Fa La La

It’s almost that time of year again. Hanukkah meets Xmas, aka ‘the Clash of the Titans’.

The French are rather more civilized than other nationalities, preferring to decorate their public spaces rather than their homes with multicoloured reindeer dashing across the roof tiles and bucolic Santas waving bottles of champagne. One image I saw recently had a garishly decorated house with all of the preceding plus a forest of illuminated trees and a gigantic star invisibly positioned above the front porch where the electricity bill it ran up over Christmas would have bought a drone strike on ISIS. The neighbouring property had the word “ditto”, spelled out in coloured lights.

Churchmen worldwide are already trawling Facebook and Tumblr for the newest hipster spin on the old, old story, prepping the eight year olds not to include Darth Vader as one of the Kings in the Christmas Crib and buying wholesale oranges from Waitrose in the hope that the Christingle service doesn’t make the place stink of Cointreau until Epiphany Sunday. Many, of course, particularly those trained in the Modern Tradition, with degrees from liberal universities as well as their three years behind bars at Vicar School are using the opportunity to rework the myth and the magic for a generation who can only with difficulty be persuaded to turn their smartphones on to ‘silent’ for the duration of the services. Contrary to popular belief, the Archangel Gabriel isn’t an eight year old girl in a party frock, bringing ‘good tidings of gweat joy’. He is instead a fearsomely huge light-clad entity, bathed in the illumination of Heaven with a voice like many waters. Eight year old girls may be fearsome, especially when crossed, but the little squeaky voice might get lost in the electromagnetic discharge which would inevitably accompany the presence of the real thing.  Secondly, the Magi, or magicians, the Albus Dumbledores of the time were in fact a trio of bishops en route to an interfaith conference. They were apparently on their way to Petra but had gotten on the wrong bus and had been promised cheap rates at the Bethlehem Marriott.

Astronomical evidence reveals that the star 'of royal beauty bright' was not, in fact, the planet Venus, instead was probably a Roman spyplane hovering over Bethlehem, a known area of Zealot unrest. The camera footage has unfortunately been lost over time.

The story about asses and oxen is fictitious. In the third century, the Vatican edited out the kangaroos, platypi and llamas in the hope of concealing the growing body of evidence that the world was round.

We are led to believe that persons tasked with ovine management were seated on the ground. It was, of course against union rules for managers, especially the elderly and arthritic, to squat like gnomes on hard surfaces, playing merry hell with their piles. Small folding chairs were almost certainly used instead, similar to those found in Church halls.

Some scholars believe that the Dead Sea Scrolls make oblique reference to a strange, red-clad figure, who may have been called  ‘Sancta Callus’ in deference to his toymaking skills. The myth of the Holy Cabbage Patch dolls which he made and distributed is found in the writings of the Essenes, who burned them in effigy as idols.

The arrival of Mary and Joseph at Bethlehem remains shrouded in mystery. Some scholars have it that Joseph needed a residency permit so that he could play on the Judean basketball team.

Nonetheless, Hanukkah or Christmas, ‘tis the season to be jolly. Fa la la. Et cetera.

Striped Pyjamas

Ksenia, artist, New Zealand

The stain of the Holocaust is almost like a physical wound, as if one is perpetually having to place one’s hand in the Eternal Flame at Yad Vashem. Books and films about it are abundant. Stellar examples are, of course,  ‘Schindler’s Ark’ now ‘List’ and ‘The Pianist’ both having a place in the hall of fame, as has the movie I finally got around to watching yesterday, from John Boyne’s prizewinning children's novel ‘The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas’, filmed in 2008. It has a deceptively simple plotline centring around Bruno, an eight year old boy whose father is the commandant of an extermination camp who illicitly befriends a ragged Jewish child of the same age on the other side of the electrified fence. The film begins with a quote from Betjeman: ‘Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights before the dark hour of reason grows’. The wide-eyed innocence of the little German boy is maintained right to the end, as he is sheltered from the horrors on the other side of the fence. We are left in no doubt about the brutality of events, the fictional proximity of the commandant’s house to the camp itself serves as a magnifying lens, but we’re meant to suspend disbelief and see the world through eight year old eyes, catching glimpses of the horror only through adult reactions to them.

Apparently, at the opening screening, after a devastating climax, quiet pervaded the auditorium right until the fade of the final credits.

One hundred and forty four people are known to have escaped from Auschwitz. One was a Pole who volunteered to go into Auschwitz and report to the world what he had seen, and, a Slovakian Jew who escaped when he was nineteen by hiding for three days in a pile of wood outside the electrified fences.  The story of their escape and subsequent early warnings to Hungarian Jewry saved countless lives.

