Some epically stupid cow down the road has an electronic countdown to Christmas thing in her front window, which what with her house being right on the T-junction with traffic lights we’re all most days held up there and get to notice another day down to C-Day, starting from at least 62 at the last clocking of its reappearance. So that’s what, 61 days of feverish waiting for this incredible day to come? How balls-achingly sad is that.
Anyway, testicles to it all, shops stocking mince pies in September or John Lewis’s latest shit fest being a news item or topic of conversation among people who should know far better.
Decades ago, in the very late 1970s, down south near my granny and grandpa’s house near Aylesbury, was a beautiful church in the sticks where grandpa played the organ. One Christmas I think might have been the last he was fit enough to play, unless I am misremembering things, this church was very close if not next door to a gorgeous, large, red-bricked country house with a big front door and large bottle-glass windows, a house we somehow knew was owned by Noel Edmonds, years before he became a right-wing nut, way back when he was trendy and fun and known to all kids across the land for Swap Shop.
A freezing December day my ma, Granny and us three kids, parked up across the way from Noel’s house to do a recce on the church, Noel having put an array of coloured light bulbs on a proper large Christmas tree outside his front door. Granny stayed in the car while we went in, of course we were more interested in the hope that Noel might turn up and being a childhood hero of course he’d do something amazing like sign autographs and invite us in to meet Rex the dinosaur and then have us on the show or something, or some such cascade of amazing things that someone like him would do because he’s famous and obviously loves kids, so we thought, and so on. Anyway in we went to this church, as cold inside as outside, and I can’t remember how long we were inside for or what we did, as it wasn’t interesting.
We ultimately returned to the car, disappointed in having not seen Noel. But Granny said while we were inside a car had pulled up outside the house, and a man with longish blonde hair and a beard had come out and been driven away. It could only have been him! As exciting and near mythical as seeing Father Christmas himself.