Humbuggermesenseless

Tags

Christmas, Cycling, Edinburgh, Partridge

OK, I don’t do Christmas, it’s a lonely time without the one what I loves and I prefer being alone and just concentrating on surviving and avoiding being one of those suicide statistics — when I go, I want to be the only one on that day!  But in the last few years I have at least ventured out from under the duvet, and allowed my innate hedonism some sway. Cracking open bottles of the serious Bordeaux that Rucyrucyrucyrucy and I bought in bond back in the day and roasting a small game bird (as opposed to a small, game bird, fnaar, fnaar) has become a sort of tradition.

As, for some reason, was a trip from here to Corstorphine Hill, to sit on the seat made famous by RLS in Kidnapped, and mope about the lost love with whom I used to love sitting there.

We came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got near to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on Corstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we both stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to where our ways parted.

This trip was done on the rusty Dawes Galaxy, but due to bad weather in 2017 and bad arthritis in the knees last year, not only was this the first time I’ve tried it in three years, it’s the first time in the saddle for about two. At least much of its three mile length is along the Roseburn Cycle Path, the old rail route, smooth and level and easy cycling. All it lacks are handy defibrillators at regular intervals, for at 67 and recovering from a gout attack, I sure ain’t as fit as I (never actually) was.

But I got the tyres fully pumped and myself slightly less so and hit the road at 1330 hours. I took a few snaps along the way …

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

first sit and rest, on the bridge over Corstorphine Rd

the Roseburn Path

up on Ravelston Dykes

the final climb begins

the Forth (Estuary) from the Ninth (hole at Murrayfield Golf Course)

somewhere to tether the steed before the final climb to …

Rest and Be Thankful

… which I duly did and was

By ‘eck, were I knackered when I gorrome?! So it was a while before I got it together to make a pear and walnut stuffing (a pear tree in a partridge, geddit?), bone the partridge (they can’t touch you for it) and prepare the lime-pickle-roasties, sprouts, bread sauce — and decant the claret. But it were dead yummy, I can tell thee.

So, yeah, happy whatever to any readers and all humanity, however you voted, whatever your political or religious beliefs or tastes in life, love and music and all that shit. See you next year.

The Year’s a Bitch and Then You Go Round Again (Hyvää Joulua)

Tags

Christmas, Festivals, New Year, nihilism, Saturnalia, Yule, Zen

Your friendly blogger has mentioned before his religion (or anti-religion) of Zen Nihilism, and mused on the possible ceremonies and liturgies that might mark rites of passage and all that sort of rot.

And at this time of year, when so much bullshit flies around about what to call the season (Nadolig Llawen, by the way) and the fake ‘war on Christmas’, it seems obvious to consider the nihilist view of that too.

His hilarious and still available collection of silly verse, Parodies Lost even contains a wee riff on the matter …

It is’nae correct, in ‘political’ terms
To say ‘Merry Christmas’ these days;
To avoid gie’in offence (if that mak’s ony sense)
We reword it in mealy-mouthed ways

‘Happy Holidays!’, ‘Guid Solstice!’, ‘Seasonal Cheer!’ —
Just as lang as ye doan’t NAME the Season —
Just spend a’ yer cash on o’erpriced trash,
And forget the original reason.

Ah’m no’ a believer, ah freely admit,
But I hate to see Noël get neutered.
Och, let it be still a time o’ guidwill —
And a damn fine excuse tae get blootered!!

[2013]

However pointless we might consider our existence to be (and though some find that a cynical or miserablist view, your bloggist finds it very much the opposite, and, while you’re here, a Joyful Hannukah to you), it does seem part of human nature to want to join with other members of this fundamentally gregarious species, if only to get smashed and have fights.

It is important to realise that the present author’s standing as professional miserable git and lonely loser has nowt to do with this nihilism stuff. Zen Nihilism is not saying that life is shit, moan, moan, chiz. In fact it sees life as inexhausibly, if ephemerally and pointlessly, wonderful, as in endlessly inspiring wonder, if only in the sense of I wonder where that fucking microSD card with all my mp3s I had in my hand a few days ago got to. And the fact that it accepts the cold, scientific view that wonder is itself an evolved trait with survival value does not detract from that awesomeness one iota. If anything, the very fact that we evolved that way brings feelings of wonder in its own right. What beautiful circularity that we can find it wonderful that we evolved to find things like that wonderful. You can’t? Poor you.

