A lighter look at Christmas Carols

 

I was just cooking dinner and decided, with Christmas Eve almost upon us, that I would listen to some Christmas songs. After listening to Michael Buble and the Puppini Sisters jingle their bells, an unfamiliar one came on. I would hazard a guess that it was a girl pop group. One of them implored Santa (although it seemed almost like a threat) to please get her someone special for Christmas but to make sure that he'd still be around next year. In other words, a boyfriend with at least a one year guarantee.

Imagine putting all that responsibility on a man whose sole profession is to simply work all year around, with elves, to produce toys for children all around the world (with the expert supervision of Mrs Claus of course). And then to have this grown woman, not only whingeing about wanting someone but inserting her own terms and conditions.

This got me thinking about other Christmas songs. For example, 'All I want for Christmas Are My Two Front Teeth.' As I said, Santa provides toys for children globally and it is an all year round job. It may take one night to deliver them (thank goodness for timezones) but it is a mammoth task. When exactly do you think he will get the time to get a degree in dentistry? 

Don't get me wrong, if it is a self concious seven year old making that wish, they get a pass. But, if you are an adult who imbibed too much of the happy juice at your Christmas party and face planted on the dance floor, do not bother Santa. Shell out whatever eyewatering sum you have to, at your emergency dentist's appointment.  Lessons will be learnt. 

Don't even get me started on Eartha Kitt and the copy cats that followed (I'm looking at you Kylie and Buble), with their transparent flattery. Calling an older man of indeterminate age, 'Santa Baby' and using suggestive innotation, is not going to work. It might've worked if your list was somewhat practical- most men are suseptible to flattery - but that list for a sable coat, a yacht and a '54 convertible, is ridiculous. The miracle worker is the child that Mary gave birth to, not the jolly man in the red suit who takes modest requests from children.

As if that wasn't enough, demanding that he hurry down the chimney, is downright rude and unthoughtful. I suspect that sliding down millions of chimneys, particulary when one is portly, probably causes quite a lot of stress. I have heard a rumour that poor Santa goes on a ketogenic diet at the start of December. He really doesn't need you urging him to hurry down your chimney, with your materialistic gifts from the North Pole.

The one song that encapsulates the spirit of Christmas and shows us Santa's true nature, is 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer'. He obviously had a diversity plan in place when he hired Rudolph. What he did not count on, was the shallow nature of the rest of his reindeer. So, wise old Santa chose Rudolph to steer his sleigh on the most important night of the year and lo and behold (and possibly to ensure their future employment) the rest of the sycophantic reindeer 'loved' Rudolph after that. Oh deer, how very shallow of them.

On a more poignant note, we have lost some wonderful artists whose Christmas songs will live with us for many years.  Maybe it is coincidence, but poignantly they've passed away around this time of the year; Dean Martin and 'Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!' (25.12.1995), Kirsty Maccoll and Fairy Tale of New York (18.12.2000), George Michael and Last Christmas (25.12.2016)and now Chris Rea and Coming Home for Christmas(22.12.2025). 

Ultimately, Christmas Carols and Songs are part of the festive season and inspite of poking fun, I guess it would just not feel like Christmas if we didn't hear them on a loop at this time of the year. 

Wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. 

Fingers crossed that the coming year brings lighter news and more peaceful times.

 

 

 

 

 

Confessions of a Windmill

 

I'll start with a confession. I am not actually a windmill, I am a wind turbine. But the person I am going to talk about, calls us windmills. I guess he has a very low intelligence quotient.

It was a normal day by the shore in Aberdeen. The sun wasn't shining but it wasn't raining either. My friends and I were chilling -  just shooting the breeze, so to speak.

But then, we got wind of a developing situation (that's how we usually get our news). Our arch enemy, a man whose name I cannot bring myself to utter (hint: the first three letters of his name rhyme with 'Con'), was crossing the pond to visit his golf course. In other words, President Flotsam was going to Jetsam across the pond.

