More about Life

Christmas is a time for family, buying stuff and remembering the world's most famous magical Jew. Many of us cram onto planes, spend hours queuing in shops and feel very lucky not to have to spend the holidays giving birth to babies, surrounded by animals because we'd forgotten that the Holiday Inn Beth Lehem is always booked up this time of year.

A few days before the famous day itself, we crept early out of our flat, leaving our feline family to fly to see my human one. My parents live near Brighton, the British Florida. The main difference is, of course, that the British sun retired a long time ago to the American Florida.

With a few days before Christmas, we used our time wisely: We shopped amidst the crowds and pockets of hopeful carol singers; pretty much the way early Christians did, although there was less tinsel in those days.

We did much of our shopping in the nearby town of Lewis. Lewis is a pretty, historic town populated by people who only read first editions of ancient books. This is based on the fact that there are two small shops selling new books, two small second hand bookstores and about a dozen antique bookstores. All of the rest of the shops are charity shops which is a well-recorded phenomenon in the UK.

The main shopping area was filled with seasonal busking, often done by kids who of the age when they really ought to be out hanging round bus shelters. Most notable being one young guy playing carols mournfully on a clarinet. I enjoyed it because, for me, it summed up the pathos of the season and was a nice break from the otherwise relentless good cheer.

We also used our time to grab some kultcha. Cath is a fan of Mark Rothko who was having a retrospective at the Tate Modern (formerly Battersea Power Station). For those of you know don't know, Rothko is famous for his huge works such as Black Square on Red Background; Red Square on Black Background and Black Square on Black Background.

The pieces are not only impressive in their size, but also in the work that went into them. It may seem like a simple shape painted on top of a painted canvas, but it took a surprising amount of planning and experimentation. Even the often rough edges of the shapes are very deliberately and specifically so. And they do have an impact when you see them in the flesh that a tiny little reproduction in a book or on a computer screen doesn't convey. It is however a very homageable style, and I have tried my own emulations. One of my efforts now hangs in a millionaire's villa in Southern France.

Christmas period itself was the usual mix of too much traditional British Christmas foods (minced pies, Christmas cake, sausages wrapped in bacon), traditional British Christmas television (James Bond, Morecombe and Wise. Wallace wrapped in Grommit) and the local village's annual Boxing Day pram race.

A couple of days after the festivities, it was time to return home. Our flight back was delayed a little. They tried to hide this for a while by not telling us, but sooner or later the cat was let out of the bag.

As usual the flights to Amsterdam are serviced by Sterile Island, a block of gates separated from the main terminus by a bridge into which is piped bird noises and new age music. As I have said before, standing on the conveyer belts in this bridge, with this calming audioscape coming at you and arriving at a half-empty, cold, remote, sterile place increasingly makes me think of a Soylent Green-style old folk reprocessing plant. It explains why 90% of the time, airline meals are "chicken." Old people taste of chicken. If you get "beef" or "lamb," you've got a Mediterranean labourer.

I wrote in my notes that we got upgraded to Club. This was so many flights ago and so short a flight, I don't recall it. And it wasn't as exciting as the time I got upgraded temporarily because I was allocated a seat where the stewardesses sleep. Actually that was more disappointing than exciting, and a different story.

For once the plane landed close to the terminal instead of in Utrecht, where it normally seems to land; there was no queue at immigration; so that meant the last possible delay to getting home was, yes of course, waiting for Schiphol's computer system to stop contemplating the meaning of life and deliver our luggage. Anyway, Merry Magical Jew Day!

Labels: Anthropology, Art, Christmas, Food, Music, Religion, Shopping, Transport, Travel, TV, UK

Am currently thoroughly amused by the BBC row about Rage Against the Machine singing their song live on the radio. Source: Guardian.

Without irony, they told the band not to say the "Fuck you" part of their famous refrain, "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" Even if this is all you know about the band, that this is one of their lines, what do you think the band are going to do? They almost have no choice. To drop any part of the line seems to undermine its whole sentiment, and so really they either sing the whole fucking thing or they dump the it and cover The Carpenters.

Not that I wouldn't pay to hear Rage Against The Machine lay into a carpenters song. I always felt On Top of the World was a song about the injustice of a hierarchical religious structure that puts a single being above all others.