So nicht dieser Töne, let joy prevail, happy lohri di lakh lakh vadhaiyan &c, as the days start to get longer and the low afternoon light in the west of these Scottish skies blinds us and makes crossing the icy roads doubly dangerous. Let us come together in what may have its origins in and is still enjoyed by ‘pagans’ as a Solstice celebration, and wish each other well and a jolly Makar Sankranti, and all that crap, whether we mean it or no (and we bally well should mean it).

But what to call it? Well, after much thought (all of ten minutes worth), the best answer your worldweary chum could come up with was Yearturn.  Unspectacular, granted, but it would hardly be Zen or nihilistic to go for anything too flashy, would it? A little online research proves it’s neither well-known nor strictly original (but then neither is the term Zen Nihilism). It’ll do. Who cares anyway?

And rituals? Make your own up. Without a huge marketing budget like that which gave us Coca Cola’s Santa Claus or a huge literary following (a writist can dream, but …) like that which gave us the Dickensian Crimbo, traditions can’t be manufactured, they have to grow organically.

Yours Truly, who celebrates the birthdays of Jane Austen and Ludwig van Beethoven (16th Dec, see blog entry before last) likes to use the word Yule, even if his regular greeting of Cool Yule, Y’All is rather naff. Saturnalia also has some appeal, but these do all have strong connections to earlier societies and beliefs, and Yearturn has a pleasing neutrality. And no set beginningn or end. A fortnight should do it, especially if we can scrap all the standard songs that start playing incessantly in the shops from September on (not that they don’t include some gems, but all the bloody time?) and all themerchandising that surrounds it.

So there you have it. Happy Yearturn. What presents did imaginary old men bring you this year? Yes, we should give Yearturn gifts, encourage the idea behind St Nick, of giving without expecting (though this may be a losing battle: a young mother once told your blogger she was not telling her kids there was a Santa because she wanted them to know who had bought their gifts and at what expense, so they’d appreciate her love more!), maybe we even need a Krispy Kringle karakter of our own. But not only that. Many Randian neo-bastard economists deprecate the giving of gifts, because it distorts the correct working of their Great God, the Market (by demanding production of goods and services that are not actually wanted and, even worse, disguising the actual monetary value each person represents to another – so gifts in themselves are not bad, but they ‘should’ be solely monetary or similar trading tokens, and yes, your blogger will accept BitCoins).  Anything that can fuck up that cruel, divisive, poverty-creating monster – even buying that ‘hideous tie, so kindly meant’ – has to be worth the effort and expense. ‘Exchangeis the most pernicious of evils’ (that’s anarchism, not nihilism, but they do make smashing bedfellows).

The final episode of the Moffat/Capaldi Dr Who referenced good ol’ Bertie Russell’s line that ‘love is  wise and hate is foolish’. This strikes me as a bit off the mark. Unless it means that to love is wise, in which case he should have said so. Love itself strikes me as invariably foolish (but all the more glorious for being so), whereas hate is just downright fucking stupid (and always counterproductive to boot). But, in the words of St Quentin (the person born on Dec 25 from whom we can take inspiration), love is important to you because you give it; to expect to get anything back, to demand that it be requited, is like giving a present merely because one hoped to get another in return, and ‘simply will not do’. ‘Understand that’, he said, ‘and the very idea of your heart being broken will disappear’.

Your hopeless correspondent tells himself this a lot at this time of year, when the absence of the increasingly distant belovéd proves that there are forms of loneliness where the crowded avenue is indeed empty and the presence of well-meaning friends only serves to emphasise the all-important absence. Fortunately, jollity is his middle name and the remote company of an oriental motivator has made this the first Yearturn in over a decade which hasn’t been marked by sobbing under a duvet and/or weeping on the brow of a (Corstorphine, pictured) hill. It would have been nice to cycle up to Rest and Bethankit anyway, but the weather outside was shiteful: maybe he can get up there on New Year’s Day. If you’re coming too, do bring drinks. Party like it’s Twenty-Eighteen, dudes.

And either way, a happy Yearturn and a spiffing 2018 to both my readers, whether happy, sad, lonely or surrounded by love. May your lives get no worse than they already are, in the coming circuit round the Sun.

