Trophy 9 - Christmas is when you get homesick. Even when you're home.

Well, and maybe Santa's. He's stretched out on the carpet, eyeing up a life size statue that resembles Milo's Venus. The great difference is that this figure is not wearing a cloth round its hips, thus revealing the genitals one would expect on a naked Cupid: small, perfect and male.

Santa doesn't seem to be disturbed by my androgynous statue, but I'm not to keen on a second opinion. While I wait for my desktop to start up, I stroke Santa's ears.

“Hey buddy,” I say. “Did I ever tell you about Elaine?”

Trophy 8 - Christmas is when you get homesick. Even when you're home.

Santa watches me clean up the mess with a big sponge and some carpet shampoo. When I'm done, he nudges me.

“You feeling sorry, little one?” I ask.

I don't want to hop to any conclusions, but he seems pretty sorry because he follows me into the bathroom, where I empty the bucket in the sink. He's been moulting a lot recently, so that when when I pick him up by the scruff of his neck, he turns my tailored jacket into an angora jumper. The loose hairs tickle my eyes and nose when I kiss his ears.

“Don't worry about it,” I say, “accidents happen.”

Still hugging the rabbit, I open the fridge with one hand and inspect the contents for a snack. Apart from blue cheese and carrots, there's nothing that doesn't need preparation. I don't fancy either of them so I close the door again and leave the kitchen.

What do other people do on a night like this, I wonder. They might go to the shop for a bottle of wine. Watch some telly. Go to the pub. Catch up on their administration. Make love to their other halves. Check their children's homework. Fuck knows. Those things are not me. I take Santa into my atelier with me – a double bedroom with an easel instead of a bed – and I paint, sculpt or edit videos. Nothing pretentious - I'm only a hobbyist. Unlike my dad, who is a proper artist and only ever attended the school of life, I did fine arts in uni and think it's a waste not to use any of my skills any more now that I've got a day job. But my work is not meant to be seen by any other pair of eyes than my own.

Trophy 7 - Christmas is when you get homesick. Even when you're home.

When I get home, Santa has peed all over the carpet. I find out when taking off my shoes and feeling my socks turn wet. Santa is sort of litter trained and normally prefers the newspapers in the kitchen, but today he must have been feeling rebellious. If I'd known I'd end up keeping a pet rabbit, I would never have chosen a deep pile carpet.

I didn't really choose Santa – which is not the same as saying that I didn't buy him. I bought him from a farm on December the 23^rd last year. Christmas Eve would be the reunion with my dad, whom I hadn't seen since he left my mother soon after my first suicide attempt. He would come up from Newport on Christmas Eve and spend the day with me. I was so nervous – both scared we would have nothing to talk about, and terrified that there would be too many hurtful things to say. I bought the rabbit because one of the few happy memories I have of my dad is when he took me outside one Christmas day and showed me how to kill a rabbit, take off the head and feet and strip it of its skin.

I've never been inclined to use this particular skill, but I bought the white Flemish Giant because it would give us something to do. At noon, we sat opposite each other in the living room, anticipating the doorbell. Me: dressed up in my pinstriped suit, clean faced, hair combed back with gel. The bunny: in a cardboard box on the table, wide eyed and shaking with fear.

At one, the rabbit yawned and tried to lie down. The box was too small for him. I was still sitting on the edge of my chair, watching him and said: “Don't worry, they'll be here any minute now.”

By two, I'd let him out of the box so that at least he could stretch out on the carpet.

At three, I was starting to get hungry and went up to the fridge. “Can I offer you anything?” I asked my only guest. I heated up two mince pies and offered the bunny a Brussels sprout. And another one.

By nine o'clock, I sat down to a vegetarian Christmas dinner on the floor of my living room, because the main ingredient was eating it with me. The 10lb rabbit turned out to have a great appetite and finished the plate of carrot tops and raw Brussels sprouts I made him.

My father didn't have a mobile phone and I was way too proud to call my mother and tell her my dad hadn't showed up. She'd had trouble hiding her disappointment when I told her I would be spending Christmas with my father, and had made a big song and dance of making different arrangements.

