It’s true you know. We have all… well that means most of us… grown away from what this season of benevolence, peace on earth (ha!), goodwill to all men, truly means.

Today’s version of the Christmas season is nothing short of a degrading fest of gluttony and debauchery – and I want nothing more to do with it.

I want to get right back to those values that have defined our great Catholic nation; our steadfast principles that have conditioned the way we have celebrated the joyful season of Christmases of old. Oh yes, so why pussyfoot around, let’s come out and say it: Christmas has become more like a super spend-fest. Gone for ever are the simple joys of the season, the pleasure of giving, or in my case receiving.

So this year I have decided: no more Mr Nice Guy. I won’t make it generally known but this Christmas I will not be throwing a party at my residence for the great, greedy and thirsty unwashed to descend on me and my family to devour our food and swill down all my Christmas booze. Admittedly, I haven’t thrown a party at my place for many years, if ever. But this year is different – I won’t even be inviting the postman in for a Christmas drink. Why should I? I hardly ever see him, as most of my mail comes via e-mail these days. What am I going to get out of pouring cheap whisky and pastizzi down the postman? Eh? Tell me that!

And on a similar note, I’ve told the wife to inform her parents they’ll get no free Christmas lunch at our place this year. In line with my pledge to return the holiday to its original meaning I shall not be filling the gut of my mother-in-law or her gannet-like husband. Restaurant Sylvanus will not be opening its doors to feed freeloading geriatrics this year. They can do what others do and book a pre-cooked overpriced rip-off dinner at an overpriced five-star hotel.

Restaurant Sylvanus will not be opening its doors to feed freeloading geriatrics this year

Not that my parsimony is going to stop me attending other people’s dos, no way. If you invite me, I’ll be there. In fact, in line with my returning to the real meaning of Christmas, I intend drinking and eating my share at every Christmas party, lunch and dinner to which I am invited. Starting with the office do, which often doesn’t really get going until after the company’s chairman has made his drearily formulaic: “Must work harder, blah, blah, blah…” speech. But once the old boy is outa there it’s bottoms up...

And following, to the letter, my decision to get right back to the way Christmas ought to be celebrated, I’m not giving any presents or sending any cards this year.

I’ve already told my wife and kids not to expect any handouts on December 25. Naturally my wife resisted for a while, but eventually she saw that my way is the best way… bless her. Last year she loved my gift so much, after tearing off the glitzy wrap, she burst into tears of joy and gratitude. At least to me they looked like joy and gratitude. Well who wouldn’t get all emotional over a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves, a dustpan and brush and a brand-new squeegee. But not this year, she’ll have to make do with last year’s gift for at least another 12 months.

And another thing. Christmas has always been the time of year when we, as a family, donated generously to charity. Not any longer. In line with my new policy of reverting to the true meaning of Christmas, my fresh mantra is that charity begins at home. My home.

Then there was the aggro over the Christmas decorations. The wife told me: “So all your reverting to the so-called true meaning of Christmas stuff will also mean that we don’t need the decorations any longer.” Too right, I replied. They, the whole lot… fairy lights and all are surplus to requirements. She sighed: “Then I suppose you want me to take them to the dump or give them away to some orphanage.” What? Is the woman mad? No way will I give away a trunk full of valuable Christmas decorations – I’ll sell the lot on eBay. She of course replied: “Come off it! Some of those decorations date back to the time you were living at home with your parents.” Well exactly, so now they are genuine antiques and should fetch a good price on eBay. My wife, she means well, bless her but sometimes I do question the genes.

While we’re on the subject of the only true meaning of Christmas, what about all that no-room-at-the-inn stuff? I mean it had to start somewhere… Christmas I mean. It wasn’t just some old geezer in a red suit climbing down chimneys and such like. But you know – and with no disrespect to those that go with the three kings and Bethlehem stuff, I reckon my notion is better and much more faithful to the real meaning of Christmas.

This article first appeared in Christmas Times magazine.

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