And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

The oft perverted song of the Twelve Days of Christmas, and its requisite content of assorted miscellany (hence its ease of abuse – it is easier to fit words to a tune than to think of sufficient ones under a common aegis) quite aptly describes this hodge-podge of things that, in retrospect, also describes in acute detail the mish-mash (there are too many words invented to describe variety) of activities and sights that passes for diversity here.

The Christmas spirit; everyone talks a little about it around this time (just as even market-stall holder uncles were talking about September 11th at around that time, but only in the context of perhaps pork prices), fueled by the bright and sparkling Christmas lights and the umpteenth loop of Wham's Last Christmas, snaking through shopping centre PA systems and polyphonic ring tones. But until one reaches into the heart of English (Gasp, "European!" if you please, sir) lands around this month then one has not seen how deeply such considerations are etched into the whole English psyche. The Christmas shopping, Christmas pudding and other Christmas related traditions that we had dreamily contemplated only from glossy, imported story-books become instantly tangible here, as they always had been, but to us as though we had snapped our fingers and made it materialise right away. Going for such traditions and indeed even a Christmas dinner was probably seen as imperialist and as kow-towing to the West. But it is essential to partake in such deeds for, to some extent, the assimilation into the culture of the West. Much like the blonde hair and fair skin it is key to much of the spirit of the West (but as with physical features there is also a stunning multiplicity)

Tramping through the rubble that lined the floor of the dining hall the next day, detritus crunching underfoot like the golden dried leaves outside, hoping not to spot something too odd amongst the expended party poppers and Christmas crackers (amongst other expended objects), it was not difficult to imagine the alcohol-sodden mischief and wanton partying that must have taken place in the spirit of Christmas. Then, the realisation, which may strike at anytime, when one is slicing cheese or washing the dishes, that hey, Christmas started out as a Christian celebration right? And they wouldn't condone such behaviour especially not in the context of Christmas would they? And it's not even the 25th yet. And don't 25% of all Britons label themselves secular?

Let us (pretend that we can) not talk about the religious connotations of Christmas (though I fully acknowledge their inseparable presence, and as such this is as knotty as trying to remove all the hairs from a kiwifruit) however, as much has already been said about that by more suitably qualified and esteemed persons. What may be said of it however is that it is stitched together from a whole plethora of traditions that don't all have very savoury/congenial origins, much like the English monarchy or the Italian civil service. In keeping with these traditions (and in keeping with the previous line on food) there have been the most drastic of arrangements in order to maintain their status quo so much so that the same effort would better have been utilised to think of a more progressive circumvention of conditions. Such is the strange story of the massive misnomer of the festive food of the minced meat in a pie. Of course everyone knows these delightful raisin-filled pastries contain not a scrap of meat in them. This anomaly dates back to Oliver Cromwell (who, being the oddball of the Middle Ages has most of the peculiar legends in England being traced back to him) who banned the use of meat in mince pies because it was indulgent. So to keep in the spirit of things people started filling it with raisins, nuts, rum and brandy (which, of course, as old Oliver was constantly full of them, were not indulgent at all) though I can't see how these could ever hit it off as successful beef analogues. Such is the continued attempt to adhere to tradition that also explains why people choke down fruitcakes, denser than a cannonball, sweeter than a Christmas romantic comedy, year upon year, and on Boxing Day fret about how to get rid of the colossal, languishing pieces of it, like an old, incontinent grand aunt.

That doesn't mean we can't invent our own traditions to hold dear and treasure and follow for all the years to come. In fact, binge drinking with its associated joys of projectile vomiting and waking up naked on King's lawn is rapidly becoming the favourite tradition of students here. But not only for Christmas, for also for special things like end-of-Term, and the 15th of November, and Tuesdays.