages; a few years ago there was a case of keen competition between two neighbouring villages for the regional title of ‘Britain in Bloom’. One morning, the villages of Little Twatting (or whatever) came out to find their blooms blighted. Skulduggery was suspected and, although nothing was ever proved, the subsequent success of Great Twatting (or whatever) coupled with the fact that the B&Q at Great Twatting (or whatever) had totally sold out of weedkiller the week before cast rather a shadow over what had, up until then, been a rather jolly affair.
Organised fun is no fun at all. Just look at ‘The Wicker Man’. That’s why the calendar if stuffed with Saints days and feast days and other forgotten religious festivals, mostly observed by only the most pious and an increasingly bitter clergy, who want their flock to understand the message of St Fistima (feast day 17th March, message: Romans have no sense of humour whatsoever about their gods).
If you want to have your local, regional, national or international day observed and celebrated, you’ve got to have a gimmick. You don’t even need alcohol, although it helps. You can mark a day of celebration with a pancake, or chasing a fast cheese down a steep slope (and if that doesn’t mark St John’s day, it should). It also helps if you can get the card and confectionary markets on side. In my more heretical moments I often wonder of Christianity was a scam cooked up by Cadbury’s and Hallmark to shift some product at an otherwise quiet time of year. And the initial launch went so well they decided to repeat the whole thing in a few months later and call it Easter. Proof positive will come when they announce that in addition to his birth and death, the church have decided to mark that other important rite of passage in a bloke’s life and that henceforth, 17 September shall be ‘Christ’s First Pint’ day.
It’s good to celebrate something positive. It was world book day this week and I celebrated the world flavour of this by reading a Chinese book. Untranslated. Didn’t understand a bloody word (pictogram, whatever) but I rather hope that somewhere in Liang Shang Po province some farmer stopped killing snakes in his paddy field long enough to read a P G Wodehouse short story, also untranslated…but then laugh half way down page two anyway. Some things really are universal and cross the language divide, and your valet disproving of your choice of cravat is one of them.
Labels: Books, CiF, Comment is free, Festival, Guardian, Lucy mangan, Religion
1 Comments:
All this and not a mention of the Morris Dancing Community.
I have a sinking feeling that you previously mentioned croquet-playing as a suitable sport, but without a suitable search engine, cannot find where you may have passed comment.
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