It’s obvious. Aliens from Planet Twerk descended to Earth and rendered me unconscious as part of the extra terrestrial ‘Schoolies’ prank and I have only now, nearly twelve months later, awoken from my state of alien stasis. I have no proof, of course. But even if I didn’t see them before the lights went out, I’ve long suspected that they’ve been watching my every move. That may sound far-fetched, but I dare you to come up with a more logical explanation. For other than the possibility that I’ve been in an alien-induced coma for the last twelve months, it can’t possibly be Christmas again. I’ve no idea where the year has gone.
It’s obvious. Aliens from Planet Twerk descended to Earth and rendered me unconscious as part of the extra terrestrial ‘Schoolies’ prank and I have only now, nearly twelve months later, awoken from my state of alien stasis. I have no proof, of course. But even if I didn’t see them before the lights went out, I’ve long suspected that they’ve been watching my every move. That may sound far-fetched, but I dare you to come up with a more logical explanation. For other than the possibility that I’ve been in an alien-induced coma for the last twelve months, it can’t possibly be Christmas again. I’ve no idea where the year has gone.
The signs are everywhere. Specifically, they’re hanging from the ceiling of the supermarket. To press home the point, the signs are accompanied by Christmas Carols on an endless loop. I’m sure that such tactics were previously ruled illegal at Guantanamo Bay. Resistance, it seems, is useless. Evidence abounds that the year is, indeed, fast running dry.
This week is the office Christmas party. Nowadays the sole objective of the annual office shindig is to survive without embarrassing myself. It wasn’t always that way. Not so long ago, behaving like a complete twerk in front of shocked colleagues was a given, if not a right of passage. At a certain undefined point, that ceases to be the case and such events are now largely premised on ‘damage control’. It makes you yearn for simpler times.
Things are no more straightforward on the family front. Organising gifts necessitates an Excel spreadsheet. Christmas itself is now no longer a single day and takes about a week to execute. Relatively speaking, I have a whole bunch of relatives. I always begin with great enthusiasm, arriving with a range of festive CDs tucked under my arm, including the now ever-so-slightly creepy Phil Spector album (complete with a picture of Phil dressed as Father Christmas – a sight that would scare even the naughtiest of children to behave themselves) and, my personal favourite, James Brown’s ‘A Very Funky Christmas’. But by day four of our Christmas extravaganza, the frayed edges of my sanity begin to show and by the time I reach the home strait on day five, there’s a very real chance that I will ‘go rogue’. How such errant behaviour will manifest itself is anybody’s guess, suffice to say that no one should be too surprised if something other than the Christmas pudding is doused in heated brandy and set on fire by the time the whole thing’s over and done with. At this point, an alien abduction would come as something of a welcome relief.
Christmas is more complicated now. I have two brothers and two sisters. They each have a significant other with a family of his or her own. This means that organizing Christmas is akin to planning a land invasion; save that taking another country by force probably requires less equipment and possibly, fewer firearms. To say nothing of the potential for emotional fallout. Gone are the days of visiting one set of grandparents for lunch and the other for dinner. In fact, ‘Christmas’ may no longer fall on Christmas day itself and has become a never-ending round of bon-bons, paper hats and the same three jokes that weren’t funny the first time and which may well push me over the edge.
It’s time for a change. One day, I’m determined to hire an oval and invite all the constituent parts of my family, both far and wide. If needs be, different sections can be granted their own roped-off area. ‘A Very Funky Christmas’ by James Brown will be gently piped through the speaker system (I’ll save Phil Spector for later – most likely for when it’s time to vacate the venue) and I will travel around on a ‘Segway’, making sure I visit each group. That way, Christmas can be celebrated just once, on Christmas day, allowing me to spend the rest of the holiday season as nature intended; by which I don’t mean naked but, rather, sitting on the couch, bloated and wondering which presents I can safely re-gift.
That said, should I succeed in establishing ‘Stuartpalooza’ and see all my relatives in a single day, I’m not sure that lounging around will make me happy. It’s not as though they still play ‘A Very Brady Christmas’ on a loop like they used to. Secretly, I suspect I quite like the protracted nature of our Christmas. To say nothing of the steady stream of leftovers that inevitably flow our way. It’s possible that I’ll turn up at many of these events with presents under one arm and Tupperware containers under the other.
Christmas has changed for me. It may be protracted but, all in all, it’s better than ever. I have a cavalcade of nephews and nieces. To see them wear the same expression of awe that we used to is reward enough. Their enthusiasm is a reminder of how important family is. It doesn’t matter where you’re from – whether it’s Tyabb, Mornington, Melbourne or the planet Twerk, family is the thing that brings us together. Happy Christmas everyone.