The reason people are talking about Rage Against The Machine again (not that they should have stopped, but they did) is because there is a campaign to make them number one for Christmas in the UK instead of some bland garbage oozed out by X-factor. (I haven't heard the song, but I stand by the words "bland," "garbage" and "oozed.") It's a way of saying "Fuck You" to Simon Cowell, which is to be applauded however it's done. There is also another movement afoot the have the Christmas number one be Tim Minchin's beautiful and sentimental (although self-justifyingly so) White Wine in the Sun.

My only fear is that those drones that really like X-factor will see these campaigns and be even more determined to buy the X-factor ooze and so make even more money for Simon Cowell and cause Joe McElderry's drug-addled death to happen all the sooner. And even if RATM (Rage Against The Machine) does make it to number one, we all know they probably won't be on the Christmas TOTP (Terror Over The Profanities), although we can be pretty sure we'll hear the X-factor single whether it tops or flops.

Labels: Christmas, Music, TV, UK

The Dutch don't tend to overdo many things, so one wonders why they have two Christmases.

Last weekend, a bearded bishop came to Amsterdam attended by a huge parade of grinning Dutchmen in black face-paint. This was the arrival of Sinterklaas, a manifestation of Saint Nicolas, the patron saint of pretty much anyone and anywhere.

Every year, Sinterklaas arrives on a steam boat from Spain with his Moorish servant (called Piet). Because Piet is never actually portrayed by anyone with any Moorish blood, he always looks like a Dutchman who has been playing in the coal cellar where he found a very cheap wig. In fact he alarmingly resembles a character from a very cheap and offensive sketch show from 1972.

Right now, "Sint" and "Piet" (he's singular in the stories but appears manifold at parades, etc) are in the country, and getting ready for the big day. December 5th, also known as Sinterklaas, is when kids wake up to find gifts in their shoes left by the dynamic duo. There's also a ritual of wrapped presents accompanied by a small poem somewhat dissing the recipient. The presents, the foot-related receptacle, the old man with long, white beard is all very reminiscent of "our own" Christmas. Which is no accident. This is one seed of what we know as Christmas. Sinterklaas went to the US and got fat on Coca Cola; the shoe became a stocking; and the blacked-up Dutchmen became reindeers and elves. And these got added to the fir tree, holly and mistletoe from the original pagan Winter Solstice festival, bundled in with a wild stab at the birth-date of one famous errant rabbi to create the glorious celebration of consumerism that we today call "Christmas." And over the last few years, the Dutch have been increasingly celebrating Christmas (in the presents-and-overeating fashion of the movies) as well as their own earlier, modest festival.

This is, of course, yet another example of the world's culture being thrown into the American melting pot and reserved back to the rest of the world and ultimately its original culture. Pizza is another great example. It's a highly interesting phenomenon that is almost certainly propagated by the medium of film.

So the question I guess we all want to ask is this: who would win in a fight, Sinterklaas or Santa Claus?
• Well, Santa Claus is old, but Sinterklaas appears much older and frailer.
• However, Sinterklaas is quite lean and Santa Claus has been pouring in the Coca Cola for quite some years and is, well, a bit tubby.
• Santa Claus has a well-trained team of reindeer with the kinds of hooves that could kick a man all the way into the New Year; Whereas Sinterklaas has a huge army of Piets, who have large bags of stone-like sweets to throw at children.

There is no obvious winner on paper, but in my head the battle would be fierce and Manga-like. It will probably end with both parties being mortally wounded, leaving the way for a sequel. The real battle between Christmas and Winter Solstice: Jesus vs Sol. A heavyweight bout between the Son of God and the God of Sun. The so-called Rumble in the Wrapping Paper. I for one am looking forward to this.

Your Sinterklaas Correspondent, Piet Moor.

PS Here is what a Manga Christmas would look like (from The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya by Nagaru Tanigawa and Noizi Ito). Happy Sinterklaas.

Labels: Americas, Christmas, Drink, Food, History, Netherlands, Religion, Sport, US

For the next couple of days we had a lay-over at my parents place. It was spent a little bit in a daze, not due to the aforementioned alcohol, but mainly due to still being on Dallas time. But in all it was very, very pleasant to be there, especially as I hadn't been back since possibly last Christmas. We walked the dog; dug into piles of presents and said ciao to my brother's girlfriend's cousins from Italy. We even had a second Christmas dinner, with an even bigger turkey, game pie and a choice of vegetarian and carnivore stuffings.

