I’ll begin with the now-traditional Tardiness Apology, which I submit herewith in its standard form, even though, admittedly, this one is even tardier than usual. I was (bringing to bear what I can say without a trace of false modesty is something of a special talent of mine) concocting an elaborate excuse to account for this unusual lateness. The scheme was to embark on a long, utterly convincing diatribe on my pointed disregard for the Eurocentric prejudice and hidden history of oppression behind what I was planning to refer to disdainfully as “your precious Gregorian Calendar” and also point out that Pope Gregory XIII - after whom it is called despite the fact that his real name was, of all things, “Ugo”- was, as was the case with several other pontiffs throughout the history of the Apostolic See, a bit of a dick. I would then claim that what I was actually doing was delivering the Card on a different date in an act of protest worthy of Martin Luther himself. Unfortunately, I also missed various other New Year celebrations - Russian, Chinese, Korean – the Hindus might have something coming up but nobody seems to be sure and Rosh Hashanah isn’t for ages yet, if memory serves, so I decided to come clean, own up to being late and get on with it.
What I will say is for a while there, I was unsure whether I would even be writing the Card this time. You see, life’s mixture of highs and lows, which I have referenced fairly regularly over the past few years employing a series of increasingly-tenuous metaphors, was a particularly full-bodied one in 2010 and spilling over into the start of 2011. The smattering of grooviness on offer was almost entirely cancelled out by the fact that my family and extended family seemed to suffer a preposterous amount of loss, heartache and general bad news, leaving me to wonder if the irreverence and - let us be honest – crassness that is typical of the CCAGG (when executed correctly) would be appropriate way to close out such a year.
But after much soul-searching and rumination (like soul-searching - only with rum), I decided that the abandonment of a tradition that now stretches back over a decade would be just one more unfortunate consequence of a year already quite lousy with...unfortunateness and would constitute a cop-out that would do no honour to those we lost, every one of whom would doubtless regard me as a puling sissy of the first water for letting the urge to wallow interfere with...well, life. Therefore, boys and girls, tardy as it may be, I now present to you an apologetically lengthy edition of…
Uncle Damon’s 2010...um...Uncle Damon’s Christmas Card À-Go-Go for 2010.
Now I decided that my one major concession to solemnity would be to strike an attitude of reflection and seemly introspection which, I am given to understand, is what people my age customarily do during the Holiday Season and, in cases where more strenuous metaphysical calisthenics are called for, during the four-month period immediately following the Holiday Season. See what I did there?
Now in spite of the cavalcade of emotional nutshots it delivered, I certainly don’t mean to give the impression that 2010 was an unending conga line of tragedy and ill fortune. It was, as I said a blend of highs and lows. And though the lows seemed far greater in number and tended towards the truly abysmal, some of the highs towered majestically. Towered, like unto a team of Brazilian volleyball players dressed in thigh-high go-go boots, perhaps for some manner of charity fashion event held to raise funds for the purchase of new bespoke short shorts and tank tops, their previous uniform sponsor having gone out of business after the company’s Chief Financial Officer, the painstakingly named Gestas São Nicolau, is indicted on six counts of mail fraud and one count of impersonating...impersonating something that it’s against the law for a guy to impersonate in Brazil…like…let’s see…well, not a woman, certainly...boy, could I tell you some stories there…anyway, look, what I’m saying is that it was, for better or worse, a year of milestones.
For instance, as many of you will know, I turned 40 in 2010, flummoxing the medical and bookmaking communities alike and, having reached this waypost on the journey of life, I scratched the silvering hairs of my beard and also scratched some of the silvering hairs now sprouting, seemingly at random, over the rest of my surface area and reflected on my voyage so far.
All in all, it’s been an enjoyable little ramble to this point. I’m pretty okay with it. Regrets? I’ve had a few. Oh sure, it would have been nice if my adult film career had taken off. Had events played out just a little differently, the world might have thrilled to the saucy exploits of “Buck Negro”. Alas, my films were deemed to be “before their time” (similar words were used to describe many of my performances) and failed to capture the imagination of the notoriously fastidious porn audience and so, tragically, largely unseen and/or unappreciated remain such opuses as “Punanny McPhee”, “Rump Hole of the Bailey”, “Buck Negro: Mandingo Was His Name-O” and, of course, the sensitive but widely misunderstood “Schlong Day’s Journey into Night”.
At one point, I also harboured a dream of playing the cello professionally. As a nimble-fingered stripling, I honed my art and nurtured within my dented breast (occupational hazard) the great notion of one day being the world’s foremost Black-Asian cellist. I was going to call myself Yo Ma Ma. This also was not to be.
And the less said about the short but profoundly unsuccessful run of my Progressive Rock-Klezmer fusion band, Jewfro Tull, the better.