Santa's been living in my two bedroom flat ever since. I never got round to buying a hutch, and don't think he would accept it if I bought him one now, after all these months. Apart from pissing on the carpet, he's a lot less messy than the blokes I used to share my student house with anyway.

Dreaming of a white Christmas present

When we were in Brunel, it only used to snow when Freddie had so much coursework due that he had to make all nighters in the library. He practically looked as pale as the streets and didn't seem to enjoy the weather at all. However, the first time Cardiff was covered in snow this winter, he texted me: “Come out and play!”
Thinking of all the snowball fights we've had and the snowmen we've built, I'm convinced he loves the snow to bits. It must have been torture for him not to have the time to play with it during previous years!

Since he loves the snow so much, it wasn't difficult for me to think of a Christmas present this year. I took him to the Snow Centre in Hemel Hempstead for his first ski lesson ever....



As you can see in the video, he's a natural born skier. He didn't fall once, but soon started helping others get up and racing up the button lift to use his time on the slope to the max! His instructor said he has never experienced a student picking up on it this quickly: after one hour, he was ready to go on the main slope!

It's going to be hard to top this Christmas present in 2011!

PS. This video is my first attempt at video editing. My notebook runs on Ubuntu and I used Kino. It's not a very elaborate software package, so editing took about as much time as it took me to upload it on youtube. Bloody hell, about 70 minutes! If you've got any video editing tips for Linux users or any advice on how to make uploading video's onto youtube quicker, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Let's not fight this Christmas, just Shut Up and Eat!

The Baptist Christmas dinner

You were right not to go to the Baptist Christmas dinner, Andrada. I've got that allergic reaction you warned me about and now I can tell from experience: the soul is a terribly hard place to scratch when you don't have one.

It started out all right, the food was nice and I had great company (attracted by the price: two pounds for a proper dinner did the trick for many godless internationals). But after the main course, before dessert, there was the inevitable sermon. A girl on a chair started shouting at us that, on our way back to campus, we might get hit by bus.
“After you die,” she yelled, “God will put you in a dark room and say that he wants to watch a video with you. You'll think that's pretty cool, watching a film with God, but as soon as the tape starts, you realise it's your life you're watching. Everything you've done, said and thought is in there. And after you've seen it all, God will say all your friends and your family are at the door and they are going to watch this film with you too. Now you'll think: wait a minute, they're not supposed to know all that about me! I don't want them to see I did and thought all that!”
You can call me an exhibitionist, but I wouldn't mind at all. I actually thought it's a shame I don't believe in God, who could be My Personal Memoir Writer. Here I am, spending all my time and energy trying to make a spot-on summary of my life, trying to capture exactly what I'm all about, while the Christians have got their own personal documentary maker, who follows them around everywhere they go and tapes all their witty or endearingly silly thoughts.
Sure, I might feel uncomfortable about them seeing certain scenes and finding out about certain thoughts or feelings. But if my folks are to see a complete film about life, there's not a single fragment I would want to leave out. I wouldn't want them to think I did not do all that – hell no, they might think I'm boring or have not lived at all! I'm proud of my life, of every aspect of it, even though at times it can be rough and cheesy, filthy and uncomfortable, too sentimental and too inconsiderate. I have lived through it all, and I expect my spectators to do the same.
While I was pondering upon this, the girl screamed on about God sacrificing his only son for us and the fact that Christmas is all about giving presents.
“And the gift we are giving you tonight, is this: that tape can be erased!”
Oh no, I thought, don't erase it, please! And I begged my body to reject the poisonous gift I had stuffed down my throat on the spot. Oh, how I would have rejoiced in some proper projectile vomiting! It would have been the most appropriate and welcome throw up I've ever performed, easily beating all those times I got rid of superfluous alcohol in my system and the occasional fit of bulimia. But no such luck, the spiritual type-ex was down there.
I found some consolation in a glass of cider afterwards (no, they wouldn't serve alcohol for two pounds only): there was no tape to erase in the first place. But still, the Baptist Christmas dinner was the most tasteless food I've ever had, and I'm disgusted with myself for having eaten it. You were right, Andrada.