It was a quick visit, and over before our jetlagged brains could register it. We soon found ourselves being x-rayed, looked up and down and our excess liquids thrown away, all in the hope we'd think something was being done about security.

Bah, Humbug! One and all!

Labels: Christmas, Food, Travel, UK

One thing the US is not short of is TV Judges. There is a positive spree of these shows where small-claims cases are taken over by TV and broadcast, judged by a quick-witted and often bitchy judge. They tend to be somewhat Jerry Springeresque but without the violence. Typical scenario is Lynsette-Mae Hallibasta is suing her ex- boyfriend Joe Schmuck for the money she claims she leant him to buy a car and he spent on booze. He claims said money was a gift. It's often hard to care or not feel the urge to shake the woman and say, "did you really give your alcoholic boyfriend money and expect to see it again?"

As we were in that part of the world, it made sense to go out for some good, honest Cajun eatin'. One of the best providers of such cuisine is seafood restaurant Pappadeaux, a reportedly Greek-run chain. We over-stuffed ourselves on the huge portions of, in my case, Gumbo and Crawfish Etouffee, and even took a large amount of it home.

On the way there we passed a car with the number place "TRU GOD." Had it been a sports car, I would have assumed it referred to the driver's opinion of himself, but it was a much more modest vehicle and no doubt proclaimed the deep faith of the driver, albeit somewhat ostentatiously.

Cards have been an essential part of The Christmas experience since Quanthor the Generous gave the first Yule Tablet in 460 BC. Original cards were just blank stone tablets onto which pictures and messages were chiselled by the sender or hired craftsmen. The first true Christmas card was sent in 0 AD/BC (also a popular band of the time). It read, "Announcing the birth of our first born son, Jesus."

In time the cards became cardboard, and were pre-printed with Yule and later Christmas designs and messages. And then even the bit where you put who its to (father, sister, uncle, etc) was pre-printed. In America, ever keen to take things too far, they have cards for every possible relationship you could have. Not just cards for "Father and his new bride" but also for your priest, nuns and even hairstylist. I kid ye not.

There was even a separate section for cards from the pet. In fact the card I got for Catherine was from the "from your dog" section, because actually it had the message most like what I wanted to say unlike the mush that filled a lot of the other cards. It has no reflection whatsoever, I should stress, with my relationship with Catherine. Anyway, I must stop now, it's time for my walk.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Food, History, Religion, Travel, TV, US

My family goes nuts at Christmas. There is a feeling that it the person doesn't get their own height in presents the day has been a failure. Cath's family is far more restrained.

Not only that, but Christmas in my parents house is spent with a light alcohol buzz culminating with a unified falling asleep during the evening's compulsory Bond movie. The day starts there of late with a glass of champagne around breakfast time, I guess to wet the baby Jesus' head. And that's just the start. Even the Christmas pudding has an impressive percentage proof.

The traditional turkey and entourage is not too much different on both sides of the pond. The Americans love their cranberry sauce and the vegetables may well include a squash. I only recently discovered that there was such a thing as a squash. For those of you who live in the ignorance I used to live in, it is somewhat related to the pumpkin, but they tend to have the shape of other vegetables such as turnips. It seems an odd name, until you realise it's a contraction of the original Rhode Island-area word, asquutasquash. The word means "uncooked" or "that which is eaten raw" which is interesting compared to pumpkin which originally meant "ripe." Tamale on the other hand means "heart attack." (Only kidding.)

Among the American Christmas dinner institutions which will never make it to the UK is the "salad." "Salad" in this context is not like anything you would ever picture when someone says the word "salad" to you. It's some nuts and candied fruit in a sweet, green blancmange-like jelly. It tastes like the deserts we used to have at school. Tasty in an artificial and nostalgic sort of way, but too sweet for me to have with my main course.

One other turkey-related tradition that exists on both sides of the pond is the pulling of the wishbone. My experience is that whoever finds it gets to pull it with someone and the one who gets the larger part will be blessed with luck until the next year's year's turkey is served. It's similar in the US, although you don't have to pull it immediately, and you are allowed to let it dry and get hard. Tricks such as soaking it in things to make it rubbery and unbreakable are also allowed.

