Ding Dong

December 26, 2010

Oh, it’s you. It’s been ages hasn’t it? Yeah, well, come in, come in. Bash the snow off your feet. It IS cold isn’t it? Yeah. Yeah. I know, I can’t remember it being this cold before at this time of year either. Gosh. Ha. No, really not warm is it? I would never describe these temperatures as warm. So how are you? Hurt? About what? My disappearance? Well, look I’m sorry, but I do have more of a life than a blog would suggest. I’m not raising my voice. Wait a second. You’re…you’re…the one being passive aggressive here. I’m sorry. I AM. Come here. I am sorry. I really care about you. (I grab you and hug you tightly. As the clinch becomes more settled we both become aware of each other’s breathing getting heavier. We both know that this reconciliation will lead to only one thing but we wilfully suspend this delicious moment waiting to see who will make the first move. Then, after an ecstatic silence, you feel just the vaguest hint of my tongue gently entering your ear. You smile in anticipation of giddy, glorious and alarming make-up sex).

I know nobody gives a nano-fuck whether I’ve written this thing or not but I feel inclined to deliver the above soft-porn apology, more for myself than anyone. It has been about half a year hasn’t it? I did my show in Edinburgh and the 6 people that saw it over the course of the month really, really laughed. (I exaggerate those facts of course: they really laughed.) I then did the biggest job of my life so far which filmed in September. I then returned back to London and lived like an Earl for about a month (Nando’s for breakfast, cabs to the bathroom, that sort of thing). I then got my job back in a tiny pub seemingly built for mice near Baker Street tube station. I deliver cool glasses of bubbly beer to people with big red faces and a faded light in their eyes. So as a result of these facts, I am in the fairly unique position of appearing live on BBC Breakfast on Wednesday and then going from there to do a three until close shift at the Barley Mow, where I will be spoken to like an Indian tea boy in the colonial era and will almost certainly get some sort of effluence on me. Bizarre. Like Christmas.

My mind is not made up about Christmas. Christmas for me has always been strange. When I was a Christian, my Christmases were comprised of quietly going about various religious observances where my parents wouldn’t see them. This was because if my father and mother had known I was a Christian they’d have had a similar knee-jerk response to it as when my brother came out. (Which, to be fair, should have been no surprise – he was a fan of Aqua.) When I started going to the Alpha course, that cul-de-sac of rationale, I told my Mum and her response was, “Oh Danny, you’re not a Christian are you?” (I think in Psychology this is termed a ‘leading question’.)

To which, naturally, my reply was, “No, Mum, of course not.”

“Oh,” she phewed, “thank God for that.”

“No,” I said, “He’s probably the last person you should thank for that.”

Anyway nowadays I don’t believe in any of the mind-farts that is religion and Christmas has remained the strange affair it has always been really. My Dad has always been something of an ‘armchair theorist’ and most of the festive energy is expended on avoiding talking about the ‘War-About-Water’ or his thoughts about population control. This year my Mum has been raping Jamie Oliver for Christmas ideas (oh dear, there’s an image that’ll never leave now) and as a result has produced totally out of character food. She produced three desserts after Christmas dinner, all of which required Krypton Factor-esque handling. A ‘make-your-own-truffle’ dish, a ‘taste’ dish which involved frozen grapes, chocolate and a huge shot of vodka that my mother poured out for us all gleefully and mince pies with brandy cream. I think the whole foray into experimental food was Mum just hoping we’d all get hammered and fall asleep. It was all very nice and a bit of fun, but, needless to say, as more vodka was consumed the ‘make-your-own’ element to the dessert became a real spectacle. We ended up looking like a clan of chimps tormenting each other with a heap of shit.

I like an occasion, and I don’t mind getting into the spirit of things for a while. I just don’t know what spirit I’m supposed to be getting into. Apart from vodka. So I spend my time watching telly I wouldn’t normally watch, doing things I’d never normally do and eating things I’d never normally eat for the sake of a holiday that can, essentially, mean anything to anyone. I’ll be on more solid ground in the New Year.

My Dad did provide the quote of the holiday on the way back from visiting family yesterday, which me and my brothers felt didn’t really engage with the spirit of the season.

“I’ll tell you what we need: inter-continental thermo-nuclear war.”

Which is my Dad’s version of:

“And to all a good night.”

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One Response to “Ding Dong”

  1. Simon Gee Says:

    Hi, Hope you get to read this, I just watched “Eric and
    Ernie” tonight. If you don’t get an award for this, I will be
    fucking amazed. A brilliant performance. With best regards,
    Simon


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