However, these youthful dreams of musical glory were dashed. Dashed like…like so many...cellos upon the heads of toothsome, undersized, music-school dweebs with bowl cuts administered by mothers who believed that ownership of a pair of barber scissors and a plastic smock with a qualified them as hairdressers.
Fortunately, “regret” is but one of the many words of which your Uncle Damon does not know the meaning and one which, I suggest, as I warm to what I now recognise to be the theme of this edition of the CCAGG, that you all endeavour to eliminate from your respective lexicons. For you see, if I may embark upon possibly the single most mixed metaphor ever endeavoured in a holiday card format, one of the maybe five things that I have actually learned during my four-decade alcohol-fuelled chicken dance through this Curate’s Egg of a come-as-you-are fishbowl party we call “Life”, is that the way you deal with its capriciousness and its vicissitudes and its insistence on serving you Roquefort dressing when its knows just as well as you do that you ordered the vinaigrette, is that perhaps the single most important factor in deciding whether you will be a happy, fulfilled person or a stubbly fruitcake in a smelly housecoat slurping lukewarm tea laced with cooking sherry from a chipped mug that you got free from your bank or building society 23 years ago, living in a house with peeling paint and overgrown front yard and a dozen half-dead cats draped over the soiled, threadbare furniture like so many fleabitten doilies, that even the Jehovah’s Witnesses have learned to avoid because you ramble on incessantly about shit that happened to you ages ago that still chaps your sagging, liver-spotted heinie.
To quote the Eternal Bard, life is like a carnival. Full of wonder and majesty and pageantry which, upon closer inspection, can seem a bit motheaten and creepy, elephants who would clearly rather be somewhere else and seedy dudes with greasy hair and wispy moustaches and what look suspiciously like prison tats selling you unrecognisable food on sticks. Yes, it’s a carnival and the obnoxious Chubby Kid of Fate will spend the whole time burning through a seemingly endless supply of pocket money hurling the grimy softballs of...Happenstance, at a buck for three shies, at a plyboard bullseye dunking you over and over into a tank of stagnant, unchlorinated water commingled with your own urine and bitter, bitter tears. This is pretty much inevitable. It’s up to you to decide whether you just slosh about forlornly, letting exotic animal-borne microbes swim into your orifices with the intention of holding some kind of spontaneous bacterial jamboree in your lower intestines, or if you climb defiantly back up onto the dunking stool, look the little fucker in the eye and dare him to plonk down another dollar, assuring him that he’ll get tired before you do and pointing out that his mother looks like a leopard seal in orthopaedic shoes.
Aside from the fact that a life of remorse necessitates an ability to conjugate verbs in the subjunctive, an ability that no one actually possesses and anyone who says they do is a liar, another good reason not to abandon ourselves to melancholy hypothesis is that this may well be our last full year of existence. According to the ancient Maya, anyway.
2012, as you may have learned from the recent cinematic carbuncle of the same name, is the year pre-Columbian science geeks calculated that the world would come to an end.
Now the ancient Maya were centuries ahead of their time in their comprehension of many concepts and phenomena, except for, rather crucially “white dudes with guns”. But aside from that one blemish on their intellectual record, they were, by and large, a pretty sharp bunch of cats. These days we tend to denounce their prognostications as primitive superstition, simply because their sacrifice-heavy religious practices seem barbaric to our modern sensibilities and because they employed a logographic writing style as opposed a more phonemic one, which we can more easily relate to and because they generally dressed like a Mesoamerican version of the Village People who, parenthetically, would be “El Pueblo del Pueblo” in Spanish. There is also the matter of the relative vagueness of the prophecy itself, which has left it open to differing interpretations. Well, for all we know, they might have been meaning to get around to clarifying their prediction but we may never learn the truth as, just as they were about to elaborate, the Europeans rocked up and started fucking, beheading and sneezing on everything in sight and that was pretty much that.
I myself, being what you might call something of an apocalypse buff, have perused the ancient manuscripts and tried to ascertain whether they were really onto something or whether their brains had just been frazzled from chewing coca leaves all the time without the benefit of the baby-laxative chaser favoured by more sophisticated contemporary societies. After all, they did have a God whose specific portfolio was tattoo artists, which doesn’t really inspire confidence in their scientific credentials. Then again, perhaps after they had all given each other tramp stamps and boob roses and ersatz tribal symbols from tribes they did not belong to and were sitting around waiting for the invention of the motorcycle, they really did put a lot of thought into the shelf life of the Universe.
My findings were, I am sorry to report, inconclusive, but there are indicators that lead me to think that the Mayas assertions of The End and its relative nighness, as it were, may not be totally groundless. Think about it, what are the odds that the Universe will allow England, as hapless and luckless as it has been since close of play in Dubya-Dubya Two, to bask in the glory of hosting the Olympics?
And…yeah, that’s pretty much all I’ve got. But I think you will all agree that that by itself is pretty a compelling reason to think that we’re all out of here some time during the opening act of 2012.
