Originally published in print December 2020.

I have honestly never looked forward to Christmas less. I feel I can speak for most people with that statement. Not only is there the small issue of a global pandemic but we now have exams and deadlines in January which aptly encapsulates the cliché of adding insult to injury. The 2020 holiday season is hardly one that is going to go down in the annals history for the right reasons and the traditions we usually all enjoy and rely on have been thrown into upheaval; some belong to our pre-Covid world and some remain intact.  Last week I was standing outside a coffee shop and heard the familiar opening chords of ‘Fairytale of New York’ for the first time since last December. There is something about the raspy timbre of Shane McGowan growling ‘it was Christmas Eve babe’ that overwhelms me with such a nostalgia that no other Christmas song or symbol has ever matched.

I associate it with the strongly relatable image of standing in a packed, overheated pub full of cheap Christmas jumpers, tinsel and spilt Guinness as everybody throws their heads back to loudly bellow ‘the boys of the NYPD Choir’- completely off key. It reminds me of the inevitable festive happenings that involve getting caught in a semi-inebriated conversation at the bar with someone from primary school in which you both ask ‘so what are you doing in college again’ an uncomfortable amount of times. It is the soundtrack to organising a college Christmas dinner in which the worry about numbers usually relates to the sufficiency of undercooked turkey to go around as opposed to legal restrictions. The radio plays it on an unrelenting loop as a conveyor belt of relatives bustle in and out of your house depositing identical brands of mulled wine and chocolates. ‘Fairytale of New York’ and its evocative influence reminded me of just how different this Christmas is going to be. A festive season without numerous choral recitals, ballets and pantomimes seems like a dystopian, alternate reality. Wishing for a ‘quiet, peaceful Christmas’ has never lived up to its promise in such a depressing manner. COVID has robbed us of so much so far but a festive season without the usual car crash that is the twelve pubs of Christmas, bustling overpriced markets and most tragically, the ease of being able to hug an elderly relative, just stings that bit deeper. 

However, certain aspects and traditions of Christmas remain intact regardless of apocalyptic world crises. The innate human ability to justify spending a fiver on a Starbucks toasted white chocolate mocha simply to get in the ‘Christmas spirit’ is stronger than ever. There will always be a gaggle of girls somewhere wearing Christmas hats and videoing each other pointing at the camera while shrieking ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’. Your neighbours’ lights will still be visible from Mars and I will still block people on Instagram who use the caption ‘silly season is well and truly underway’. Christmas is special for a multitude of different reasons. You will simultaneously hate and love your family more intensely than any other time of year. Decorating the Christmas tree brings out the petty, critical side in everyone and tensions rarely run higher than when the turkey cooking time is inevitably misjudged, and no one gets fed for hours. This year many people will not have seen their family for a long time so all the fights, hugs and laughs will be more of novelty than ever. We should appreciate them and take a moment to reflect on how lucky and privileged we are. Think of the friend or the sibling or the parent that got you through the dark days of lockdown and buy them a thoughtful present. Try to be more convincing when your sister asks you if you like her homemade mince pies and don’t shout at your dad for suggesting that you all watch It’s a Wonderful Life for the sixth year in a row. There are certain things that I can always rely on each holiday season; even a bizarre one like this. I know that I am going to overindulge on chocolate and cold turkey sandwiches over Christmas week and then write a ridiculously ambitious list of New Year resolutions that never even get started on. I know that I am going to leave every bit of shopping until the last minute and end up panic buying someone a mug in Tower Records. I also know that when it gets to the part in Love Actually where Emma Thompson breaks down in her room while listening to Joni Mitchell, that I will sob pathetically despite having seen the movie over fifty times. Already I am excited to pack a suitcase to get the evening bus home on that last weekend before Christmas. Despite not heading back to traditionally join my friends in a crowded beer tent, I will still lean my head against the window and happily romanticise the act of ‘driving home for Christmas’. The bus will speed down the motorway through driving rain, past flashes of twinkling houses as the strains of the Pogues filter through the radio speakers and Shane McGowen sings ‘I can see a better time, when all our dreams come true’.