LUV – What’s wrong with you? Carol singers are brilliant. They practice all year, then brave the cold to stand around for hours, blasting Christmas spirit out of their mouths and directly into your soul.
And you’re too cool to like them. You ingrate.
If you think carol singers aren’t relevant to you and your lifestyle, think again. Imagine you’re mooching about, worrying about whether your crafting documentary Kickstarter will fail. It’s cold. You’re listening to Deerhoof but somehow you’re not really into it. You turn a corner, and suddenly:
“DEEEEEEECK THE HALLS WITH BOUGHS OF HOLLY!”
Now what are you thinking about? Bringing macrame back? Your Bitcoin worth? Or are you thinking “fa-la-la-la-la, la-la, la-LA”?
You’re thinking “fa-la-la-la-la, la-la, la-LA”. Of course you’re thinking thinking “fa-la-la-la-la, la-la, la-LA”. Because you’re programmed to.
Your heart is hard-wired to swell at the sound of Deck the Halls. Deck the Halls is the world’s best call-and-response anthem that’s not Boom Boom Boom by the Outhere Brothers.
All the Outhere Brothers ever want you to do is say “wayo”. And all Christmas carollers want is some figgy pudding (or a small charitable donation).
Carollers rarely come to my door (they’re intimidated either by my block of flats, or the little girl who stands outside singing “I, I, I am very nice, very nice” to the tune of Stayin’ Alive), and I couldn’t be sadder about this.
So the next time you see some Christmas carollers, don’t close your door or turn up your collar and scurry past them. Stop, fill yourself up with delicious festive spirit, and give the singers some figgy pudding (or a small charitable donation). For me.
Just, whatever you do, don’t say ‘wayo’. In fact, I command you not to think of the word ‘wayo’ for the rest of the day.
Even if someone says “boom, boom, boom.”
– Robyn Wilder
HAT – Listen. Despite the virtually constant aural intrusions that sap my mojo on an hourly basis, it’s up to me what music I listen to. I don’t need a parade of rosy-cheeked fun fascists limply knocking on my door because they want to forcibly project delightful melodies into my ears and supposedly raise money for charity.
If I want to hear Good King Wenceslas (which is yet to happen) I’ll do what you’re supposed to do in the 21st century: I’ll sloppily mistype the title into YouTube’s search bar and get the 1721 Bing Crosby original version. Not a poorly-rendered, traffic-backed effort during which I need to stand, shivering, with a rictus grin aching my face.
Avoiding eye contact with carollers, as I inevitably do, means I end up beaming my joyless grin into the maw of a collection bucket, which the youngest member of this passive-aggressive joy squad is brandishing with what you can be moderately sure is shiny-eyed malevolence.
Brandish it, kid. Brandish away. Get your brandishing practice in nice and early, because if you’re living in my neighbourhood you’ve got a lifetime of brandishing ahead of you – table legs, knives, converted replica pistols. But don’t think you’re going to be buying your street weapons with my cash. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
What I’m trying to say is that if you give carollers money, sooner or later they’re going to spend it on arms.
– Stuart Waterman