by I am currently going through Christmas withdrawals. I am sure you are dealing with a similar experience? There is a certain lack of Christmas cheer hanging in the air. The anticipation has dissipated, the world returns to its standard comings and goings. The atmosphere no longer sparkles with tinsel, decorated with sugarplum dreams. Children have now ripped apart the glorious tinkling paper to reveal a wish or a disappointment and their faces full of cheerful expectancy are inching toward a usual less than saccharine expression.
I had no idea what to write in this blog. I found myself with the typical reaction to an inability to write: staying far, far away from the idea. As you can see from the tardiness of this particular blog, I succeeded. Sometimes life in all it’s peaks and valleys throws a series of monotonous hills that feel like they are sucking the very air from your lungs and threaten to leave your body lifeless and grey, resembling a prune more than a person and reeking of the odor affectionately known as the smell of a wet dog.
Now that my morbid rhapsodies are out of the less than docile closet I have been housing them in, I will move on to something far more interesting and far less depressing. This has nothing to do with Christmas, I have to say. My Christmas season was so uneventful and so casual this year that I have very little to discuss with you. However, I do have something attune to obsession in regards to one particular European people: The British.
Yes, my friends. The British are coming. God save the Queen, and by queen I mean the actual monarch currently in place in the good ol’ country, not the band known as Queen, as delightful and spontaneous as they are… were… are? Not sure what to say about that one. But I digress. Yes, chaps. The Brits are glorious. They cater to the sophisticated little top-hatted man in each of us. Every time an Englishman utters a syllable, we cannot help but immediately perceive him as not only a fantastic Cambridge graduate, but an intelligent and charmingly witty man who enjoys good food and humor dryer than the toast his nibbles with his tea every morning. Now understand I mean no disrespect. I intend to adopt myself into the British culture someday, because they are so darn good at everything. Really. Trust me on this, fellas. There are two things in the world I know everything about and that is all things British … and how to smuggle free shipping into every online transaction. Really, I am so good at that. I am like the Oceans 11 or 12 or 46 or however the many there are of online shopping. I believe I have mentioned this before. If not, I will tell you here and now that I am awesome. Okay, that’s now off my chest. I am glad we had this talk. Moving on.
We have stolen so much from England, and I do not mean Colin Firth, because that was worth the trouble. Our culture is a wetter version of the British empire. England 2.0 if you want to see it in technical terms. We have stemmed into our own glorious nation, but come on. We still pretend we’re British under it all. We stole their anthem, and for good reason. Our lyrics make more sense melodically. Just saying.
A good ol’ British anything is like my crack. Why do you guys think Harry Potter is so great? Uh, everyone was British. And not just British but so British that it sent Monty Python into a tissy. Really, the ghost of Graham Chapman rose from his glorious grave and challenged them to a Brit-off. Hagrid won. It was intense. There was a light-saber battle and everything.
… Apparently staying on topic is impossible for me. But considering that my topic is irrelevant to this season and this country, maybe digressions are desirable. Well, in that case, I am going to digress. A lot. Congratulations, your reading nonsense! Happy Christmas to you, my friend.
Let me leave you with these last sentiments:
1. Go watch The Madness of King George starring Sir Nigel Hawthorne.
2. Go read any of C.S. Lewis’ non-fiction work. The man was a master of the human spirit and a champion of linguistics.
3. Grant yourself access to Radio Theater, preferably BBC. You will be enlightened by artists who delve into the medium of the formation of words as others with mortar and clay.
Oh, and enjoy a cup of tea on the trolly, dears.
No British citizens or the inclined were emotionally damaged or harassed in the writing of this blog.
