No. 32 - The Christmas Days I Lost

1965 - Magic on a Shoestring

Whenever I’d done something naughty, my mother would tell me ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you,’ and I knew I was in trouble. If she were to say instead that she wanted ‘a word’ with me, then I knew it would be bad news, but that whatever it was, it was unlikely to have been my fault.

She took me aside a few weeks before Christmas in 1965 and gently explained that our decorations had become far too shabby and tattered to hang, but we couldn’t afford to replace them all, nor could we afford a real tree that year. We would have to make do with a small artificial one donated by our neighbours, the Parkers, who had bought a bigger, better one. In an effort to dispel my initial dismay, she said that we could buy coloured paper chains from Woolworth’s - they came in a book and you had to make the rings and link them together - but the rest of the decorations we would make ourselves. It didn’t sound ideal, but I understood that money was tight and so I didn't grizzle about it.

To make foundation of the decorations she had gathered odd pieces of Oasis floral foam, a green, cinder-like material used in flower arranging. She assembled coloured candles, ribbon and sprigs of holly, collected pine cones and bought three small aerosol sprays - artificial snow and paint in silver and gold. There were coloured glass baubles left over because the synthetic tree was a small one and they were incorporated into the home made decorations too. She turned a pine cone into a robin, with a small cardboard beak, using her nail varnish to paint its breast red. I’d never thought of her as a particularly creative person, but surprisingly the results of her enterprise were unique and enchanting. I would sit in our front room, lit only by the coloured fairy lights on the tree, which neither blinked or flashed, but merely shone. Surrounded by Mum's magical creations, fragrant and bright, beneath the paper chains, cards held on string by tiny coloured pegs, with gifts still unopened beneath the tree, I basked in a thrill of anticipation. It was my favourite bit of Christmas.

Self-deprecating as ever, Mum concluded that her artistic efforts weren’t ‘all that bad considering’. When I told her truthfully that I much preferred her home-made decorations to the shop-bought stuff we usually had, she was transparently delighted. It was one of those rare moments when I knew I’d said exactly the right thing. Sadly, I didn’t always say the right thing nor did I always do the right thing.

1973 - Top of the Pops

I was 15, and everyone my age watched the Christmas Day edition of Top of the Pops. It may have been all cheap sets, glitter and miming, but to a teenager it was important. Even the cool kids who vilified the singles bands watched, if only to scoff. Dad graciously allowed me to watch it, but encouraged the relatives to go on talking over it. I sat and seethed about it until my absolute favourites, Slade, came on to do their first number, Cum on Feel the Noize, by which time it became too much. I defiantly turned up the volume. I was told off of course, but to my great surprise, rather than make more of an issue of it, Dad decided that the oldies should leave me to it and go for an afternoon stroll until it was over. I am glad that my rare bit of defiance didn’t result in all out war, because it was to be his last Christmas.

1974-1992 - Groundhog Christmas

After he died in September 1974 our Christmas Day became like Groundhog Day as, only a few weeks after his sudden departure, we clung to our traditions as though he was still with us. Over the ensuing years, it got so that I could not only predict what would happen, I knew what everyone was going to do and say, almost to the word. Mum would spend hours cooking the turkey dinner and my aunts and uncles, all retired people from the Rhondda, would come to us on Christmas morning. A glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream at 11.30 would have everyone revelling in the sheer naughtiness of drinking at that hour, as though a few sips of sweet sherry had turned them into Oliver Reed. In the afternoon, Billy Smart’s Circus would be on TV and Uncle Sil insisted on watching it. He loved variety shows or any entertainment that had its roots in the old music halls - the circus was the best Christmas Day had to offer him. Unfortunately his eyesight was so bad that he would sit with his nose practically touching the screen, so it was a good job that no-one else cared to watch it. I’m ashamed to say that I was no quieter for his circus than he had been for my Top of the Pops. Uncle Sil died in 1978 and the circus was one Christmas custom that the family dropped with alacrity.

Auntie Annie-May always brought ‘The Bottle of Wine’ which was usually Liebfraumilch, and she would declare that the woman in the off-license had assured her that it was ‘a very nice one’. Well she would, wouldn’t she? There was only ever the one bottle of what Mum insisted on calling ‘dinner wine’. Sitting down to eat, the relatives would take a thimble’s worth ‘just to taste’ and the remainder of its sickly sweetness would be poured into me. I’d hardly feel that amount of wine now, but in my teens and early twenties it made the day tingle until I got sleepy.

