Goodbye to All That

It’s over.

At the Masters Golf Tournament in Augusta, the 11th, 12th and 13th holes are known as “Amen Corner”, the most crucial and difficult part of the course.  If you’ve played through these three holes and you’re score is more or less the same as it was when you started the 11th, you’re regarded as having done well.

Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and St Stephen’s Day are the Amen Corner of my festive season, and this year my situation is more or less the same as when I started the 24th, in that I am still (a) alive, (b) sane and (c) married, though in some of those categories only just.

I’ve written light-heartedly about how Scrooge-like I am in my attitude to Christmas, and have really neither the courage nor the penmanship to truly explore here the real awfulness of these few days if you’re a person who feels awkward in social situations, who is cowed by large family gatherings and outbursts of affection, and who then is filled with self-loathing because of his spiky and ungrateful reaction to invitations to such events.

I’m not going to go much further into this. I just had to say something, somewhere. All these relatives are well-meaning and wonderful people who think they are doing something nice by inviting us round to their house, and if I were normal then I would think so too.

I think my attitude may come from the fact that we were raised in London far from any family, so the three Amen Corner days were always spent in our own flat, with our own Mum and Dad, playing with our own toys in our own time. I want our own kids to remember Christmases as time spent in our house, not as an endless series of treks around the homes of the aunts and uncles.

That last paragraph, though, is intended as an explanation but not a justification. It should be possible to regard family gatherings as events rather than chores, especially as there are no arguments or hidden issues in either my family or Mrs Tin’s. I don’t know why I can’t do it, and never really could.

Sorry about this post, but I’ve written it after spending most of the night awake and I’m going to publish it before I can change my mind.

Oh, and I’m getting a cold.

In Fields Where They Lay

After the Angel vanished, there was a long stunned silence. Eventually the First Shepherd spoke.

“You both saw that too, right?”

“Sure did,” said the Second. “I was sore afraid, so I was”.

“Oh, thanks be to Jesus,” burst out the Third Shepherd. ” I thought I was the only one who could see him.”

The other two stared at him. “Thanks be to who?” said the First Shepherd.

“Erm, dunno,” said the Third Shepherd. “The name just popped into my head.”

“Weird”, said the First Shepherd. “Anyway, what was he on about? It was a bit hard to hear him, what with him appearing suddenly in a blaze of light and frightening the shit out of the sheep like that.” He sniffed and then looked down in disgust at the sole of his sandal. “Literally, it would seem,” he added bitterly.

“He told us to Be Not Afraid,” said the Second Shepherd, ” then he said he was bringing us tidings, whatever they are.”

“That’s right,” said the Third Shepherd, “then he said a baby had been born in Bethlehem.”

“Big deal” said the First Shepherd.

“Yeah, but he said that the baby was a King, and we should go and worship him,” said the Third Shepherd.

“Wow, a King,” said the Second Shepherd. ” Imagine what people will say when we tell them that.”

It was the Second Shepherd’s turn to be stared at. “Tell them?” said the First Shepherd. “You don’t think we’re going to tell anyone about this, do you? Look, we get enough slagging in the village about spending all night up here as it is. They keep asking do the sheep wear make-up, and lately they’ve started going on about someplace called  Brokeback Mountain, though to be honest I don’t get that bit. If we turn up and say we saw an Angel of the Lord they’re going to think we’ve been drinking the sheep-liniment.”

“Well, we have been,” said the Second Shepherd.

“Yes, but only a couple of pints,” said the Third Shepherd, ” I mean, you have to keep warm somehow.”

They sat in silence for a while. The First Shepherd picked up the sheep-liniment bottle, inverted it hopefully, then sighed. “Anyway, a baby, you say? We could just pop in and say hello.”

“After all, it’d be rude not to.”

“And it’d be warmer than here.”

“And,” said the First Shepherd, “there might be a bit of a session. After all, most new parents just put an ad in the Bethlehem Times, thanking the staff of the Maternity Hospital blah-blah-blah. People who can afford to hire an actual Angel to announce the birth can’t be short of a few bob.”

” You’re right,” said the second Shepherd. “There’s bound to be a few drinks. There might even be cigars.”

“Ok, let’s go,” said the First Shepherd.

“Wait,” said the Third Shepherd, “we’ll have to bring presents.”

“Why?” asked the Second Shepherd.

“Because it’s Christmas.”

“Because it’s what?” said the the other two in peace and harmony.

The Third Shepherd buried his head in his hands. “Look, I don’t know where all this stuff is coming from. I just keeping getting images in my head of a big green tree with little bits of fire on the branches, and a happy fat man with a white beard, and a huge bird that looks like a feather duster that gets cooked and has leavened bread shoved up its bum, and something called the Greatescape that just happens over and over again, and a flying chariot driven by big animals that look like cows, only they have trees stuck to their heads, and a white round man with a carrot where his nose should be, and everyone wearing a crown, only the crowns are made out of a sort of light papyrus, and all the inns being closed for one whole day, and all the time in the background there’s a grumpy man made all of something silver going ‘ho, ho, fucking ho.’”

