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Written by Steve Ward
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Wednesday, 30 December 2009 |
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It's the start of another year for us all, writes Steve Ward. There is a miserable greyness that descends upon even the most optimistic soul at this time of year, and it drags on right through the winter until the days start to warm up a bit. Granted, even then the weather will still be grey, but at least it will be mild and grey instead of cold, wet and grey. However, there is one breed of creature for which the early days of January bring a small amount of cheer. The Edge columnist.
This fine publication is ideal material for whiling away a few minutes
on the train, having your hair dried, or even during the daily
constitutional. You can pick it up and put it down. Dip in and dip out.
That's what it's for. What it patently isn't is a
must-read-cover-to-cover, every-word-is-important piece of literature.
Except, of course, in the horrible period known as Christmas.
You know, those days that begin on December 24th in a boozy haze and
then drag interminably into early January. It's a period when pretty
soon you've reached saturation point. You can eat no more, have drunk
enough to float a battleship, and the TV stations are reduced to
re-runs of Christmas shows from 20 years ago and fourth rate films.
You've broken the ironic toy you were given for Christmas, can't face
the shops, and if you see another relative before April, you'll kill
them. In a word, you're bored. Bored enough to go for a walk. Bored
enough to watch horse racing. Bored enough…. to read the Edge from
cover-to-cover.
So, you see, for the Edge columnist, it's the one time of year you can
actually expect that someone other than your immediate family will be
reading all those words that have been slaved over so lovingly.
Anyway, that's by way of a very long build up to a little piece of
seasonal non-cheer that fits the mood perfectly. It seems that in
Walton on the Naze there is a group of people that have formed an
association at which like-minded individuals can converse on equal
terms with others of similar ilk. It's called the Bah-Humbug club, and
as you'll have guessed from the name, the members are not entirely
enamoured of Christmas.
In fact, they are so against the whole damn shooting match, that it's
not even enough to opt out and band together for a week to avoid
turkeys and streamers with great ostentation. No, they have taken it
one stage further. Not only will these admirable men (and you just know
for sure they are all males) ignore the C-word themselves, but they
won't be happy unless they ruin it for everyone else as well.
So, just to bugger-up any good cheer that may possibly have made it
past Boxing Day, in a truly brilliant piece of chutzpah, they make a
great show of eating reindeer. No cuddly Rudolphs for them, no siree.
Mr Red Nose is getting a bit warmer than he counted on, as big chunks
of his hind quarters are served with some fava beans and a nice little
chianti.
Having learned of these men, it's hard not to feel an admiration for
their ability to defy the social expectations. They've gone where many
would like to go, if only they had the nerve. Such positive and forward
looking action is entirely splendid.
Which makes it a big surprise that this wonderful association has been
instigated in Walton on the Naze. A bit of witch burning probably
wouldn't have been a big shock. Neither would have been a revelation
that instead of Christmas the inhabitants of that slightly backward and
wind-swept place had been occupied in some pagan rites involving goats
and not much clothing. The past, rather than the future, is what you'd
expect in WOTN.
So, at this particular time of year when it’s fashionable to hand out
awards, let's hear it for the good men of Walton's Bah-Humbug club for
leading humanity to the next level. They've brightened the start of the
year by daring to be different. However, there's one problem, and
unfortunately it undoes a lot of the goodwill they've built up in us
fellow misery-guts.
They do it all for charity.
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