Well, the e-masses have flexed their virtual muscles and told X-Factor where to go. Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name" has made it to the top of the chart, to be 2009's Christmas number 1. My initial reaction was amusement, even satisfaction, at seeing the X-Factor's "sure thing" defeated at last. But the more I think about it, the more I realise the whole sorry affair has left a slightly nasty taste in my mouth.
I can't help feeling that everyone has missed the point. I'm not even talking about the obvious point, the overt irony in the fact that a song which is notoriously anti-establishment, by a band renowned for being anti-establishment, whose catchy refrain is "F*** you I won'tdo what you tell me", has been bought in its millions by people who, for the most part, are only buying it because Facebook told them to. OK, I know there are some real fans out there too - but they, I presume, already own this track.
The point I feel we have somehow missed though, is simpler. I feel we've missed the point of Christmas number 1 records. What happened to actual Christmas songs? Perhaps I am being naively sentimental, but how much pleasure is there really in watching a 4 year old asking "Mummy, what does this song mean? And why are they so angry?"
I love Christmas. I always have. It's largely to do with the fact that my dad is a child at heart, and my family always went all out at Christmas. We had pillow-case stockings, mountains of presents under the tree, fantastic food (and in later years, copious amounts of booze too) more presents in the evening, Snowman presents on boxing day and even beyond. I was allowed to eat sweets at 9am, and it was one time of year the cameraderie between my sisters and I usually managed to overpower the niggling irritations. I did say usually...
Now married and with a young child of my own, I hope to carry on these Christmas traditions and give him a wonderful time of year to look forward to. I don't see the problem with belief in Fater Christmas, with flying reindeer or generous-bellied snowmen made from fermenting barrels and cotton-wool mysteriously filling with present day after day. It's fun. And yes, I know that if we didn't have two beans to rub together we'd have to cut back - but we'd still go overboard, even if the presents were gestures and good will.
I am just not sure I like the idea of this backlash against commercialism (through counter-commercialism - go figure) taking over the most magical time of year. It all feels a little bit sordid. I wonder though - had Aled and Terry's Christmassy, charity single Silver Bells topped the chart, I somehow doubt I would be having these worries. But with it being RATM, I can't help feeling we've all been complicit in some huge Cowell-fuelled inside joke. What has this achieved? I know what I'd rather be listening to on Christmas day.
Sunday 20 December 2009
Sunday 13 December 2009
The times they are a-changing
I needed milk this morning. Not an uncommon occurence with a 14 month old in the house. The shop is less than 10 minutes' walk away, so you would think this would be a quick undertaking. Not so. The whole round trip took over 45 minutes.
You wwould be forgiven for assuming that this was due to the usual baby-related faffing but no, the delay was rather different this time. It just so happened that everyone I met on the way was in the mood for a nice little chat. Old George's knees are playing up, you see, and Irene's dog is just not listening to her anymore, but he does look ever so smart now Naomi's done his new clip. Don't get me started on Bob's grandchildren, they're little terrors, don't they learn respect these days? And yes, Cath, you have met my son about a hundred times before, yes he is beautiful isn't he, and no, he is not a girl. Trust me.
Until just three short years ago, I lived in London. In Stepney Green, if I had ventured out of a morning to get some milk, I would barely have made eye-contact with the shop assistant, let alone stopped to talk to people on the way. Londoners consciously develop the elsewhere stare, the "I'm going somewhere very important so don't even think about talking to me" walk - to make ourselves as unapproachable as possible. Heads stay down, eyes remain averted. And so is the way of the city. Anyone looking cheery and greeting people on the street is generally regarded as a nutter, and is given as wide a berth as your average Big Issue seller in well-to-do town centres.
But then we moved. Suffolk is a little different to Stepney. The difference between town and country is much-chronicled, nothing new perhaps. But it is new to me - despite the fact that I grew up in the countryside. Several different countrysides in fact, as my father was in the military, which might go some way to explaining the rather different circumstances in which I now find myself: a somewhat baffled rural housewife who bakes for the community centre cafe, edits the local Community Association magazine and is on first name terms with all the local shop-owners. It's a far cry from my (if I do say so myself) rather glamorous career in London.
When I was growing up, my parents were not particularly social creatures. They were always friendly, and my mother has a capacity for smalltalk that any PR professional would envy. But they preferred their own company, they weren't "pub people" and we moved so often that making good friends was problematic. Most of my mother's best friends were the mothers of school or (don't judge me) pony club friends of mine - and testament to her incredible social skills, she is still in touch with many of them 25 years later. We knew very few people in the actual village(s) in which we lived however, and mostly just went about our lives, keeping our heads down. Later came university, and suddenly it was city life all the way for me. No longer did I want green fields, muddy feet and dubious aromas in the air. I wanted bars, shops, public transport that came more than once a fortnight. I wanted friends on my doorstep and a supermarket five minutes down the road. I wanted a whole city full of people I could ignore.
But life does tend to go full circle, and I find myself back now amidst the rolling fields and picturesque brooks of Suffolk. OK, I live in a semi-detached ex-council house in the middle of a thriving village, but don't let that ruin your vision of my rural idyll. Ignore for a moment the mud, the country smells and the extravagant mileage required for semi-decent shopping. It's still pretty wonderful living here in many ways - but some days I feel a little too grown-up for comfort.