After a great meal, the universal yuletide tradition is of vegeing in front of a roaring, open television. This year one channel was constantly showing an American Christmas classic, "A Christmas Story." It's a great look at Christmas and family from the point of view of scheming, somewhat nerdy kid who's only goal in life is to own an air rifle. I even managed this year to see a fair bit of "It's A Wonderful Life," a film I'd managed to miss despite the many Christmases I'd spend on this planet. It's a film which is ALL set up. The meat of the film is only 20 minutes after an hour of setting up. Syd Field must hate it.

Most TV ads seem to be for cars the size of small houses and medicines. The medicines may possibly help you, but the list of disclaimers and recorded possible side-effects mean that you would have to be suffering pretty bad to even think about mentioning it to your doctor as they always tell you to do. There is no disclaimer for potential emotional distress when your doctor laughs at you when you mention the drug.

One last common TV Christmas tradition is the heart-warming season-related news story. This years was about a man who was released a little early from prison (after 17 years) for having smoked dope whilst on parole for stealing 2 dollars. "You in Texas now, boy."

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Food, Religion, Travel, TV, US

America is often ahead of the rest of the world in the products they have on the market. It could also be seen that America is the testing ground for the rest of us. Or that American law bends easier to the requests of big companies. They also believe in variety. No product would dream of having just one tried and tested formula, they have to have dozens of variants. Popcorn comes in a variety of subtle differences, and it's often hard to discover what the difference is between Unsalted Movie-Formula and Low-Salt Salted Popcorn. Orange juice also isn't just orange juice. It can be low-acid pulp-free or low-cal extra-pulp or vitamin-enriched low-Atkins. The choice is yours. I just want orange juice. You know the stuff that comes out of oranges. I'm convinced there are also a hundred variants of vanilla.

It even happens to toothpaste. And they all have different oral gimmicks. One I liked is antigingivitus, which seems to prevent gingerness. Ethnic cleansing in a tube.

Every country has its traditional Christmas food. In Britain it's turkey; in the US, turkey; and in Mexico it's... tamales. Tamales are spicy meat caked and cooked in what is effectively lard. They're tasty and probably about as good for you as strychnine, but isn't that the way of the world? We picked them up from what is reported to be one of the best Tamale places in the area. It does nothing but make wholesale tamales. It's not in the best part of town, but it's very, very handy for greasy auto repair shops and a very successful bail bonds office.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Drink, Food, Religion, Travel, US

I must admit I used to have a similar reaction to the young Damian (from The Omen) with regards to going to church. Loud choral music in my head as I approach causing fits of screaming. These days I enjoy the anthropological experience especially when it is clearly going to be a different church experience to the one I was brought up with.

To me, church means an ancient, unheated building designed to make you feel that God is much bigger than you and that you are no better than a scurrying vole in the cold dimness of life.

When I heard I was to be going to a church in America, two stereotypes presented themselves and filled me with anticipation. Mega-churches and Gospel churches. Ideally it would be a Mega Gospel Church.

The vision of my head which was a combination of the frenzied gospel scene from The Blues Brothers and the Superbowl (the world's biggest bowls spectacular). Of course, this was incorrect, and the vast majority of faithful Americans don't go to churches like these. In fact in the States, religions are like sandwiches. Everyone has their own favourite, each with its distinct choice of fillings and they go to the church that makes the one exactly how they like it. In Europe, the choice is usually simple. If you're Christian, you are either Catholic or one of the local protestant churches (of which there is only a limited denominations in any one area). In the States, every church seems to have its own brand, and you can be a Preternatural Pentecostal or a Presbyterian Episcopalian, or even a member of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (Feel his noodly appendage).

The church we went to is very informal and gives a feeling more like that of one big family than the traditional "we church, you masses" relationship. It was a lot about sharing and it was even acceptable to call out things to the under-pastors. (Calling out to the full preacher is not done, but apart from that people seem free to almost heckle those who speak before the headline preacher makes his appearance.) The service seemed to take lots of bits it liked from other churches which made it feel all the more human. There was even a karaoke screen on which the words of hymns appeared. The older hymns I knew, but there were quite a few 'modern' hymns (those written after 1900). These tend to be dull and repetitive. One was apparently arranged by Beck, and I was expecting something funky and offbeat. It however did not appear to be the same Beck as I was thinking of.