Look, all I’m saying is, as we swan about, flush with modern man’s mastery of all we survey, with our supercolliders and our seedless watermelons and our hydrogen-burning automobiles and our hypoallergenic cats and our three-dimensional picture shows and our Adam’s-apple-less transsexuals and such, it might be a good idea to keep one eye on this whole end-of-the-world situation, just in case.
In fact, maybe we should just proceed on the assumption that the Maya were completely on the mark. Maybe we should go about the next year as if the world really is about to end and we need to do everything we want to do and say everything we want to say before this whole thing goes kablooey and we suddenly find ourselves face to face with our Maker only to find out, I suspect, that the vast majority of us have been quite, quite wrong about how He or She had been expecting us to comport ourselves upon finding ourselves the recipients of the quiggiziggidillion-to-one shot golden ticket to spend a fleeting moment riding this tiny glowing speck rocketing through the boundless expanse of, let’s face it, mostly nothing and experience what, you may recall, I previously referred to as this Curate’s Egg of a come-as-you-are fishbowl party we call “Life”.
If not for ourselves, then for those who are not around to finish the ride with us.
Thursday, 14 April 2011
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Notting Hill Carnival
Hurdling another expanse of horse poop, I land awkwardly, struggling to regather what I like to think of as my Caribbean cool. Horse poop and horns - the sensory signposts on the road to Notting Hill Carnival. As I approach the large sector of Notting Hill cordoned off every August bank holiday weekend for Europe’s largest festival, Rorschach patterns of manure left by towering police horses become denser and the bleating of countless plastic horns more insistent, blending with the echoes of hundreds of rhythm sections and sound systems until I hit a palpable Wall of Sound that would even impress incarcerated wig enthusiast and all-around bad date, Phil Spector.
Once I enter the Carnival area my senses are overwhelmed as my brain clambers to categorise everything. Music hits my ears from every side; a new aroma assails my nostrils every few steps - some good, some bad, some really bad and, of course, thousands of bodies, many in flamboyant outfits, from the daring to the downright brave jostle through my field of vision. A lot to process, especially when you’ve hit the age of No-Spring-Chicken and your Inner Couch Potato pointedly and tactlessly impugns your ability to do the street party thing for an entire summer day.
In 1959, Britain was still taking its first faltering steps towards multiculturalism and the previous summer’s Notting Hill riots proved there was still much to do. Carnival was conceived as a way to smooth the path by appeasing the immigrants and showing Britain, hey, foreigners can be fun! From a small affair in St Pancras town hall, it has become the second largest party in the world after Rio.
I’ve done Carnival several times since 1997, the year I migrated from Jamaica, but I always remember my first time. I’d lived in London for a month and was still rather dazzled. Homesickness hadn’t yet set in but I still felt quite alien. Not necessarily a bad thing, since my reason for moving was the claustrophobia and homogeneousness of the Kingston scene but it was a major adjustment and I craved a taste of home so I looked forward to this “Carnival” business with excitement.
It didn’t disappoint. Obviously, it’s much larger than Jamaica Carnival, itself smaller than, say, Trinidad Carnival but I marvelled at the blending of Caribbean culture with an unmistakably London vibe, to form something entirely unique. I swaggered about like a proud host, ate foods I hadn’t tasted since I left Jamaica and watched with undisguised satisfaction as throngs bigger than I’d ever seen bounced and soaked up the reggae music which remains one of my great passions.
Over a decade later, I’m still doing Carnival. I ford the rivers of humanity towards my preferred area between Powis Square and Portobello Road to seek out my favourite food stalls, identified through trial and error from previous visits, to partake of delicacies like sugar cane and guineps and breadfruit, nearly impossible to find otherwise even in the many excellent Caribbean shops and restaurants across Britain. Everyone makes a special effort for Carnival.
In earlier excursions, I made the rookie mistake of trying to do too much. A plan is fine but you need to be flexible. If you try to trek to a particular area or stage, there’s a real chance you’ll get sidetracked or the sheer mass of people will thwart your efforts. The worst thing you can do is spend your day doggedly trying to fulfill a predetermined plan and missing out on the delights that greet you at every step.
I realized I didn’t have to be everywhere. Anywhere you are, it’s Carnival and even in a small section, you get the full experience. I wander around my chosen patch and find a massive sound system booming the latest Jamaican dancehall music. Just a block over on a stage shaped like a pirate ship, a band in full costume blasts ska music to a heaving audience. Twenty meters further and my chest vibrates with the thunderous beats of classic hip-hop and I’m within sight of the road march where the seemingly endless stream of revelers on trucks and floats judder around the circuit to the frenetic rhythms of calypso.