Joel Rosenberg’s well-researched but fictional ‘The Auschwitz Escape’ tells the story of a German Jew and a French pastor determined to find freedom together. Luc, the unconventional pastor from the little village of Le Chambon in France, has been imprisoned for helping Jews. Many of the guards, who beat, kill, and torture six days a week  faithfully attend church every Sunday, but Luc is determined to show that work is love made visible. Jacob, the leading Jewish protagonist, does not become a Christian, but he is deeply moved by Luc's passion. Luc admits Martin Luther was the source of Hitler's propaganda, and apologizes to Jacob for every wrong thing Christians have done to Jews throughout the years. I know a little of how that feels, as if the skin is peeled back, exposing an open wound. The pastor never tries to convert anyone but refuses to remain willfully ignorant, as the majority of Christians in Europe did.

Today, there are dangerous new threats from ISIS, Iran, North Korea, and a rising czar in Russia. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and House Majority Leader Eric Cantor have each warned that as we confront current challenges we must be careful to learn the lessons of history regarding how the world failed to understand the threat posed by Hitler and the Nazis and deal with it decisively, before events spin out of control. Deep and abiding evil is still to be found in abundance. Today, the president of Kenya declared “we will not flinch” as al-Shabab terrorists perpetrated a massacre near the Somali border. They methodically separated the non-Muslims to be killed, sparing the Muslims.  36 people were marched to a gravel pit, where most were shot in the head, lying facedown on a stony hillside, with some beheaded.

Yes. The link between Nazism and militant Islam is entirely intentional.

Fat Bandits

It being the First of December and everything, my thoughts began to drift to the annual frightfest or Saturnalia which we in the West have henceforth decided that Xmas, or the Winter Holiday should become. I’m glad I live in France. It tends to lay off the carols-and-mince-pies type of bonhomie that you can’t avoid in the UK from mid-October onwards, instead relying on vast expenditures of electrical energy to light up the Eiffel Tower and the jolly animated displays in Galeries Lafayette. When the bill comes in January they’ll realize that it could comfortably have paid for the overthrow of a small dictatorship. Caveat dictator, as they say in Damascus. This came to mind because the seven year old son of our photographer disclosed over the lunch table without a trace of embarrassment a belief in Santa Claus. In Israel, near the end of term, Santa rode around on a camel to the delight of the rising fives. Joy to the world. 

Annually, the elderly bemoan the secularization of Xmas, while listening to that great Northern Hemisphere classic ‘Frosty the Snowman’ on the radio, a keyboard rendition of which I once heard by HM Ambassador to the State of Kuwait to riotous applause and much blowing of squeakers. The only graphic I could find of him (Frosty, not HMA) suggests he is both fat and naked, for which I can only apologize. I have of course chosen one without his ubiquitous pipe - we wouldn't want to give the impression that Frosty's a crack-head, now would we? Frosty isn’t the only secular bandit. We have, of course ‘Rudolf’ who didn’t have a red nose because it was cold, he had one because of too much sherry. Does anyone still remember the beloved old classic ‘When Santa Got Stuck up the Chimney?’ Threatening in a nastily Fascist kind of way that unless he’s extricated, nobody gets any presents. Also, Father Xmas has obesity issues, which is why he got stuck in the first place, so there’s subliminal pressure to lose weight. I’m surprised there isn’t a French version since the entire nation is both obsessed with food and fitting into size zero dresses.

Like the scratching of fingernails on a blackboard, Bing Crosby’s ‘White Xmas’ can still be heard, warbling away in the background amidst haemorrhagic credit cards in shopping malls, and, ironically in an Israeli dentist's waiting room in May. I felt instantly soothed. In hotel elevators, the drippily rising cadence of ‘Silver Bells’ is in evidence, even when going down, which is disorientating, together with the vomitous ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ and ‘Wonderful Xmas Time’ to the jingling accompaniment of imaginary sleigh bells. If you’ve ever been hoodwinked into going on a sleigh ride on Christmas Eve, as I once was in Austria, you’re far less concerned with the jolly winter wonderland as with trying to get home before extremities freeze and bits start dropping off.

Now, don’t get all preachy on me, unless you’re a preacher and it’s your job. Just remember, the Incarnation is for life, not just for Christmas. Cheers (and mingled boos).

Black Friday

I rather think this has passed me by in recent years, a bit like Hallowe'en. Black Friday is upon us. The day following Thanksgiving. A day when stomachs are still turkey-full and yesterday’s key lime pie barely digested, then gives way to a paroxysm of greed, when shoppers descend like vultures to pick up pre-Christmas bargains on the busiest shopping day of the year. It appeared to have originated in Philadelphia in the sixties, either to describe the fact that retailers slipped from red into black on that day, or the post-Thanksgiving traffic was so unbearably heavy. Some stores opened their doors at midnight and braced themselves.