We hoped that it was just a rumour but alas, it was true. The day arrived and we saw him in the distance. We were paralysed with fear. We'd heard that he had once queried whether a hurricane could be stopped by a nuke. None of us were taking the risk. The only blades that moved were those of the tall grass nearby.

However, when I could bring myself to cast a cursory glance at our Don Quixote on steroids, he was just a hunched over old man with a silly hat on his head. Nevertheless, we did not move our blades, for fear of drawing attention to ourselves. Apparently, his hatred for us is because we kill birds and make annoying sounds. (He's a good one to talk).

Unfortunately, keeping still was a losing battle. While we could easily handle the strong North winds, we were unable to withstand the hot air that emanated every time President Flotsam opened his mouth to speak. Despite our best efforts, our blades started to move reluctantly, in a desperate attempt to disperse the hot air and the accompanying odour (which leads me to suspect that the hot air was not just emanating from his mouth).

Fortunately for us, he was distracted by the people with cameras and note pads, shouting questions at him - the name Epstein seemed to come up quite a lot (not quite sure why they were bringing up The Beatles' manager after all this time). But then again, maybe they were not asking about that Epstein because the name seemed to trigger him so much, that a convoy of golf carts were summoned and they drove away to the accompaniment of Memories from the musical Cats. Apparently his favourite musical is 'Cats', yet he claims to hate us because we kill birds. 

As he drove away, our blades, in unison, hummed 'The Windmills of Your Mind'. How we howled with laughter for the rest of the evening (some might've called it our Stormy revenge.)

We saw him on two occasions after that. One was in the evening when he appeared at the entrance of his resort, flanked by the Prime Minister of the UK, Keir Starmer on one side and his wife on the other. (Keir Starmer's wife, not Mrs Flotsam). 

Poor Mrs Starmer looked like a wax work from Madame Tussauds. She stood stock still and expressionless. But then again, she was standing next to him, so she could well have been holding her breath.

The last time we saw him, he was standing in front of a red ribbon, his two sons on either side of him. Interesting looking men. The bearded one looked like he had a bladeless wind turbine indelicately rammed up his spine (apologies to my fellow wind turbines for that analogy) and the other son looked like he'd been blessed with a double set of teeth (or cursed with an extra small mouth.) Either way, they looked like the perfect casting for a reboot of Dumb and Dumber. Dumbest then proceeded to cut the red ribbon and once again opened his mouth to speak. Cue for our blades to start spinning furiously.

Finally, we got wind that he was back in his country. We really would be useless without our friend the wind. 

With him gone, things could return to normal again. Can't say the same for his country. But then again, they are a democracy and they chose him (again). 

They could have chosen an intelligent, qualified woman but they chose a dumb, unqualified man. As they say in his country, Go figure.

A lighter look at the news

 

Jeff Bezos sent his fiancée and a few celebrity friends, on a joyride in his Blue Origin space craft, to hover over planet Earth. Eleven minutes later, they were back. The first to emerge from the capsule was fiancée, Lauren Sanchez, who appeared to have missed him for every single second of every one of those eleven minutes. 

Next to make an appearance, was singer Katy Perry. She shot out of the capsule like a firework and proceeded to sink to her knees to kiss the ground, thereby appropriating Pope John Paul II's signature move. Apparently, whilst up there, Katy Perry sang What a Wonderful World.  Mercifully, she didn't burst into I Kissed the Earth and I liked it, as she arose from the ground.

Also, appropriating John Paul II's signature move was Oprah's best bud, Gayle King. Joining them in this physical display of affection for Mother Earth, was none other than Jeff Bezos himself, albeit, involuntarily. He was walking around the capsule and tripped on what appeared to be a pothole masquerading as a crater from the moon. Down he went, planting a smacker on Mother Earth with his whole face. 