“Well, there’s only one thing I can say after that,” said the First Shepherd, “Jaysus”.

The Christmas Break

I read a thing a few years ago about the type of injuries that hospitals typically have to deal with at Christmas. I can’t remember the exact figures, and for once Google has let me down, but essentially these were the type of things the article was on about:

• x number of people will be admitted with broken wrists after falling backwards off their chairs when pulling a cracker;
• x number of people will spray their Christmas Trees with water to keep the pine needles from falling off, but will do this while the lights are plugged in, and will electrocute themselves;
• x number of people will crack their skull by striking it off the toilet cistern when getting back off their knees after vomiting.

No, sadly, not like this

There are also less salubrious, and hopefully apochryphal, urban myths about men presenting themselves in A&E because they’re, er, trapped in the turkey. In the mathematically-impossible likelihood that I ever felt the urge to do what they were apparently doing, if I did become trapped I’d saw off my own mickey and bleed to death sooner that turn up in front of a female nurse with some ridiculous tale of tripping while carrying it naked (as you do) to the oven. Some people seem to have no sense of shame.

There are even less salubrious tales regarding turkey basters that I’ve pushed so far to the back corners of my mind that I think they can see Narnia behind them.

Anyway, to brighten all your spirits on this Christmas Eve, here are Tinman’s predictions, based on no scientific research whatsoever, of the type of injuries that Dublin hospitals will have to deal with over what is aptly termed the Christmas Break:

• Five people will set fire to their hair by forgetting to take off their paper crown before lighting the Christmas pudding;
• Seven people will burn the insides of their mouths after discovering that, while chestnuts roasting on an open fire sounds lovely in the song, in the real world they have the consitency and temperature of firelighters;
• Three people will swallow pie-slices from Trivial Pursuit;
• Six guys will choke while hurriedly swallowing their chewing-gum upon realising that the hot girl in the office is standing under the mistletoe;
• Thirty-four husbands will be hit by buttons flying off clothing that they’d bought for their wives, having no idea what size she is, and having insisted “of course it will fit you, try it on”;
• Two people (let’s be honest here, two blokes) will accidently headbutt each other while air-guitaring the bit of Bohemian Rhapsody where “to meee” ends and the guitar solo starts;
• Four parents (of either gender) will be hit in the eye by a Brussels Sprout spat out forcefully by a child who had insisted on trying one;
• One person (again, a bloke) will catch pneumonia after sleeping in the dog kennel because he was sent to collect the turkey, slipped in for one pint and came out after the Butcher’s was shut.

And finally, at least one parent (probably of a spoilt only child) will have to be rescued by firemen after trying is prove to said doubtful child that of course a man can fit into the chimney.

Anyway, Happy Christmas to all of you who read this. Have a great time, and take care.

Tinman

Daddy Long-Legs

In a conversation with QuietScotsGirl and myself, TallNeuroticGirl told us she is planning to buy her dad a suit for Christmas.

QSG said she would not feel confident in selecting a suit for her dad, but then TNG’s dad is a farmer from Longford, so presumably there is just the one type of suit called “farmer’s suit”, with large pinstripes and a row of biros in the breast pocket, and all she’ll have to decide is whether to accessorize it with a cap or a hat.

TNG's dad

And she’ll have to pick the right size. And this is where her problem arises, because her mum insists that her dad has a 39-inch leg. TNG has tried telling her that nobody has a 39-inch leg (and believe me, if TNG doesn’t, then no-one does) but her mum is adamant.

QSG asked does he wear trousers up to his nipples, á la Simon Cowell. I suggested that TNG should buy a pair of 39-inch trousers, if there are any such things, just so she can say “I told you so”, when he waddles around like a diver wearing flippers.

And then, because all this depersonalised crap has dulled my Inappropriateness Sensor ever so slightly, I heard myself say “of course, your mum only thinks your dad has 39-inch legs because he has told her that this (holding my hands about four inches apart) is nine inches”.

Fortunately she laughed. Still, I have to cure this somehow.

HHFH

The sunny disposition that normally radiates from this blog like a streetlight haze over a large city will be slightly dimmed this week, as the season of peace, goodwill to all men and the 24/7 playing of Fairytale of New York reaches its zenith.

There are people who love Christmas, and it is safe to say that I am not among their number. The number I am among at the moment is about seven-and-a-half grand, which is the balance on my credit card. I am spent, in every possible meaning of that term, and it’s only the start of the week.