No Time Like the Present by Zelda McLeich

Tags

Christmas, Presents, Robbie Williams, tapas, tradition

Here’s a seasonal offering from our occasional guest writer of gory stories … with best wishes of the Festering Season to both our readers.

xxxx

xxxThey say that opposites attract.  Well some of them say that.  Others say we’re drawn to genetically similar folks.  It’s probably a bit of both.  What I’m trying to say is that his easygoing nature had a strong appeal but it also jarred with what he called my ‘OCD’.  And we could both be as stubborn as mules selectively bred for stubbornness.
xxxOr can you selectively breed a sterile hybrid?

xxxSorry, I’m having trouble concentrating.  Sure you’ll understand.
xxxOh yes, stubborn. But I was always told there’s a right and a wrong way to do things.  And especially I love tradition.  Christmas is all about those traditions or it’s nothing.  When you know what’s coming at any given time, it makes the anticipation that much greater.  Same with presents, a pleasure deferred is a pleasure increased.  Then it’s knowing when but not knowing what that makes the surprise that much better, isn’t it?
xxxHe wasn’t like that at all, but he went along with it, for a quieter life.  I still had to hide things well, usually round at Mother’s, or he’d have been  … sorry.  I’m rambling, I know.  But you have to know I like my festive routine just so.  There’s a right way to do Christmas.  End of.
xxxStart of December, put up the Advent Calendar.  Cards hung from cotton along the wall as they arrive.  Tree and the rest of the decorations up on Christmas Eve.  Not before.  OK, I have compromised on that a bit.  His family always put theirs up on the first Sunday in December, with their Advent Crown — all very Blue Peter.  He said it seemed such a lot of effort for something that had to come down again in less than a fortnight.  So I let him put the tree up and hang the baubles then, but the lights and tinsel always have to wait.  So I still got some of that magic of the special night.  And I was sure he’d come to realise how romantic it all was, and how much better it would be when we had our own kids to share in it.
xxxBut presents; yes.  That routine was such an important part of it all for me, since I could remember.   Come down Christmas morning, not before the stroke of nine (though we’d been awake since God knows of course).  Have a full breakfast — evening blow out not for hours — and only then go through to the sitting room to see what was in our stockings or under the tree.
xxxIn the early years he was always badgering me to open a few little gifts early, but I think that was because he wanted an excuse to see some of his.  Like a kid: couldn’t resist the short term stuff to get a bigger thrill later on.  He tried renaming them as Advent Gifties, as if that would change everything.  It took a few years but he stopped asking and I assumed he was cured of all that, round to my way of thinking.
xxxOffice parties, meals out, secret Santa stuff, that was fine of course.  Visits to friends and rellies — presents would be exchanged, but they all knew I wouldn’t be opening mine until the big day, so they never opened theirs from us when we were there.  More fool them if they rip the paper off the second we leave, I always say.

xxxYeah, so we went for this romantic meal for two at our favourite tapas bar a week or so ago — Friday it was, the Sixteenth.  We got there earlier than usual but they’d opened the kitchen half an hour early when he’d rung to book.  He told me it was to save us the hassle of coming home from work and coming into town again; he hadn’t fancied meeting in a crowded festive bar beforehand with all the booze we were already getting through this month and I said he must be getting old.  But it sort of made sense, and we’d be home in time to watch Have I Got News For You, and get an early night before the weekend parties.  It all made sense at the time.
xxxAnyway, we were enjoying a nice meal, cheeses, hams, gambas, a lovely bottle of Rioja, and we had the place pretty much to ourselves for three quarters of an hour at least.  And suddenly he produces an envelope from his jacket and hands it to me, saying Merry Christmas, darling!
xxxWhat’s this, I ask, and he says it’s an early Christmas present, a ‘very special one’.  I say that’s lovely and start to put it in my handbag.  But he asks what I’m doing, with a knowing smile.
xxxI’m going to take it home and put it under the tree, I say, and thank him profusely so he knows I am truly grateful for the thought.  But he interrupts and says it’s really important to him that I open it on the spot.  I say we’ve been through all this before but he says it’s something really special and I say in that case it’ll be even more special if it’s the big finale on the day.  At the correct time.
xxxBut he doesn’t want to give in, though he also doesn’t want to spoil the surprise.  He gets really agitated and starts hissing at me about being stubborn and even calls me ‘anal’.  And I say it’s him that’s being the pig-headed one, opening up old arguments.  He tries cajoling, he tries threats, tells me I’ll be sorry, but of course this just makes me dig my heels in. When he says he’s going to have to tell me what it is, I just say if he does it’ll not only spoil the surprise, it’ll spoil our whole marriage.  It’s true, it really is.  I’m not religious or anything, but Christmas is a very special time of year to me.
xxxEventually he just shouts, have it your fucking way then and calls me a stupid stubborn bitch!  Just as another couple walked in.  I was so embarrassed, moreso ‘cos it was also in front of Juan and Consuela — we’d been there so often, they’re almost family.
xxxWell, that put a damper on the evening, to say the least.  He hardly spoke, just muttered through clenched teeth from time to time.  Things like, I’d be sorry, wait and see, me and my hidebound attitudes and so on.  I tried a couple of times to lighten the mood, but it was pointless, so we ate up, skipped postres, and went home.  I popped into the kitchen to apologize for the scene and assure them we’d be fine, see them in the New Year.  Hah.