I’m still fascinated by the human dynamic of Carnival. It really is just like the promotional photos. I watch two cartoonishly buxom ladies in spandex hugging grinning bobbies. Hairgelled preppies with sweaters tied around their waists sway for maybe the first time to bass-heavy music, sporting the same epiphanic expression Gauguin wore upon disembarking in Tahiti and happily realising he’d overpacked. It’s an atmosphere of unselfconscious grooviness that gives you a sense of the unity that Britain genuinely aspires to and in these moments, I am confident that it will get there.
Carnival still has many critics and opponents. There have been unfortunate incidents over the years and even some casualties but considering the numbers, the record is excellent and it’s run with surprising efficiency. Everything shuts down at the appointed hour with a minimum of fuss and police and sanitation workers immediately take charge, herding people towards exits and clearing the garbage mountains accumulated over the course of the day. Sure it’s tradition but it's still a gathering of a million predominantly young people in a residential area celebrating cultures that scare the bejesus out of a lot of folks. The organisers know if it doesn’t run like clockwork, they will be gleefully shut down. They're up to the task, though. By morning, you can barely tell anything special has happened. But something special has happened.
As I’ve become more creaky, jaded and partial to relieving myself alone and indoors, I’ve found myself less enthusiastic about the approach of Carnival and sometimes there’s a bit of an internal debate about whether I’ll take the plunge but I can honestly say, once that Inner Potato is mollified with promises of rum with coconut water, jerk pork, live Ska and surreptitious restorative naps in the office restroom on Tuesday and I cross the poop-strewn threshold into the heart of Carnival, I am once again that youngish, tanned, recently-arrived Kingstonian, so happy and relieved to find that maybe London wasn’t as far from home as it first seemed.
Once I enter the Carnival area my senses are overwhelmed as my brain clambers to categorise everything. Music hits my ears from every side; a new aroma assails my nostrils every few steps - some good, some bad, some really bad and, of course, thousands of bodies, many in flamboyant outfits, from the daring to the downright brave jostle through my field of vision. A lot to process, especially when you’ve hit the age of No-Spring-Chicken and your Inner Couch Potato pointedly and tactlessly impugns your ability to do the street party thing for an entire summer day.
In 1959, Britain was still taking its first faltering steps towards multiculturalism and the previous summer’s Notting Hill riots proved there was still much to do. Carnival was conceived as a way to smooth the path by appeasing the immigrants and showing Britain, hey, foreigners can be fun! From a small affair in St Pancras town hall, it has become the second largest party in the world after Rio.
I’ve done Carnival several times since 1997, the year I migrated from Jamaica, but I always remember my first time. I’d lived in London for a month and was still rather dazzled. Homesickness hadn’t yet set in but I still felt quite alien. Not necessarily a bad thing, since my reason for moving was the claustrophobia and homogeneousness of the Kingston scene but it was a major adjustment and I craved a taste of home so I looked forward to this “Carnival” business with excitement.
It didn’t disappoint. Obviously, it’s much larger than Jamaica Carnival, itself smaller than, say, Trinidad Carnival but I marvelled at the blending of Caribbean culture with an unmistakably London vibe, to form something entirely unique. I swaggered about like a proud host, ate foods I hadn’t tasted since I left Jamaica and watched with undisguised satisfaction as throngs bigger than I’d ever seen bounced and soaked up the reggae music which remains one of my great passions.
Over a decade later, I’m still doing Carnival. I ford the rivers of humanity towards my preferred area between Powis Square and Portobello Road to seek out my favourite food stalls, identified through trial and error from previous visits, to partake of delicacies like sugar cane and guineps and breadfruit, nearly impossible to find otherwise even in the many excellent Caribbean shops and restaurants across Britain. Everyone makes a special effort for Carnival.
In earlier excursions, I made the rookie mistake of trying to do too much. A plan is fine but you need to be flexible. If you try to trek to a particular area or stage, there’s a real chance you’ll get sidetracked or the sheer mass of people will thwart your efforts. The worst thing you can do is spend your day doggedly trying to fulfill a predetermined plan and missing out on the delights that greet you at every step.
I realized I didn’t have to be everywhere. Anywhere you are, it’s Carnival and even in a small section, you get the full experience. I wander around my chosen patch and find a massive sound system booming the latest Jamaican dancehall music. Just a block over on a stage shaped like a pirate ship, a band in full costume blasts ska music to a heaving audience. Twenty meters further and my chest vibrates with the thunderous beats of classic hip-hop and I’m within sight of the road march where the seemingly endless stream of revelers on trucks and floats judder around the circuit to the frenetic rhythms of calypso.
I’m still fascinated by the human dynamic of Carnival. It really is just like the promotional photos. I watch two cartoonishly buxom ladies in spandex hugging grinning bobbies. Hairgelled preppies with sweaters tied around their waists sway for maybe the first time to bass-heavy music, sporting the same epiphanic expression Gauguin wore upon disembarking in Tahiti and happily realising he’d overpacked. It’s an atmosphere of unselfconscious grooviness that gives you a sense of the unity that Britain genuinely aspires to and in these moments, I am confident that it will get there.