During the middle, one of the under-pastors came and told a story to all the children. It was a typically cute tale about some flower that blooms in Mexico at Christmas. After it the children were lead off to "Children's Church" which from the description sounded more like a playpen. I was too tall.

Preachers in the land and age of TV have to be more like entertainers than ever. And ours was quite compelling, putting his point across with skill, good examples and a firm observance of the laws of story telling. He perhaps overplayed the examples for my taste, but in land and age of TV, subtlety is not your best weapon.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Music, Religion, Travel, US

The day is approaching and I realise this could be the soberest Christmas I've had since I was 11. Cath's parents live in a county which until recently was dry – i.e. sold no alcohol. You can now get wine or beer, but none of the hard stuff. You have to go a couple of miles further down the road for that. I am not complaining. In fact it's nice to be away from the social compulsion to drink.

As a rule, Americans aren't really such big drinkers. A clue to this is the proliferation of Budweiser. Budweiser is the beer equivalent of those little cheesy triangles. It's not in any way real, tasty, quality or deserving of a place of a place on the planet.

For lunch we ate unexpectedly acceptable sushi from a food court stall. Reminding us that America can do some terrible things to its food, but food is important there and there are places were they do things right for the people who don’t just want sugared meat in sugared buns. However we did allow ourselves another of Mrs Fields Fascist Cookies.

The streets are filled with large SUVs (Superfluous Ugly Vans or Sports Utility Vehicles). Most impressive of all are Hummers. Hummers are very recognisable because that's what the US army drives. Most of the time you see one outside of the US it is being attacked on some Iraqi roadside or it's sitting burned out next to a crater. Driving an armoured personnel wagon helps confirm to Americans they are living in a war zone and that their fears are utterly justified.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Drink, Food, Travel, US, War

I have noted before that around the world, different areas have different walks. I noted that a lot of young Israeli men seemed to have a kind of swagger, probably due to having a rifle at home. I saw a couple of Texans who all had a particular walk. It was a kind of an awkward, staggering waddle and was entirely due to their waist being about ¾ of their height.

That being said, it is notable that this is far from the norm. People have a particular idea about Americans and obesity, partly born out by statistics. And they say everything is bigger in Texas. But actually, I was surprised how regular sized most people are. Not skinny, of course, but less obese than I remember. It is still impossible for Lady Catherine to find anything in her size, unless she goes to the kids department, but there the stock of sexually attractive clothing is scandalously nonexistent. Somewhere there must be a small emporium called something like Jailbait and stocking cute little numbers from the Lolita house. Proprietor: one Pete O'Phile.

As with previous days we spent a chunk of it in the mall. We'd been so busy in the build-up to leaving the Netherlands, we had done zero Christmas shopping. And if there is one thing you cannot avoid at this time of year, it's shopping.

There is a conception that the US is a kind of United States of Generica where every mall looks the same and contains the same stores selling the same stuff. And to a degree this is true. However, different areas can have different franchises, although they all spread out and repeat themselves within that area. So there are some chains in the Dallas area that you don't see elsewhere. It's not quite variety, but it's a marketable alternative.

One national chain I was introduced to was Mrs Fields Cookies. Mrs Fields does very nice cookies, despite the fact she seems to be some sort of right-wing monster, by all accounts. But they do say that fascists have the best cookies. You should have tasted Mussolini's Brownies. Mm mmm. And you may think Hitler was the evilest fiend who ever lived, but you never had one his fudge-nut butter biscuits.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Travel, US

The first port of call of the day was a supermarket. Although obviously in the UK it wouldn't be called a supermarket, rather a small town. With European supermarkets carrying more and more American-influenced or American-produced products, it's easy to think you've seen everything, but of course, like Jaffa Cakes and stroopwafels, America too holds back one or two goodies for themselves. Nestled amongst the fruit were little boxed of pre-sliced apples. Not new in itself as I've seen the same in Albert Heijn, but these came with a caramel dip. It reminded me that NOTHING comes in America without extra sugar. Even spare tires probably come with a free sachet of sugared honey dip. In the health-food section, was the usual array of nut bars. In the Netherlands, they throw in at least one variant with chocolate on for people who can't quite go all the way. In the States there is not a single "health bar" that is not smothered in chocolate or something that attempts to simulate it.