xxxI did think he’d get over it pretty quickly.  Even if he didn’t, it was important to nip this ‘early present’ thing in the bud, before we ended up putting the decorations up in October and giving so many ‘Advent Gifties’ we’d have nothing to look forward to on the day but a selection box and a satsuma.
xxxI thought he was just trying to outdo me for pigheadedness  He didn’t stop speaking to me or anything quite as childish as that, but he was amazingly surly for the whole week.  I was tempted to tear open the envelope shouting, OK, so spoil Christmas, Grinchy, or even rip it up and throw it in the recycling unseen, but I didn’t give in.  In fact he made no further direct attempt to get me to open it and I thought he was giving in — ungracefully.
xxxEven when we put the lights on the tree and arranged the parcels beneath it, with his ‘special’ gift in pride of place, his mood didn’t lighten.  My attempts to apply generous helpings of alcohol only made him more withdrawn and grumpy.
xxxEventually I suggested we turn in early.  A cheery ‘I suppose a Christmas shag’s out of the question’ was probably a mistake too.  But I still thought the day would work its magic, that we’d come down at breakfast and there’d be enough surprises to change our moods.  He seemed to find that idea rather amusing though I did notice that his laugh sounded hollow and grim.

xxxSo this morning I came down and prepared the usual — buck’s fizz, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, toast, fresh-brewed coffee.  I had to shout up a few times before he deigned to grace the kitchen with his presence.  He still looked thoroughly pissed off, but also amused in a bitter way.  Grim as he was the night before.  And even then I reckoned on a bit of Christmas magic turning things around when we got to the tree.
xxxIt wasn’t promising.  He hardly touched his food, though he did replenish his glass quite freely.  Then he asked if we could finally open the presents, so I could get what was coming to me — I remember now, that’s how he put it, but I didn’t think about it at the time.  He said he hoped I was ready for my ‘big fucking surprise’.
xxxI tried to keep it light, but it was damn near impossible.  I said if it was so big I’d definitely leave it to last, which he snorted at derisively, but I admit I was really intrigued by now and even excited, despite the atmosphere.  I was sure that it would be really amazing and when I opened it I’d show how grateful I was and he’d be pleased and agree with the value of waiting … and all the nonsense would be forgotten.
xxxBut he opened his gifts in stony silence, the clothes, the box sets, the CDs, even the top-of-the-range power drill set I knew he’d wanted, or grunted some sort of thanks, always staring at that ruddy envelope.
xxxSo I finally picked it up.  My hands were trembling and he had that grim smile again as he watched me open it.  And take out the tickets.  Two to see Robbie Williams.  My favourite singer.  My teenage crush.  The best seats in the house.  For the gig he’d said was sold out before he could book.  Live, in a one-off, rare visit to the Symphony Hall.  Two blocks away from the La Mancha tapas bar.  On December the sixteenth, the night of our romantic fucking opening-early-specially fucking pre-Christmas fucking meal!

xxxSo it’s manslaughter right, not actual murder?  Can I plead diminished responsibilty or something?  No jury would …?  No?
xxxI don’t suppose I can even get the money back on the drill, what with the damaged box and all the blood.   Sorry, I’m still not really thinking straight, am I?  Anyway, thanks for coming down to the cells.  I know you’re  the duty solicitor but sorry you had to get called out for this sort of thing.  It’s supposed to be such a special day, after all.
xxxAnd … Merry Christmas, I suppose.