A Consumerist's Carol
When Christmas traditions become ghosts
Written by J William Browne
In one way or another Christmas is a time for tradition. Year upon year, we repeat the rituals of carols and presents, an identical new tree, the same old decorations, graduating from Christmas morning chocolates as a child to Christmas morning champagne as an adult. It is all nice and familiar. But in that nice familiarity, we may begin to sense that these treasured traditions are in danger of becoming habits missing their original sentiment.
The joy of children being involved on the day itself is that you can once again live out the wonder vicariously and get quietly pissed at the same time, starting when the Lindt reindeers are unwrapped. We can relive the feverish excitement of presents, the feasting on a day when greed is actively encouraged, and of seeing grandparents who don’t yet seem a year older than last Christmas. Your habits will be their traditions, before the world opens up and the chocolate gets replaced by champagne.
One tradition I am committed to each Christmas is exchanging a letter and book with an old friend. It started out as a quaint, almost cerebral tradition, which in time allowed much to be written that wouldn’t have been said in person and uncovered books which neither of us would otherwise have read. Like the carols and presents, this must have become a habit last Christmas, as we both failed to post our thoughts or judiciously chosen book for the first time in ten years.
The second tradition I keep is reading Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol each December. I am yet to miss a reading of for God knows how many years and yet I still look forward to it. George Orwell once wrote that we associate Dickens with Christmas not simply because he is one of the few English writers to have actually written about it, but that Dickens is almost unique among writers of ‘being able to give a convincing picture of happiness.’
I think this hits the doornail on the head.
Last week I saw Mark Gatiss’ production of A Christmas Carol at the Alexandra Palace Theatre. The obvious contrast that the story makes is that it is only by presenting us with so much darkness can we enjoy the light and not feel self-indulgent; that we can recognise the happiness as convincing. The effect of seeing poor people who ought to be sad making merry, while the rich man is the misanthrope, is a powerful antidote to our own discontent.
Perhaps this is why the big Christmas adverts are now almost always written as tear jerkers. This modern tradition started with John Lewis and the sad old man on the moon with no presents. It was a seminal moment. Amazon released an advert this year with three depressed old ladies, presumably suffering from piles, sat uncomfortably on a park bench. This sad trio eventually go tobogganing to our bleary-eyed delight thanks to some thoughtful presents of padded cushions, purchased from you know where. All very nice. But be in no doubt, these companies are harnessing your emotions to sell their product. Emotions missing their original sentiment of authenticity.
But much as I pour scorn on this, each year I too partake in my own merry consumerism.
A new tradition of travelling on an Overground train in London, sadly irrespective of the time of year, is the performance beggar. This is something that has got much worse in recent years, with the poor performers becoming a more diverse cast. From the traditional tramp, to the ex-serviceman, to the addict, to the very mentally unwell. You sometimes hear the groans from passengers around you as they hear the well practiced speech making its way down the train, carriage by carriage. The groan seems to say, “For God’s sake, leave us be. We want to enjoy our light without your darkness”.
It was in keeping with this nightly tradition that on my way home from A Christmas Carol, glowing with a sense of yuletide cheer and a charitable heart, that fate presented me with a timely test. A homeless man, whose name I forget, was very sweetly asking for a little money or food that could be spared to help him pass the night, which was particularly cold and bleak. Ordinarily my response, and I do like to respond as a kind of empty gesture though many don’t, is that I do not have any cash. The near cashless age we now live in must have hit the homeless severely. But on this occasion, I was well aware that I had a ten pound note in my pocket.
Were you beginning to worry that this was all a build up to a little sanctimonious performance of my own?
Don’t fear, I didn’t give the man anything. To have done so and then written about it would be a mastubatory act of hubris. No, the fact I didn’t give him anything, after a double helping of the moral lesson of A Christmas Carol, that was the interesting thing. The softly spoken man was very polite and wished me a good night. I suspect this was as much a tactic as anything else, for I did then want to then catch him up and give him the money after he had been so gracious.
So, much as I scorn the corporates like Amazon that lease our emotions back to us in exchange for another order that justifies our Prime subscription, I too am merely consuming Dickens’ tale of Scrooge’s redemption like a financial transaction. Each year Scooge meets me as the miser and leaves me as the embodiment of conscience itself. Like the children through whose joy we may live out the joy of our Christmases past, I am honouring the Christmas spirit of benevolence and goodwill in paying homage to Ebeneezer Scrooge, but not heeding his lesson. I am opening my heart without opening my wallet.
I am therefore resolved to make a new tradition. Every time I read A Christmas Carol, I will make a small donation to a worthy cause; be this financial or a donation of time. I do not think that in writing of this new Christmas resolution, I am committing the aforementioned sin of performing my charity, for the following reason.
Have you ever asked yourself why Dickens called his tale ‘A Christmas Carol’?
It is such a well-known a story that the title is easy to miss. As it turns out, the choice of title is more than just a memorable alliteration. In the original editions published in 1843, the five chapters were billed as five ‘staves’, which is a line upon which a musical note is written. Through these five staves Dickens hoped that his story and its moral lesson would be repeated each Christmas, like the same old carols, until we knew both by heart.
The lesson I take and share with you is not to let the familiarity of Christmas turn tradition into a habit, of letting the charity and the warmth we feel from Dickens’ tale be purely fictional. Give if you can and for whatever reason you like. The chocolate and champagne this Christmas morning will taste all the sweeter for it.