Maybe that is the Universe's way of telling him to stick to trying to clean up the environment of our planet instead of adding to its pollution with these (mostly) pointless jaunts. Especially when one of the highlights of the trip appears to have been the sighting of the Moon. I don't know about you, but I have spent many a cloudless night appreciating that same shiny orb in the night sky, from my back garden. Rumour has it, that if you view it through an instrument called a telescope, it's almost as if you are right there.

Katy Perry also made another discovery. She discovered the four letter word love. As I heard her gush, I discovered another four letter word but I shan't be using it. Not yet. I'll wait for Mr Bezos to offer me a ride on his Blue Origin and then I'll use it, followed closely by the two letter word no.

Since Ms Perry had to go to space to discover love, I have a thought. How about sending a certain President to space. It doesn't even have to be on Blue Origin. His chain saw wielding bestie could arrange it.

Talking about said President, his medical report got published and you will be relieved to know that he passed with flying colours. Colours that flew so high, they went beyond Blue Origin's all-female crew's joyride.

While most people chuckled at his purported weight in his medical report, my eyebrows shot up at his purported blood pressure reading. How can a 78 year old man, whose diet apparently consists mostly of junk food and whose cup runneth over with diet coke and malice, have such a text book, perfect bp reading? If true, I have this theory that President Don Chaotic's blood pressure decreases in direct proportion to the increase in blood pressure he causes decent people.

I shall now await worldwide recognition for this theory and possibly even a Nobel prize.

The stable genius continues to hold on to his title, as he has, once again, aced his cognitive test. Apparently, the doctor was totally awe struck, as he had never witnessed anyone ace the test like he did. He got a mark that no one before him had ever achieved. It is yet to be established if the doctor had tears in his eyes while extolling these incredible achievements.

Dumb-a-Lardo coyly declined to confirm if he had to memorize and recall the same five words that he did the last time, before admitting that he couldn't remember if he had to or not. But worry not, he did brilliantly and his stable genius crown is intact.

If indeed he did have to memorize and recall five different words this time, I'll hazard a guess that they were Groceries...Tariffs...Russia ... El Salvador...Golf. 

Until next time, try and keep it light. If you are having a hard time keeping it light, I'll end with Boris Johnson's latest escapade in a safari park in Texas. He got pecked by an ostrich. You are very welcome.

A lighter look at the news

 

Hold on to your wallets everyone, the Sheriff of Tariff is in town. With the exception of one obvious omission (Putin your own conclusion as to which country that is), almost no one was spared, not even penguins (those feet were anything but happy when the inhabitants of Heard Islands got the news.) 

Anyway, we can now unclench for 90 days, as Emperor Oranginus Trumpus has grandly decided to pause the tariff threat. As usual, having no shame, he is full of self congratulation because the stock market briefly went up. Makes me want to revise that old nursery rhyme to: 

 Ding dong bell, Kitty's in the well.                                                         Who flung her in?                                                                               Trumpelstilskin not-so-thin.                                                           Who pulled her out?                                                                     Trumpelstilskin stout.                                                                                                                                            To be fair, Trump does have depths of intelligence that he has been  modest about. For example, he has revived that old fashioned word groceries for us. I don't know about you, but I am delighted that I can now put a name to the list that I take to the supermarket every week. Shakespeare, nothing. This wordsmith and his rediscovery of the word groceries has completely changed my life. Trump voters must be so proud.

Also, while we guffawed at the thought of penguins being tariffed, he actually had a genius plan. Remember he won because of the price of bacon and eggs? Well, Mr Humble may not be bragging about it but he is only trying to fulfil his election promise. We all know that despite the inhabitants of Heard Islands being King Penguins and sporting dapper tuxedos, they don't really deal in cash. But they are birds and they lay big, beautiful eggs. Soon to be big, beautiful, tariffed eggs.

In 90 days, I predict the addition of another country to his big, beautiful list...The Bay of Pigs.