LUV – Do I love it because of this country’s weird obsession with betting that one piddly flake of frozen pollution will appear from the sky? Which, if it happens, makes the weatherman on BBC news so excited, he quivers himself into an erotic seizure and dry humps his green screen, and it won’t matter because not a single bastard watches the weather forecast on Christmas Day? Apart from me and my cloud-forming machine and my boy’s haircut, zapping the skies and collecting infinite wealth from William Hill every Boxing Day?
No. I’m not Kate Bush and my dad isn’t Donald Sutherland, which makes those dreams I’ve had about Kiefer and his big torturing wrench acceptable at least.
I love the weather on Christmas Day because it is, without fail, a bland milquetoast of a climate, the quiche lorraine of weathers, all washed-out skies and mithering drizzle. And that means you can do whatever the hell you want and not feel guilty. Want to tramp about a park in a pathetic attempt to burn off 1/100th of the Roses tin you’ve inhaled? Go ahead, it’s good scarf weather. Want to instead inhale the Quality Street tin from actually inside a duvet cover? Better had – bit parky out. Want to burn your sacrificial goat on Swatham High Street in nowt but blood and woad to bring on the coming of Azazel? Fill your crazy boots, it’s not raining too much.
Christmas: even the sky’s on your side. Fah-la-la-la-la.
– Julia Blyth
HAT – The weather in December is a fucking travesty. After the dramatic storms and wind chill factors of October and November, what does December bring? Rain. Not even fucking snow, just RAIN. Oh, and slightly warmer temperatures. Today, for instance, it is 12 degrees Celsius outside, and what am I wearing? An itchy jumper, fleece-lined tights, and a furry hat. Because a) I’m a credulous knobend, and b) it’s CHRISTMAS.
And, on Christmas Day itself, some small, idiot-brained part of me is STILL heartbroken when I open my curtains to, rather than a silent snowy landscape, some drizzle and a persistent car alarm outside Chicken Cottage. I say we pick up Christmas and New Year wholesale and shove it in at the end of January, when snow and ice are guaranteed. Wouldn’t you appreciate a three-bird roast and a special episode of Downton where someone shows an ankle more if you were SNOWED IN?
I’m aware that this HAT is basically a primal scream about living in the south of England, but ignore that for a minute. Let’s move Christmas. Who’s with me?
– Robyn Wilder