The UK seems to have joined the feeding frenzy, which indeed it has become. Stores were criticized because of their lack of security, as people literally fought for bargains in-store. 

French shoppers, it would seem, are less ready to be seduced by the US phenomenon than their British counterparts. This from today's 'Independent'. Were this an isolated circumstance it might be newsworthy, but what follows is simply a sample of events mirrored all over the decadent, culture-hungry West.

At least three people were arrested in the mayhem and several people were injured, including one woman hit by a falling television. In London, officers were called to three Tesco stores and an Asda amid fears of confrontations in heated queues but after attending the 24-hour supermarkets in Edmonton, Willesden, Surrey Quays and Edgware, a spokesperson said no one had been injured or arrested. Images posted online showed chaotic scenes in Edmonton, with witnesses describing “mayhem” as discounted coffee machines went on sale, while footage from an Asda in Wembley showed people fighting over televisions. Seven Tesco stores in the Greater Manchester area saw disorder. Several hundred people reportedly tried to storm the Wigan branch, while more than 500 shoppers descended in Ashton Road West.

For some time, I had been looking for a pair of boots. I called a store in the UK, who politely informed me that an online order might be delayed by a day or so because it was, after all, 'Black Friday'.

I cannot imagine, in my wildest nightmares, camping out in freezing conditions in order to be first through the doors in the wee small hours to grab a TV, a microwave or, indeed, a pair of boots or, worse still, come to blows with equally determined buyers. I have written elsewhere about the pursuit of luxury and a segment follows.

“As children, our mothers used to glare at us, wag their finger and intone "Money is the root of all evil!" No, it isn't.  The apostle Paul wagged his finger at Timothy, his young disciple, and reminded him that ‘the love of money is the root of all evil’. Much as the Pharaohs might have wished it to be otherwise, we can’t rely on it or take it with us. In a moral universe, therefore, it is best to use wisely that with which we have been entrusted.”

We might redact the text for Black Friday to read ‘the love of what money can buy is the root of all evil’.

Were I for some reason, unable to obtain my new boots, the sky would not have fallen. No lives would have been lost and I would have relinquished little more than sartorial elegance, which is neither a blow to my pride nor a physical necessity. I am at a crossroads of sufficiency. I really have too much and am looking for ways to shed what has become too much to carry, to wear, or to amuse myself with. The other day, I discovered a suitcase full of winter clothing I had forgotten I had. H’m.

Hard Labour

Haven't been down South at this time of year for a while. Last year, I was wrestling with an unfinished apartment in George Street, Jerusalem and the year before, Paris. So, the season of mists, mellow fruitfulness, leaf mould, blocked guttering  and all the other little idiosyncrasies of a seven-acre plot all added up to a spot of Hard Labour. All the tasks that one could never find time for, delicately procrastinated into the sweet bye and bye descended like the Assyrian hordes, all at once. 
It's been raining here. Rather a lot, as it happens. The high water table on the elevated parts of the land means that when there's a deluge, it all finds its way south, carving pathways through stones and gravel. For weeks we had quite a few streams that moated the house, all of them having gathered momentum higher up, lifting stones the size of basketballs. In short, instead of delicate indentations in the unmade road, we now had ruts the depth of trashcans making visitors with low slung vehicles nervous. Gipsy with her usual optimistic insouciance airily brushed aside the task, claiming a few barrows of rubble would fix the problem, at least for the time being. I listened, gloomily, envisaging slashed tyres and broken axles followed by a requirement of lorryloads of gravel. Where's some slave labour when you need it? I reminded myself that the place wasn't Downton Abbey, rolled up my sleeves and started shovelling, pushing images of prisoners in labour camps to the back of my mind. G, being a solidly built creature, hauled and shoved with me and at least a few of the ruts are passably filled in. I recalled the Rule of St Benedict and smiled grimly.

Having a pool with pretty underwater lighting is delightful. In July. Having to bed it down for the winter involves a little delicate chemistry, plus encasement in its winter coat. Scorning all assistance, when G had gone on some small errand - nail varnish, as I recall, being on the list - I elected to unwrap the robustly constructed made to measure cover, all fifty-five square metres of it, and put it on unassisted. There were regrettable outbreaks of bad language, unheard except by local wildlife. I'm surprised they didn't turn up to watch. I won't go into detail, it's too painful. G returned from her shopping trip, took one look at my sweat-sodden face and remarked "It's the wrong way round." Indeed it was. I had been attempting to force it to be the right way round for some time. She and I then unhooked it from its retaining divots or whatever they're called, folded it, turned it, and on it went like a well-tailored suit.
The pool house door doesn't shut. I am confident that with a little bit of paring with a wickedly sharp Swiss Army knife, any swelling can be expeditiously removed. The number for the ambulance is in the book and if I survive without too much blood loss, I'm going back to Paris.