I tend to think of Ebenezer Scrooge as a do-gooder wuss who caved at the first sign of hassle. How the painfully jovial Spirit of Christmas Present might have reacted to being simply told to fuck off, or how any of them might have dealt with being sprayed with holy water or garlic were options that he never chose to explore.

Don’t get me wrong. There are a lot of great things about Christmas. I love the look on the Tinkids’ faces when they see their presents on Christmas morning. I loved it when they believed in Santa, and we had to leave out his bottle of Guinness (how does the fucker drive?) and the carrot for Rudolf (eating Rudolf’s raw carrot after the Tinkids went to bed was generally the only healthy thing I did for the whole holiday).

But I hate the hassle, and the bustle, and the fact that Dublin’s Lord Mayor lit the Christmas Lights on November 9th this year, to encourage us all to shop earlier. And the fact that Midnight Mass has gone. And the fact that going to mass on Christmas Eve fulfills the Christmas obligation. And the fact that carol singers seem to think that Jingle Bells and Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer are carols. And all the excess.

K8 the GR8 has already written this great post

http://www.cackaloo.com/2008/12/06/the-power-of-one/

about houses like this one:

Seriously, when did we become such a nation of gobshites? Where’s our sense of restraint?

Now, it is a sign of the mass of contradictions that Christmas awakens in me that, despite all I’ve written in this post so far, I am the only one in the office who has his own Christmas tree.

This is it:

It sits at the crossroads of the four cubicles of GoldenEyes, QuietScotsGirl, Blondiebird and myself. It’s so petite that the perfectly ordinary houseplant on GE’s shelf looks like a giant triffid about to devour it, or like Laughykate’s family about to devour yet another neighbouring farm (you thought that comment had sailed straight past us, didn’t you LK? How much of NZ do you own?).

Anyway, that’s what I think Christmas Decorations should look like. If I lived alone, or really was master in my own house, I’d have a tree like that at home. And nothing else. And I’d take it down on the 27th, because I always feel stupid plugging it in on the 29th or 30th.

Anywayagain, that’s my Christmas rant over with. Sorry if I’ve spoiled your mood. And sorry about the title. And yes, the three H’s in the title DO stand (in no particular order) for ho, ho and ho.

“Lucky” is my middle name

I didn’t post yesterday, because I’m not sure how the word “mmnnuuuhhhhh” is spelt, and it’s the only word my brain was capable of processing.

The party was a big success. We ate, drank, danced, and then at the end of the night we had the raffle.

The raffle is an essential part of our company’s Christmas Party. It’s held at the very end of the night, all the staff members have their names put into a hat (ie spouses and partners are excluded), and if you’re in bed when you’re name is read out, tough.

We have about fifty prizes, ranging from vouchers for hotel stays to Cadburys Selection Boxes. Two of the most popular prizes (though not with the boss) are paid Half-days off work. This was my idea a couple of years ago and it seems harmless, but some of the top developers in the Company are very well paid, so they can end up being the most expensive prizes of all for the company.

Anyway, in three years of parties, I’d never won anything, so I reckoned this year my luck had to change. And it did. I won this.

The worst thing is that I had actually bought it. My ClosestWorkBuddy, GoldenEyes, organises the Christmas Party each year, and buys all the prizes, but this year she was sick in the week leading up to it, so Blondiebird and I went off on Thursday afternoon with sixteen hundred euro to spend in two hours.

I’ve never done Power Shopping like this before, and it was a real experience as we flew from shop to shop buying vouchers, tins of sweets and cosmetics. It was while we were in Boots buying 3-For-2 things that I saw the above box and said “this looks nice”. “Meh,” said Blondiebird, but by then we were knackered, so we took it anyway.

And on Saturday, GE said “next prize is this Perfume Sample Set,” and then laughed herself sick when my name was read out.

Oh well, at least I’ve broken my duck.

Paraskavedekatriaphobia…

…..that’s easy for you to say.

Our office party is on tonight. All the staff and their partners are invited to the Radisson SAS in Cavan to eat turkey and, er, ham, to drink beer at a free bar and then stay overnight. There will be 233 people there.

My boss last year (not really)

Some may say that this is over-extravagant while banks are crashing, while jobs are dwindling and while Bob the Builder is presumably now Just Plain Bob. The company’s attitude, though, is that the staff have worked just as hard this year as last, so why cut their party? They also take the attitude that if everything really goes badly, in 18 months time it’s unlikely they’ll be saying  “if only we hadn’t held that party – it would have made all the difference between solvency and bankruptcy”.

Anyway, I’m delighted. As I say, there are 233 people going, so it’ll be the biggest birthday party I’ve ever had.

For today is my birthday, and, as you’ll have noticed, it’s the 13th (I know it’s the 14th where you are, LK, but we Irish have always been a bit behind the times). And, back in 1957 (aargh!), the 13th of December was indeed a Friday.

