Ding Dong Merrily on High

Just as the gobby child is correct to point and laugh at the naked emporer, so it is only right that Charlie Brooker, Ebenezer Scrooge and I should hammer nails into the tyres of the big red holiday truck, boycott the grotesqueries of the fat brands and punch in the mouth anyone (no matter how old) who dares present us with a 'wishlist' this December.

And I've got news for you.  I've been eating turkey all year.  It's pretty cheap and the dark meat's tasty in a casserole.  Sorry birds.  You lucked out.  Not that it would have helped if you'd been pretty; bullocks have those big brown eyes and we have no qualms about hacking them to pieces around their first birthday.

Christmas is:
A naked, power-crazed old man. 
Stalin in a onesie. 
Savile in a bathing suit. 

Please allow me to prove my point via poetry.

e.e. cummings wrote a festive poem which I think backs up my deep suspicion of all things Christmassy.  General analysis seems to consider little tree a delightful, innocent ode to Christmas joy.  Look more closely.  little tree is a dark picture of forced cheer and the abuse of innocents.  The image of the 2 children holding hands and singing 'Noel' at the end is particularly disturbing.  There's something fraudulent and deceitful about Christmas and it took the specialist fuckuppery of e.e. cummings to lay the festering corpse out for what it is; a dangerous farce, shitting glitter and fake snow over malingering wounds which will not be healed on 25th December but will decay and putrefy into a stagnant, black, pus-filled sore.


little tree

little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see          i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don't be afraid

look          the spangles

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i'll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they'll stare!

oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we'll dance and sing

"Noel Noel" 

 

 

 

(I have underlined the most disturbing parts of the poem for your convenience)