On the way back, we drove past many identical, yet somehow differently-branded burger bars. A popular one in the Dallas area is Waterburger (or Whataburger). It looks like the sort of place people go when they don't want to go somewhere so up-market as McDonalds.

One thing I got to witness at first hand was people getting annoyed at the expression, "Happy Holidays." The expression "Happy Holidays" is used so as not to offend people who do not in theory celebrate Christmas (Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, etc, etc), some of whom happen to also have holidays at that sort of time. However, the attempt to appease those not celebrating Christmas has upset some who do celebrate it. For me, I don't see the problem because Christmas is no longer merely a Christian celebration; the date and paraphernalia have been taken over by the more powerful religion of consumerism just as Christianity took the date and the paraphernalia from the pagan festival of Yule. Everyone celebrates Christmas, or at least realises that ALL shops do. It's no longer about some Jewish kid born in a barn in September who went on to become Messiah. (Although he didn't do the one thing Messiahs are supposed to do and deliver Israel up to God, but hey.) Christmas or Xmas or Salesmas is now the time of year enjoyed globally by retailers. A time of TV movie premiers and extra long episodes; a time of compulsory shopping and irritating music; a time of unnecessary familiarity at work and for being told you are a bad person if you don't get swept up in the ridiculousness of some of the rituals.

So, I don't mind what people say and don't mind admitting I think too much fuss is made of a holiday mostly celebrated by shopping establishments. A holiday that a lot of people who do celebrate it don't do so for any religious reasons. It's now part of global culture and no longer a purely religious thing. As Christians adopted these things from pagans, so global society has borrowed things from Christianity and a Dutch homage to a Turkish bishop to create a celebration of buying stuff.

It'll be nice to have an expression that nobody is offended by, but that is impossible. So the next best thing, equality-wise, is to have an expression that pretty-much everybody objects to. So that's why I say, "Bah Humbug, one and all."

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Food, Religion, Travel, US

Christmas is supposedly about many things, but for me it is ultimately a celebration of family. After all, even Jesus spent that first Christmas with his family. Not that he had much choice being only just born. This year it was the turn of Cath's folks in Texas to put up with us. Over the next few days, we'll see how it all went.

Labels: Christmas, Religion, Travel, UK, US

People no doubt are wondering am I as cynical about New Year as I am about Christmas. The answer is no, of course not. New Year is just an excuse to party based on the fact you had to buy a new diary. It also gives a good point at which to assess and/or reassess the previous 12 months and/or the years since your birth. Of course you can do this any time, and I would advise not waiting until midnight on the the 31 December to do this, as you'll assessment will probably be along the lines of, "I need another drink." But the approximate time of year offers a real opportunity to do this.

I don't really go in for resolutions because if there's something you want to start doing, start doing it there and then. The main thing that new years resolutions bring is a feeling somewhere mid-to-late January (or February if you're lucky or sometimes even early-January) that you are a failure and can't stick to anything. Okay, there was a little cynicism there.

Although the calendar we use is based on a miscalculation of the year of birth of the same popular rabbi as Christmas is the incorrect date of, there isn't really any religious message in the New Year. Probably because Jesusians are all religioned out after Christmas.

In the Netherlands, the new year is heralded in with a huge display of firepower. Enough fireworks are set off to completely destroy Luxembourg. They are set off by individuals, groups, companies, councils, the government and probably even the queen. All with varying degrees of concern for public safety.

At the time in question this year I, some friends, some friends of friends and some champagne were on a roof in centralish Amsterdam which afforded us a 360 degree view of the glittering weapons of mass distraction all around. Very impressive and still disconcerting as someone who grew up in the UK where fireworks are treated as the most deadly of things, to be feared almost as much as The Black Death and Paedophiles.

Catherine and I didn't go on to the big organised party with everyone else as I had to work the next day (in the exciting world of international support, somebody has to). As it happened the day was very, very quiet and so I could spend time fighting my hangover and reading two weeks of unread email.

The Dutch with their fondness for social formality have to greet all their colleagues when they get back to work. That was easy on Jan 1st when about 7 of us were working. But on the second the number was more like 25. That means there were up to 600 handshakes and cheek-kissings that morning. Enough to power a small village for a day.

So with Luxembourg destroyed but one small village given light for a day, I wish you a happy and preposterous 2007.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, History, Netherlands, Religion

By Christmas, stories about Christmas being ruined by a deadly, killer fog had long since stopped filling the TV and newspapers. It seemed Christmas might happen after all.