The dinner was always delicious, not that you could get Mum to believe you genuinely thought that. The aunts would say first that it looked lovely, and then that it tasted lovely. Mum would voice her reservations, which used to exasperate me. She’d claim the turkey was ‘a bit too dry’, the roast potatoes weren’t up to her usual standard or she hadn’t been able to get the right Paxo to stuff it with. She would self-criticise in order to pre-empt anyone else’s criticisms, but everyone always reassured her that it was ‘lovely.’ And to be fair, it always was. There would be Christmas pudding offered afterwards, but no-one ever had room for it. Like the wine it would eventually disappear into me, accompanying every cold turkey lunch for the next week.

After dinner, a rather bizarre family ritual would commence. Auntie Annie-May and Auntie Eva would have a high-pitched but jovial debate as to which of them should do the washing up. Each wanted the other to put her feet up while they completed the chore and the discussion would go on for some time. This also used to exasperate me, because in the end Auntie Annie-May would do the washing up - as she always did, every year, without fail. I can’t recall a single instance of Auntie Eva doing it. It was always Auntie Annie-May, which made the whole conversation redundant. I was not exempt from holiday dish-washing duties incidentally, but after most of a bottle of Liebfraumilch - it would have been unwise to trust me with the handling of slippery crockery.

After doing the washing up she would make tea for everyone and Auntie Eva would offer to help, but not until it was all but done. There’d be mince pies, a tin of Quality Street, a carton of Roses and boxes of Cadbury’s Milk Tray and the Newberry Meltis Fruits that Auntie Annie-May used to bring. Mum used to make a rich Christmas Cake every year and its frosty white icing would be broken only by the same cake ornaments that had served for years - a Father Christmas, a snowman and a Christmas Tree. Mum considered herself a bad hostess if any of her guests spent a moment without chewing something. There were satsumas of course, exotic looking wooden boxes of dates that no-one liked and nuts that nobody could ever be bothered to crack. There would also be a slab or two of Bluebird toffee and a toffee hammer to break it up with. At tea time Mum would criticise her own mince pies - the pastry was tough or the filling wasn’t as good as usual.

We had no central heating, so I was compelled to sit with my elderly relatives and listen to their reminiscences, which I enjoyed, or often to watch some TV programmes that I didn’t. I would occasionally retire to my bedroom, where it was so cold that I could see the steam of my breath - I would read, shivering under the eiderdown. In my teens and early twenties there were many times I dreamed of being elsewhere, doing wonderful, exciting things, with incredible people I hadn’t yet met. Instead, as I saw it, I was taking my role in the annual pantomime of the family Christmas - and with pantomimes, the stories never change.

Come the evening, the aunts would disperse. Everyone would agree that the television was rubbish that year on all three channels, but still had to rush home in good time for 'The Film’. In those days this was a big deal because films could only be shown on TV no earlier than five years after their cinema release, and the Christmas and Easter schedules were prime times for the BBC and ITV to premier a ‘blockbuster’.

Christmas Day Slips Away

This was my Christmas from 1974 to 1992 when I chose to remain in London. I was 34 and my mother was next youngest at 76. She understood that I wanted the company of younger people, but I believe now she was putting on a brave face. I fear I may have greatly underestimated my importance to her as her youngest son, but she loved me too much to want me to feel guilty about it. It is inevitable that sooner or later, a child is going to want to do their own thing, so I shouldn't feel too guilty, but, if I could go up to North Wales and spend another Christmas with these people whose love and devotion I took for granted, I’d go like a shot. They could do the same things and say the same things and I would cherish every act and every syllable. In fact, I’d be thrilled about it. I’d even happily watch the circus and drink the Liebfraumilch, despite the more sophisticated pallet I hope I've cultivated.

[Sadly, I have no photos of our family Christmases. In that analogue age, it would have taken a lot more effort than whipping a phone out. I took these photos around my home in Walthamstow in 2010.]

I'm grateful to everyone who has taken the time to read my words over the last year. I'll leave the last word to Noddy on the 1973 Christmas TOTP.

Merry Christmas Everybody.