So the title of this post is not Mandarin, Klingon or indeed Keyshitatrandom, it is the term for Fear of Friday the Thirteenth.

The great advantage of being born on F the T is that it means you can never be superstitious. It’s hard to take rubbish about magpies, walking under ladders or breaking a mirror seriously once you’ve survived bring born on the The Day Most Fraught With Peril. Magpies are bad because they are loud and steal other birds’ nests, walking under a ladder is unlucky only if the guy at the top drops something on you (you could say the same for walking under a bridge), and breaking a mirror is bad because, well, you’ve to buy a new mirror.

In the office last week we got new Golf Umbrellas delivered to give to our clients, and I opened one to see what they were like. “You can’t open that in here,” said MyAgeGirl (the only other Over-50 in the office, though very few people know it), “it’ll bring you bad luck”.

“Jesus, MAG,” I said, “You’re talking to a guy with heart problems. What more bad luck can I get?”.

Which makes me think. In the past 18 months I’ve had 17 blackouts, three operations, and a pacemaker. I have scars on my forehead from one of my falls. I have a condition where I don’t fully experience things anymore. I’d a tooth taken out yesterday and a crown put in. I’d to pay €470 for that, and last week I’d to pay €100 to get the heater fixed in my car.

Not only that, but Ireland were awful in the Rugby World Cup, the world economy is banjaxed and the Cassini spacecraft has stopped transmitting (I know these things aren’t just my bad luck, but I’m on a roll now). Chrysler and GM are going broke. Pigs can kill you. Martina Navratilova didn’t win I’m a Celebrity. It’s pissing rain.

None of this, of course, is due to when I was born. Touch wood.

******************************************************************

(Ps. As my birthday present to you lot, a word of advice. Don’t ever type “Office Party” into Google Images. And, if you do, don’t look at the fourth picture along.)

Look, I told you NOT to.

Told You So

I knew the pork industry would survive.

At yesterday’s school Christmas Fair, we took in €228 at the Hot-dog stall.

Death - inna bun!

Now it’s possible that this means that one depressed person tried to commit suicide by eating 114 contaminated food products, but I prefer to believe that 114 different individuals decided “yiz won’t tell ME what I can and can’t eat”.

You have to love the Irish.

Oh, and I’ve just read that the feed supplier that caused all this is owned by a guy called Robert Hogg. Please feel free to insert your own joke here.

Turkey and Spam

A couple of days ago I made a reply to a comment from the Sexy Pedestrian on my Oranges and Lemons post. I said “I hear Aldi’s  white pudding is cat. Possibly literally”.

It turns out now that this would be a GOOD thing. Anything as long as it isn’t pig.

As if enough hasn’t gone wrong in this country over the last few months, we’re now being asked to throw out all the pork and bacon products in our fridges. Anything bought since September 1st may be contaminated by cancer-causing toxins, apparently. (“And what about stuff bought before September 1st?”, asked RTE’s reporter last night. “It’d probably taste like shit by now,” said the face of the expert she was interviewing. “Er, they would be toxin-free,” said the expert’s lips.)

It would have been helpful if they’d announced this on Friday. However, with the wonderful sense of timing that has characterised so much of the performance of this Government, they announced it on a Saturday evening, after we had all stuffed ourselves with the traditional Saturday morning cholesterol-bomb of sausages, rashers and black & white pudding (with a half-tomato added to give the impression that it’s a healthy meal).

While this has serious implications for the livelihood of small farmers, workers in meat processing factories, and breakfast roll salesmen in the weeks leading up to Christmas, it’s also hard not to laugh. I’m writing this at the Christmas Fair for Tingirl’s school (it’s quite dull sitting in a back room tallying the money) and we’ve already had a discussion about whether to sell the Ham and Mushroom pies that some parent made and donated (we’ve decided yes, with a massive don’t-blame-us  warning).

On Friday our company had it’s Client Christmas Lunch, where we took out 140 clients and fed them, well, turkey and ham. Good PR for us, then.

Last night in the pub I had a look at the prizes for our local GAA Club’s Christmas Draw. Eight of the twenty prizes include a ham.

But all is not lost for the pork industry. The government told us to vote for the Lisbon Treaty, so we voted against it. They told us to accept the Budget costs in Medical Cards and Education, and we marched till they backed down. They told us it would be unpatriotic to do our shopping in Northern Ireland, and we’ve practically doubled the North’s economy overnight.

Now they’ve told us not to eat pork or bacon.  So on Christmas Day we’ll all eat a large ham with strips of bacon across the top, served on a bed of sausages, with black-and-white pudding stuffing, and a pig’s trotter sauce.

Turkeys are going to think it’s Christmas.