Christmases at my parents involve far too much food, far too many presents and far too much time watching TV. They're great. It's nice to spend time with whatever of the family is around and catch up on British TV. It's also a time to reflect that 2000 years ago a small child was born who would grow up to be a very popular speaker and change the course of history through being deified by his followers. In time these followers kidnapped the date and trappings of a pagan festival to celebrate this event and this too was kidnapped by the world of commerce. We should always take time to remember this, the magic that is Christmas. Merry Christmas everyone!

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Travel, TV, UK

Some more last minute shopping to get those last few gifts. All of the towns around where my parents live seem to have one thing in common. Every other shop is a charity shop. From Oxfam to Help the Aged to Wieners without Schnitzels, every charity is represented. I don't really know why there should be so many but one thing is for sure, January is probably the best month for receiving second-hand things to sell.

Labels: Christmas, Shopping, Travel, UK

Being an atheist and reluctant consumerist who dislikes unnecessary ritual and detests shopping, Christmas isn't exactly my thing. It's a time for Children to get spoilt and toy manufacturers to get richer. In many ways my ideal Christmas would be to drink myself into the New Year with a few like-minded fellows at Bar Humbug. It is not to trail desperately around shops where every surface has been draped with tinsel. Unfortunately, Bar Humbug does not exist and at Christmas, no store is allowed to trade by law unless every surface is covered in tinsel.

My second choice for Christmas would be to spend it at the airport entertained by clowns.

Labels: Christmas, Travel, UK

The strain of working, packing, travelling and shopping seemed to finally catch up with me and stole most of my energy. That on top of somehow pulling some chest muscles between Amsterdam and East Hoathley. None of this is in any way related to the ageing process, okay.

So instead of travelling up to London, which was proving to be complicated anyway from this part of the world, I hibernated for an evening.

Labels: Christmas, Travel, UK

The newspaper and TV stories are full of how Christmas has been ruined by the fog. It seems for everybody the day will be completely ruined, even though by my calculation only a small % of people will be travelling at this time. In fact logically most people will have a Christmas as normal this year and should not be affected by it and even those who do suffer, they should still be able to be where they need to be in time for the day itself not to be ruined. But if both the newspapers and the TV agrees Christmas will be ruined by BA cancelling flights then I must be wrong and have already started to burn the presents I have already bought.

Had a pleasant visit from my There-is-no-God Child and her mum. It's great to see that although we all lose energy as we get older, it can be passed on to one's children.

Labels: Christmas, Travel, UK

Christmas was definitely in the air this morning. Ordinary things were talking much, much longer than usual and people were already bubbling with that most Christmassy of emotions, anger. In fact, I've never seen so many short-tempered people squeezed into one place. The reason, other than the proximity to the dreaded day, was a romantically seasonable layer of fog that stretched across the British countryside. Because of this, planes to and from the UK were subject to delay and / or cancellation. And to ease people through this was the good, old Dutch customer service.

In Dutch, customer service is an oxymoron. It exists only in tourist haunts and the odd up-market shop or restaurant. Elsewhere, if it is the barmaid's cigarette break, you'll have to wait for your beer or if something you brought is broken, then (a) that's a shame and (b) why are you bothering the person who sold it to you with this?

Ironically, in the run-up to Sinterklaas and Christmas nearly all shops will wrap ANYTHING you say is a present. They take their time and wrap it properly, and better than I ever could. It seems incongruous but actually its very annoying for the people behind them in the queue. I am sure they only do it as a way to work without actually having to serve a customer. I know I would.

There were obviously a lot of Brits waiting for flights, for whom bad temper is usually just under the surface but then again only usually emerges as muttering or saying something sarcastic or ridiculously lame but indignantly. I remember being stuck in a crush in London slowly filtering out of a station at 8:40 am when someone seethed, "I'm trying to get to work." I had to bite my tongue not to say, "really? I'm here for fun." It wouldn't have helped.

But also there seemed to be a lot of Americans. Americans tend to have even more anger bubbling away, plus have the added annoyance that they are spoon-fed good (and often over-the-top) service back home so that the Netherlands can be a bit of a culture shock. A land where "Hi, I'm Candy and I'll be excited to help you today," translates to "Yes, what?"