Carnival still has many critics and opponents. There have been unfortunate incidents over the years and even some casualties but considering the numbers, the record is excellent and it’s run with surprising efficiency. Everything shuts down at the appointed hour with a minimum of fuss and police and sanitation workers immediately take charge, herding people towards exits and clearing the garbage mountains accumulated over the course of the day. Sure it’s tradition but it's still a gathering of a million predominantly young people in a residential area celebrating cultures that scare the bejesus out of a lot of folks. The organisers know if it doesn’t run like clockwork, they will be gleefully shut down. They're up to the task, though. By morning, you can barely tell anything special has happened. But something special has happened.
As I’ve become more creaky, jaded and partial to relieving myself alone and indoors, I’ve found myself less enthusiastic about the approach of Carnival and sometimes there’s a bit of an internal debate about whether I’ll take the plunge but I can honestly say, once that Inner Potato is mollified with promises of rum with coconut water, jerk pork, live Ska and surreptitious restorative naps in the office restroom on Tuesday and I cross the poop-strewn threshold into the heart of Carnival, I am once again that youngish, tanned, recently-arrived Kingstonian, so happy and relieved to find that maybe London wasn’t as far from home as it first seemed.
Monday, 4 January 2010
Uncle Damon’s 2009 Christmas Card à-Go-Go!
Well, another Holiday Season is in the books. Wilting pine trees are sitting upside-down in gutters, bizarre "practical" gifts have been exchanged for things we really wanted in the first place but were too embarrassed to ask for or purchase for ourselves, thrice-gnawed turkey carcasses have been finally given up on and heaved guiltily into the garbage and the last of the Lords a’ Leaping have been rounded up after their holiday furloughs and returned whence they came to serve out the remainders of their sentences. All the seasonal traditions have pretty much run their course but there is just time for one more….
Uncle Damon’s 2009 Christmas Card À-Go-Go!
Yes, yes…I know what you’re going to say. You are about to point out, rather snidely, if I may say, that it is technically no longer Christmas, nor indeed is it 2009, to which I retort, with what is under the circumstances justifiable spikiness, with the traditional refrain of “No shit, Sherlock”, a phrase which I have been trying, hitherto unsuccessfully, to reintroduce into everyday conversation, along with “Odd’s bodkins!” and perhaps “Whoa…far out, man”.
Well, if you must know, I have been meaning to complete this missive for some time but was having a bit of bother deciding what format it was going to take.
Having proclaimed in the 2008 Card in what, in retrospect, seems like a rash bit of drunken overconfidence that I would retire my threadbare but always reliable boxing metaphor as well as the services of traditional CCAGG mainstays like Mongo Santamaria and Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, I found myself rather stuck for material.
In short, my rum-fuelled hubris had painted me into a metaphorical corner, as rum-fuelled hubris is wont to do. As opposed to tequila-fuelled hubris, which generally sees you surreptitiously trying to locate your trousers in the middle of the night in a strange apartment and wondering if the trains are still running from wherever the Hell you are.
I figured that to make up for the tardiness of delivery and to commemorate the end of a momentous decade, I needed to produce something special. Like a Christmas story. Yes, a heartwarming tale of holiday spirit which would eventually become a classic, passed on from generation to generation and hopefully be made into a television special featuring plasticky, stop-motion characters whose mouths don't quite move in exact synchronisation with the words but you don't mind too much because that just seems to add to its whimsical charm.
It was all coming to me in a rush of tipsy inspiration. It would be an uplifting tale of a swarthy child who, despite living in abject penury and wearing one of those flat caps that swarthy children living in abject penury in heartwarming holiday tales seem to be so fond of, learns the true meaning of Christmas. And it would go something like this:
Once upon a time, in the sleepy village of San Bartolomeo, lived a young boy named Pepe.
Pepe was a happy child, despite living in abject penury and being undeniably swarthy in a world where, to be frank, that’s still a distinct disadvantage, and spent many a contented afternoon playing in the dusty San Bartolomeo streets with his various swarthy little friends and his younger sister Condenada, who would smile wanly and cough periodically in a foreboding manner that made you think that it was bound to have some relevance later on in the story.
The people of San Bartolomeo were poor but proud. None prouder, and certainly none poorer, than Pepe's family. His father had, um...some job that really sucked. Possibly, you know...something that involved heat and…toil. And maybe digging. Perhaps some kind of unappetising vegetable or...tuber. Or some kind of, you know...mineral...resource. Plus, there’s like…a donkey or something, who talks or maybe doesn’t talk but gazes at everybody sagely with a kind of mute bonhomie but is too old to carry the tubers…or minerals to the…market…and there’s…there’s also…
Awwww, the hell with it. I can't be asked. Maybe if I'd done this part when the Holiday Spirit™ was squarely upon me and my eyes glistened in the votive candlelight and my lower lip was all aquiver with Yuletide sentiment but now, I just can’t fucking bother. Sorry.
