Archive for the ‘humour’ Category

‘Tis the night before Christmas …

Posted: December 24, 2012 in humour
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Tonight will almost certainly be the last time I have to drink a glass of milk, eat a cookie (being careful to carelessly scatter a few crumbs around) and take a reindeer-size bite out of a carrot before going to bed on Christmas Eve. Not to mention faking the traditional ‘thank you’ letter from Santa and Rudolph, and leaving some telltale boot prints around the fireplace.

The last of our kids is now 10 and while he desperately still wants to believe, rational thought and peer pressure are taking their toll. It’s that awkward stage where kids want to know so they aren’t made fun of by the Santa-savvy spoilsports at school, but at the same time don’t want to know, fearful perhaps that all the magic of Christmas will suddenly disappear along with the gifts from Santa. And they must be from him because they are always mysteriously wrapped in different paper from the presents from Mummy and Daddy and the gift tags are in different writing (almost as if Dad wrote them left-handed, in fact …).

Every year the questions about how Santa manages to deliver all the world’s presents in one night get trickier to answer. Once the sheer wonder of flying reindeer has passed, it’s not long before you’re being peppered with time and motion studies, logistical questions and the dubious practice of space travel in a red furry suit with no oxygen helmet. By age 7, they realise the whole concept of flying reindeer is definitely a little suspect.

The pressure of keeping up this charade year after year is now so great, it was almost a relief when my son folded his arms and looked me firmly in the eye and said: “Dad, honestly. Is Santa real or not? Yes or no.” I, of course, looked firmly back, father-to-son and … didn’t have the heart to give a straight answer. I waffled something about it being like God; that just because you can’t see him  doesn’t mean you can’t believe.

We both know the game’s up, really.  My son isn’t stupid and so for now he’s willing to play along with the whole ‘Santa won’t bring you the new JumboFXPlayStationNerfo system if you don’t eat your veggies/do your music practice/homework’ nonsense if it prolongs the magic of Christmas stories and movies a bit longer.

Maybe we both just want to hang on to that last shred of childhood innocence as long as possible. After all, it may be a while before grandchildren come around.

But for now the magic still remains. ‘Tis the night before Christmas and all through our house waft the wonderful smells of Christmas baking and the tree is sparkling with lights. The stockings are hung and you can feel a child’s anticipation and excitement. Why wouldn’t you want to still believe?

Good night to all and to all a good night! Merry Christmas everyone!

A whiff of nostalgia

Posted: January 17, 2011 in humour, miscellany
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As an expat, one of the things I miss about England is the pubs. Even as a recovering alcoholic of some years’ standing (as opposed to being horizontally comatose somewhere) I love the craic and the bonhomie of a good local which you rarely find outside Blighty. But then I could just be being nostalgic about that peculiarly English trait of nostalgia, as the food critic AA Gill (also a born-again non-drinker) evokes so perfectly in a piece about an Oxfordshire pub in this week’s Sunday Times:

Pubs are my personal past imperfect, but they’re also redolent of the national nostalgia. Pubs are the votive archive of Englishness, with their feudal names of landed aristocracy and plodding occupations, their bosky and mawkish decoration — the fading pictures; the horse brasses; the engraved glass; the tack of defunct crafts suicidally hung from rafters; those greening photos of cricket teams and charabancs; darts trophies; the autistically blinking jukebox, with We Are the Champions and My Way; the witty mottoes; the damp beer mats and the smell of sour lees and urinal disinfectant. Pub is such a strong brand: so plainly and coarsely us. The boxed, yeasty essence of Blighty. They are the living rooms of the poor, the snugs for the lonely, the dispossessed, the nagged and cheated, and confessionals for the great, whingeing, halitosised British boor.

I spent a great deal of the first half of my life in the mud of pubs, watching the motes fall through mullioned sunlight at 11 o’clock in the morning. The silent scream of boredom and despair, the fantasies fending off the fanfare of failure. The first sour mouth of beer, redolent of armpit and vomit, the warm tabloids neatly folded to crosswords and racing at Lingfield. The shuddering regulars, laying out their spots at the bar, like an office desk, two packets of Senior Service, lighter, ashtray, cloudy spectacles, Telegraph, pen, and the haltering, dumb non sequitur conversation delivered at the optics; a web of mutual delusion and self-pity, pathetic expectations and excuses. Now, when I walk into a pub, I can still hear the phlegmy snigger, the creaking whisper: “So you’re back, are you? We’ve kept a seat for you.”

Love you like a hurricane

Posted: September 18, 2010 in Bermuda, humour
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Oi, leatherface! Wanna rum'n'Dunkley's?

Ten things to love about hurricanes:

  1. Days of practice to become a Scrabble/Risk/Monopoly/chess ninja
  2. Finally getting to read that pile of old technology paper portable devices on the bedside table
  3. Meeting neighbours you didn’t know existed
  4. Naked solar showers in the garden
  5. Sharpening your machete skills
  6. Legitimate excuse to run around wielding a chainsaw with a leather mask on
  7. Really innovative BBQs – yes, you really can do lasagne on a grill …
  8. Bizarre cocktails. Nothing like black rum to liven up that milk and OJ in the warm fridge before it goes off
  9. Dinner by candlelight
  10. Sex by candlelight

And 10 things to hate …

  1. The embarrassment of losing to your kids at Scrabble/Risk/Monopoly/chess yet again
  2. Power outages. By the third day, the novelty’s definitely over.
  3. Meeting neighbours you didn’t know they existed
  4. Neighbours filming you taking naked solar showers in the garden
  5. Piles of rotting vegetation. Phew!
  6. Tripping over while wielding a machete
  7. Falling over with a chainsaw after one too many rum’n'curdled milks
  8. Running out of candles and wondering just what the hell you’re eating for dinner
  9. Regretting buying that electric scooter
  10. Sex by candlelight (unless, of course, you’ve got the aforementioned solar shower)
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