We managed to get checked in after first joining a queue that turned out to be the wrong one after we grilled a man handing out pieces of paper with ambiguous instructions. The queue was for people with connecting flights and they were not a bouncy bunch. The same guy went did some giggling and got the self-service check-in computers to work so that we could get to the slow-moving Fast Drop-in desks. I think because the word 'fast' was above them, people were even more frustrated, even though their flight was delayed by two hours and so they had plenty of time. After this passport control was a doddle (easy).

I must point out that there were not nearly the number of people and not nearly the same depth of emotions as experienced in the British airports where for a few days before Christmas they whole thing came to a crashing halt and people had to hang around in tents in the freezing cold. And instead of paying for heating, they hired a few street performers to go around and cheer people up. When you're cold and pissed off the last thing in the world you want to see is a juggling mime. I don’t know what they were thinking. So actually we had it pretty good in comparison. Especially as we were ourselves very laid back about it. It was 5 days until Christmas, after all.

Very recently, Europe brought in new security regulations. As with previous ones they don't deal directly with security and are more designed to (a) make it look like security has been stepped up and (b) give the little men in big uniforms at the security desks more specific instructions to follows. Probably so they don’t have to spend so much money training them.

For example it wasn't clear why the tube of hand cream left in the luggage was dangerous and had to be gleefully thrown away by a glorified night-club bouncer where as had we remembered it was in the bag and put it in one of the sealable plastic bags it would have been safe. The only explanation the guy had was that those were the rules and laid a piece of paper in front of me explaining what the rules were but probably was very vague on how actually the rules help make things safer. When I threw the piece of paper away, it got placed back in front of me with great purpose. I should have been glad something had a purpose.

I have a theory that the level of X-rays has been increased many-fold in the machines and can now turn small quantities of liquid radioactive if they are not put in the lead-lined bags provided. That's my theory as not much else makes sense.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Travel, UK

I don’t do Christmas very well. I am an under-consumerist atheist with a phobia of unwarranted false displays of affection, so there isn’t much of the festivities for me to really enjoy. I detest shopping so much that an hour of it leaves me emotionally exhausted and as irritable as all hell. And when some of my friends (nearly always girls) tell me how much they enjoy shopping as if that would suddenly make me realise the error of my opinion, I shake my head in an unfestive way.

Christmas, in case you are from Mars, is a kidnapped pagan festival (that’s where the trees and holly come from) converted to be the celebration of the inaccurate birth date of an over-hyped rabbi. It has since been re-kidnapped by The Coca-Cola corporation and Hollywood, acting on behalf of the manufacturers of tacky products the globe over.

It is the time of the year that every one insists that you have some “seasonal cheer” despite the fact this forcing you to be cheerful has an even more detrimental affect on one’s mood than a whole sleighful of carol singers singing Christmas hit singles.

It is a time when everything is enfestived (a word closely related to infested). Shops can’t get enough silver shiny things to adorn their products and every public space - and I mean EVERY PUBLIC SPACE - is filled with nauseatingly tinny versions of nauseating tunes sung by nauseating children. Children who will soon be receiving a deluge of gifts all, ironically, made by other children their age. Albeit in Santa’s many sweatshops in less Christmassy places.

So I think Christmas should be banned, then? No. I think it should be made to go behind closed doors. Those of a religious bent should go off to their churches quietly, with only a special TV programme on in the morning for them to sing along to. The kids should receive their presents, but from their parents and not some mysterious recluse who lives in an igloo for 11 months of the year and then in every single shopping mall for the other month.

In no places except churches or in the privacy of the homes of those with serious taste deficiency should Christmas music in any of its guises be played. Tinsel is outlawed outside of homes, and people who cut trees of from their roots and put out of the way of sunlight so they slowly die whilst covered in silvery crap should be prosecuted under the protection of wildlife laws. Gangs of children found hanging around and going from door to door singing the above mentioned songs should be served (in the UK at least) Anti-Social Behaviour Orders. Believe me, “Away In A Manger” should be classified as a dangerous weapon. And finally, any mention that someone should get some “festive cheer” should be classed as assault, and retaliations such as bludgeonings and disembowellings should be accepted as self-defense.

Oh, but it should still be a holiday. Anyway, Merry Christmas everyone.

Labels: Anthropology, Christmas, Religion, TV