Anyway, it is, as they say, the thought that counts and the point of this abortive tale of inspirational holiday whoopty-do is my way of saying that I hope that every one of you had a groovy Season, be you an adherent of one of the “recognized” faiths who observe some kind of spiritual festival at this time of year or just someone who likes drinking wine, getting presents and not doing any work.
I sincerely hope that every one of you has an absolutely awesome year, which in turn kicks off an awesome decade because to be blunt, we’re all getting a bit long in the tooth to still be going through dodgy ones all the time. I hope that all your holiday wishes come true and your holiday resolutions stick. And I hope, in accordance with my own resolution, to spend more quality time with every one of you this year since, let’s face it, it’s pretty much a Christmas/Hannukah/Eid/Festivus/Kwanzaa/Diwali/Satanic Lesbian Winter Squash Festival Miracle that I’m even still standing in 2010, when smart money had me kicking the proverbial bucket somewhere in the mid 90s.
Thank you for your attention, and your patience, Chillun and Happy More-or-Less-New Year.
Uncle Damon’s 2009 Christmas Card À-Go-Go!
Yes, yes…I know what you’re going to say. You are about to point out, rather snidely, if I may say, that it is technically no longer Christmas, nor indeed is it 2009, to which I retort, with what is under the circumstances justifiable spikiness, with the traditional refrain of “No shit, Sherlock”, a phrase which I have been trying, hitherto unsuccessfully, to reintroduce into everyday conversation, along with “Odd’s bodkins!” and perhaps “Whoa…far out, man”.
Well, if you must know, I have been meaning to complete this missive for some time but was having a bit of bother deciding what format it was going to take.
Having proclaimed in the 2008 Card in what, in retrospect, seems like a rash bit of drunken overconfidence that I would retire my threadbare but always reliable boxing metaphor as well as the services of traditional CCAGG mainstays like Mongo Santamaria and Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, I found myself rather stuck for material.
In short, my rum-fuelled hubris had painted me into a metaphorical corner, as rum-fuelled hubris is wont to do. As opposed to tequila-fuelled hubris, which generally sees you surreptitiously trying to locate your trousers in the middle of the night in a strange apartment and wondering if the trains are still running from wherever the Hell you are.
I figured that to make up for the tardiness of delivery and to commemorate the end of a momentous decade, I needed to produce something special. Like a Christmas story. Yes, a heartwarming tale of holiday spirit which would eventually become a classic, passed on from generation to generation and hopefully be made into a television special featuring plasticky, stop-motion characters whose mouths don't quite move in exact synchronisation with the words but you don't mind too much because that just seems to add to its whimsical charm.
It was all coming to me in a rush of tipsy inspiration. It would be an uplifting tale of a swarthy child who, despite living in abject penury and wearing one of those flat caps that swarthy children living in abject penury in heartwarming holiday tales seem to be so fond of, learns the true meaning of Christmas. And it would go something like this:
Once upon a time, in the sleepy village of San Bartolomeo, lived a young boy named Pepe.
Pepe was a happy child, despite living in abject penury and being undeniably swarthy in a world where, to be frank, that’s still a distinct disadvantage, and spent many a contented afternoon playing in the dusty San Bartolomeo streets with his various swarthy little friends and his younger sister Condenada, who would smile wanly and cough periodically in a foreboding manner that made you think that it was bound to have some relevance later on in the story.
The people of San Bartolomeo were poor but proud. None prouder, and certainly none poorer, than Pepe's family. His father had, um...some job that really sucked. Possibly, you know...something that involved heat and…toil. And maybe digging. Perhaps some kind of unappetising vegetable or...tuber. Or some kind of, you know...mineral...resource. Plus, there’s like…a donkey or something, who talks or maybe doesn’t talk but gazes at everybody sagely with a kind of mute bonhomie but is too old to carry the tubers…or minerals to the…market…and there’s…there’s also…
Awwww, the hell with it. I can't be asked. Maybe if I'd done this part when the Holiday Spirit™ was squarely upon me and my eyes glistened in the votive candlelight and my lower lip was all aquiver with Yuletide sentiment but now, I just can’t fucking bother. Sorry.
Anyway, it is, as they say, the thought that counts and the point of this abortive tale of inspirational holiday whoopty-do is my way of saying that I hope that every one of you had a groovy Season, be you an adherent of one of the “recognized” faiths who observe some kind of spiritual festival at this time of year or just someone who likes drinking wine, getting presents and not doing any work.