In my village I now have friends. Not just people I'd nod a cheery "Morning" to on my way to the butcher or post office, but actual, proper, real-life friends who I love spending time with. We go walking (most of them have dogs. And children. And immaculate houses that put mine to shame) and have coffee in the community cafe, and generally just toddle along in our slightly lower-gear lives. Friends who still live in London often ask me if I miss it. I was, after all, a social gadfly, out several nights a week with work dos, relaxed drinks or very occasionally something verging on cultural. Now, going to the village pub for a quick drink at 5pm before rushing home to get the baby into bed is about as adventurous as it gets. And yet I am happy here. I don't miss it. Despite the fact that it can take 45 minutes to walk to the shop for a pint of milk, despite the fact that I now see my best friends only a handful of times a year, and despite the really quite irritatingly common power-cuts and dodgy broadband, I feel this is the right place for me.
And perhaps it isn't really full circle. Yes, the similarities are there from my childhood, but plenty of things are different. We are "pub people", we do have good friends, and the shopping nearby really has improved recently (and not just because my standards are slipping. OK, I never thought I'd buy clothes from a supermarket, but needs must when you have no salary) So perhaps life is really more of a spiral - if you look at it from the top as we usually do, it might look like a circle - but things are changing along the way, and these footsteps I find myself walking in are very definitely my own. They're just going a bit slower than they used to.
You wwould be forgiven for assuming that this was due to the usual baby-related faffing but no, the delay was rather different this time. It just so happened that everyone I met on the way was in the mood for a nice little chat. Old George's knees are playing up, you see, and Irene's dog is just not listening to her anymore, but he does look ever so smart now Naomi's done his new clip. Don't get me started on Bob's grandchildren, they're little terrors, don't they learn respect these days? And yes, Cath, you have met my son about a hundred times before, yes he is beautiful isn't he, and no, he is not a girl. Trust me.
Until just three short years ago, I lived in London. In Stepney Green, if I had ventured out of a morning to get some milk, I would barely have made eye-contact with the shop assistant, let alone stopped to talk to people on the way. Londoners consciously develop the elsewhere stare, the "I'm going somewhere very important so don't even think about talking to me" walk - to make ourselves as unapproachable as possible. Heads stay down, eyes remain averted. And so is the way of the city. Anyone looking cheery and greeting people on the street is generally regarded as a nutter, and is given as wide a berth as your average Big Issue seller in well-to-do town centres.
But then we moved. Suffolk is a little different to Stepney. The difference between town and country is much-chronicled, nothing new perhaps. But it is new to me - despite the fact that I grew up in the countryside. Several different countrysides in fact, as my father was in the military, which might go some way to explaining the rather different circumstances in which I now find myself: a somewhat baffled rural housewife who bakes for the community centre cafe, edits the local Community Association magazine and is on first name terms with all the local shop-owners. It's a far cry from my (if I do say so myself) rather glamorous career in London.
When I was growing up, my parents were not particularly social creatures. They were always friendly, and my mother has a capacity for smalltalk that any PR professional would envy. But they preferred their own company, they weren't "pub people" and we moved so often that making good friends was problematic. Most of my mother's best friends were the mothers of school or (don't judge me) pony club friends of mine - and testament to her incredible social skills, she is still in touch with many of them 25 years later. We knew very few people in the actual village(s) in which we lived however, and mostly just went about our lives, keeping our heads down. Later came university, and suddenly it was city life all the way for me. No longer did I want green fields, muddy feet and dubious aromas in the air. I wanted bars, shops, public transport that came more than once a fortnight. I wanted friends on my doorstep and a supermarket five minutes down the road. I wanted a whole city full of people I could ignore.
But life does tend to go full circle, and I find myself back now amidst the rolling fields and picturesque brooks of Suffolk. OK, I live in a semi-detached ex-council house in the middle of a thriving village, but don't let that ruin your vision of my rural idyll. Ignore for a moment the mud, the country smells and the extravagant mileage required for semi-decent shopping. It's still pretty wonderful living here in many ways - but some days I feel a little too grown-up for comfort.
In my village I now have friends. Not just people I'd nod a cheery "Morning" to on my way to the butcher or post office, but actual, proper, real-life friends who I love spending time with. We go walking (most of them have dogs. And children. And immaculate houses that put mine to shame) and have coffee in the community cafe, and generally just toddle along in our slightly lower-gear lives. Friends who still live in London often ask me if I miss it. I was, after all, a social gadfly, out several nights a week with work dos, relaxed drinks or very occasionally something verging on cultural. Now, going to the village pub for a quick drink at 5pm before rushing home to get the baby into bed is about as adventurous as it gets. And yet I am happy here. I don't miss it. Despite the fact that it can take 45 minutes to walk to the shop for a pint of milk, despite the fact that I now see my best friends only a handful of times a year, and despite the really quite irritatingly common power-cuts and dodgy broadband, I feel this is the right place for me.
And perhaps it isn't really full circle. Yes, the similarities are there from my childhood, but plenty of things are different. We are "pub people", we do have good friends, and the shopping nearby really has improved recently (and not just because my standards are slipping. OK, I never thought I'd buy clothes from a supermarket, but needs must when you have no salary) So perhaps life is really more of a spiral - if you look at it from the top as we usually do, it might look like a circle - but things are changing along the way, and these footsteps I find myself walking in are very definitely my own. They're just going a bit slower than they used to.
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