Saturday, 20 December 2014

Seeing the Seasonal Sham.

I open the TV text news pages and read a report about the latest atrocity committed by men claiming to have God on their side. This time they’ve slaughtered a hundred children or kidnapped a whole village. I come out of text and into picture, and there’s an advert from an organisation seeking donations to help them rescue children in this country from abuse and neglect. But then we're given the antidote. Some suave and slimy guy with gelled hair and a Porsche gets the girl because he uses the best aftershave. Happiness, it seems, comes in a bottle marked Paco Rabanne and all's right with the world after all. That’s the point at which I feel that none of us has the right to be happy as long as the human condition contains so much that is so indescribably vile.

So, Compliments of the Season, everybody. If you have a God, I hope It’s a kind one, and I trust your trees will be heavy with designer labels and sweet-smelling sedatives.

Sorry this is so dark, but there’s a lot of it about one way and another. And besides, I have reason to dread this Christmas most potently. I must be confusing the seasons because I feel more like Jesus waiting for the nails than a wise man bearing gifts.

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