I sincerely hope that every one of you has an absolutely awesome year, which in turn kicks off an awesome decade because to be blunt, we’re all getting a bit long in the tooth to still be going through dodgy ones all the time. I hope that all your holiday wishes come true and your holiday resolutions stick. And I hope, in accordance with my own resolution, to spend more quality time with every one of you this year since, let’s face it, it’s pretty much a Christmas/Hannukah/Eid/Festivus/Kwanzaa/Diwali/Satanic Lesbian Winter Squash Festival Miracle that I’m even still standing in 2010, when smart money had me kicking the proverbial bucket somewhere in the mid 90s.
Thank you for your attention, and your patience, Chillun and Happy More-or-Less-New Year.
Tuesday, 23 December 2008
Uncle Damon’s 2008 Christmas Card à-Go-Go.
Well Chillun, believe it or not, it’s that time of year again. Time for joy and cheer and charity and fellowship. Time for quiet introspection and coy, dewy-eyed glances towards the future. Time for tremulous humming and swaying and grinning vacuously at our loved ones. And most importantly of all, time for:
Uncle Damon’s Christmas Card à-Go-Go…2008.
I can sense you are all agog with anticipation to hear how I made out in my latest bout with what is popularly referred to as "reality" so I’ll make with the overused metaphors already.
At the opening bell I came roaring out of my corner like a man possessed. I sensed this might be my year and I would not be denied. My footwork was smooth, my head movement was sharp and I was working well behind my jab. I was pretty, my friends. God, but I was pretty. Sure enough, I took the early rounds with ease, even taking time to showboat for the crowd and wink at a group of ladies in the audience who, upon reflection, may actually have been a couple of prostitutes and a skinny dude in a gold lamé cocktail dress.
Well, like all aging fighters, although my punch was still there and I now have guile up the proverbial Wazoo, my conditioning apparently isn’t what it once was thanks to years of drunken carousing, wanton libertinism and unchecked consumption of pork stuffed with other pork and, as sure as eggs is eggs, I began to flag in the later rounds. 2008, the dastard, the poltroon, sensing his opening, pounced and began landing rabbit punch after kidney punch after egregious nutshot. But insurmountable pride and indomitable stupidity kept me going and I survived the late onslaught through a clever combination of eye-gouging, ear biting and a touch of the old Hey-Look-In-The-Third-Row-Isn’t-That-Clarence-Williams-III? I am not proud that it came to that but the important thing is, I hung on and got my second wind.
I like to think that I eked out a close decision win - hooray for me - win but I took some punishment in the process. The once-adorable features that you have all come to know and politely tolerate were pounded flat until I looked like Leon Spinks’ long lost - let’s face it - sister. The important thing though is that I still came away with the win. That's what counts, the rest is the price of doing bidniss. Wounds heal, bones knit, testicles redescend.
Whew, well that boxing analogy is wearing as thin as those old underpants that you mistakenly consider “lucky” so you know what? I’m going to retire it after this year’s Card. Yes, yes...I know that you’ve all come to…politely tolerate it and it’s certainly less weird and smugly esoteric than most of my other analogies (such as my Atom Transfer Radical Polymerisation bit, which, while perhaps no "Who's On First?", I maintain was fucking hilarious). Nonetheless, I’ve decided that this is a turning point in my life and therefore, the History of The Universe. The President of the United States is black*, Sunny Von Bulow gave up trying to testify in court and decided to go on ahead to stake out a good spot to waylay Claus on The Other Side with the Rolling Pin of Karma, Black Moses (a personal hero on par with Bootsy) caught the mothership to Venus to await his next assignment and the international...um...global...well I imagine other stuff happened in the world as well. Anyway, the upshot of it all this is, as you’ve probably been told, it’s time for Change™. I personally think Change™ is an awesome idea and that should be good enough for everyone else as I am, as you know, a licensed and bonded arbiter of that which is awesome. What? Yeah, it’s a good gig. Kind of like being a Beta Tester for a software company, the key difference being I have seen a naked woman in real life….if memory serves.
So, having endorsed and embraced the idea of Change™, I say let’s go for it. Let’s fucking, you know...just…go for it, man. I’ve decided 2009 is my year. In fact, I’ve decided 2009 is all of our year. Our...years...it's all of usses…it’s everyone’s year. For this reason, I’ve resolved not to fight it but to show it some lovin’, like Ike would have done. I don’t know if this will work but at worst, it’ll weird 2009 out and put it off-guard, at which point I can elbow it in the solar plexus and steal its lunch money. So it’s pretty much a win-win situation. And don’t worry; I won’t forget any of you. Once I have his wallet, the hot pretzels and Fanta are on me.
So to all of you - to all my family and friends and people I don’t really talk to but whose names I was far too lazy to go over and individually untick on my mailing list – allow me to indulge in one last CCAGG cliché before the dawn of the new era:
I wish you a Merry Christmas, a Chappy Chanukah, Diwali Wali Bing Bang, Kuul Eid and, Kwanzaa Kwanzaa Bo Banzaa Banana Fana Fo Fanzaa.
Actually, I think I’ll keep that part in but I will give you a chance to bid farewell to Mongo Santamaria, Ramón Novarro, Claus Von Bulow and Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, the Christmas Card à-Go-Go All Stars who, in the spirit of Change™, are appearing for the final time.
Oh, and of course, have certifiably awesome New Year.
Uncle Damon’s Christmas Card à-Go-Go…2008.
I can sense you are all agog with anticipation to hear how I made out in my latest bout with what is popularly referred to as "reality" so I’ll make with the overused metaphors already.
At the opening bell I came roaring out of my corner like a man possessed. I sensed this might be my year and I would not be denied. My footwork was smooth, my head movement was sharp and I was working well behind my jab. I was pretty, my friends. God, but I was pretty. Sure enough, I took the early rounds with ease, even taking time to showboat for the crowd and wink at a group of ladies in the audience who, upon reflection, may actually have been a couple of prostitutes and a skinny dude in a gold lamé cocktail dress.
Well, like all aging fighters, although my punch was still there and I now have guile up the proverbial Wazoo, my conditioning apparently isn’t what it once was thanks to years of drunken carousing, wanton libertinism and unchecked consumption of pork stuffed with other pork and, as sure as eggs is eggs, I began to flag in the later rounds. 2008, the dastard, the poltroon, sensing his opening, pounced and began landing rabbit punch after kidney punch after egregious nutshot. But insurmountable pride and indomitable stupidity kept me going and I survived the late onslaught through a clever combination of eye-gouging, ear biting and a touch of the old Hey-Look-In-The-Third-Row-Isn’t-That-Clarence-Williams-III? I am not proud that it came to that but the important thing is, I hung on and got my second wind.
I like to think that I eked out a close decision win - hooray for me - win but I took some punishment in the process. The once-adorable features that you have all come to know and politely tolerate were pounded flat until I looked like Leon Spinks’ long lost - let’s face it - sister. The important thing though is that I still came away with the win. That's what counts, the rest is the price of doing bidniss. Wounds heal, bones knit, testicles redescend.
Whew, well that boxing analogy is wearing as thin as those old underpants that you mistakenly consider “lucky” so you know what? I’m going to retire it after this year’s Card. Yes, yes...I know that you’ve all come to…politely tolerate it and it’s certainly less weird and smugly esoteric than most of my other analogies (such as my Atom Transfer Radical Polymerisation bit, which, while perhaps no "Who's On First?", I maintain was fucking hilarious). Nonetheless, I’ve decided that this is a turning point in my life and therefore, the History of The Universe. The President of the United States is black*, Sunny Von Bulow gave up trying to testify in court and decided to go on ahead to stake out a good spot to waylay Claus on The Other Side with the Rolling Pin of Karma, Black Moses (a personal hero on par with Bootsy) caught the mothership to Venus to await his next assignment and the international...um...global...well I imagine other stuff happened in the world as well. Anyway, the upshot of it all this is, as you’ve probably been told, it’s time for Change™. I personally think Change™ is an awesome idea and that should be good enough for everyone else as I am, as you know, a licensed and bonded arbiter of that which is awesome. What? Yeah, it’s a good gig. Kind of like being a Beta Tester for a software company, the key difference being I have seen a naked woman in real life….if memory serves.
So, having endorsed and embraced the idea of Change™, I say let’s go for it. Let’s fucking, you know...just…go for it, man. I’ve decided 2009 is my year. In fact, I’ve decided 2009 is all of our year. Our...years...it's all of usses…it’s everyone’s year. For this reason, I’ve resolved not to fight it but to show it some lovin’, like Ike would have done. I don’t know if this will work but at worst, it’ll weird 2009 out and put it off-guard, at which point I can elbow it in the solar plexus and steal its lunch money. So it’s pretty much a win-win situation. And don’t worry; I won’t forget any of you. Once I have his wallet, the hot pretzels and Fanta are on me.
So to all of you - to all my family and friends and people I don’t really talk to but whose names I was far too lazy to go over and individually untick on my mailing list – allow me to indulge in one last CCAGG cliché before the dawn of the new era:
I wish you a Merry Christmas, a Chappy Chanukah, Diwali Wali Bing Bang, Kuul Eid and, Kwanzaa Kwanzaa Bo Banzaa Banana Fana Fo Fanzaa.
Actually, I think I’ll keep that part in but I will give you a chance to bid farewell to Mongo Santamaria, Ramón Novarro, Claus Von Bulow and Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, the Christmas Card à-Go-Go All Stars who, in the spirit of Change™, are appearing for the final time.
Oh, and of course, have certifiably awesome New Year.
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=zZMJpeI3ZCU&feature=related
*Yes he is. Don't try to get in on the action now. We didn't make up the rules. Look up the word "hypodescent".
Finally!
Well, I finally got myself organised and got my blog back online. I figured, why should I be the only opinionated, disgruntled geek in the whole world without a blog?
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