Christmas in Wonderland

“It's so dark,” said Alice to herself; “I can't even see my own eyelids when I close them.”
She took a step forward and felt something brush against her cheek.
“What's that?” she wondered, and reached for her face. It felt like living pieces of rope, and they were aiming for her ears when she tried to wipe them away.
“CHEW ON ME,” they whispered.
So many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice said: “I think I will,” and as soon as she opened her mouth a string slipped in. As she chewed the rabbit-hole became brighter and brighter, until she saw the White Rabbit in a corner, winding up an old cuckoo clock.
“Oh dear! Oh dear! Is it that late already,” he muttered.
“Excuse me,” said Alice, still fingering her face; “Do you know what this is?”
“Why, it's a Christmas tree, and it needs decorating. You'd better get on with it, dear, before it's too late!”
“What a curious looking Christmas tree that is!” said Alice. It looked, in fact, like a bunch of black rags hanging down from the ceiling. “It must be the roots!” she thought, for she was a wise little girl. A long root curled around her shoulders and reached up to her right ear, leaving sandy stains on her dress. “DECORATE ME,” it whispered.
“Don't just stand there doing nothing,” said the Rabbit while chewing on one of the roots and turning up the light in the room a little further. “Decorate it! Quick now!”
“I would love to,” she said politely; “But with what?”
The Rabbit rushed off into one of the corridors and left Alice with the Christmas tree. Soon her eye fell on a shine through marble that was lying on the floor.
“That will do,” she said, and picked it up. She tied the long root around the glass ball and stepped back to watch it dangle. As she let go, all the roots started waving and whispering in the same rhythm.
“Wait a second,” said Alice; “I know that song!” And so she did indeed, for the roots were singing:

Fast away the old year passes, falalalala lalalala
Hail the new, ye lads and lasses, falalalala lalalala
Sing we joyous, all together, falala lalala lalala
Heedless of the wind and weather, falalalala lalalala!

Christmas in Neverland

'Oh dear,' said Wendy, as she stepped out of the lovely little house the lost boys had built for her. 'Where is everybody?'
Peter, who kept watch outside, woke up and yawned. 'Who?' he asked, rubbing his eyes.
'John, Michael and the boys,' Wendy said and she looked worried. 'Oh Peter, do tell me where they are!'
'They must be home, under the ground,' he replied, but really, he had no idea where they were.
'Oh don't be morbid!' Wendy exclaimed. 'They're not dead, so why would they be buried?'
'You silly ass,' Wendy heard close to hear left ear. Then she screeched, for something had pulled her hair really hard.
'Tinker Bell!' she said sternly, and wiped the fairy dust off her shoulder. 'Do stop being so naughty and tell me where the boys have gone off to!'
Tink darted off to Peter and sat on his hand. She made the sound of little bells in the wind, and Peter had to translate it for Wendy.
'She says they are in the woods, Wendy, to find a tree for you.'
'Oh,' cried Wendy, 'A tree! For me? What sort of a tree, a Christmas tree perhaps?'
Tink laughed haughtily and flew off.
'What sort of a tree is that?' said Peter, and he got up.
'You don't know what a Christmas tree is?' she asked with great surprise.
'Of course I do,' he said, and felt for the first time that he ought to know. 'It looks just like an apple tree, but it's blossom isn't white but yellow, and instead of apples it yields christmasses.'
'Oh dear,' cried Wendy, 'you are so funny!' And then she told him about baby Jesus, going to church, decorating a pine tree and baking ginger cookies. 'It's the cosiest time of the year,' she said, 'because everybody loves each other during Christmas and all the grown ups stop fighting for two days.'
Peter got all excited and shouted that they definitely needed a Christmas tree.
'I'll find you the biggest tree in the forest,' he exclaimed, 'and please do bake me some of those delicious cookies!'
'I will,' Wendy smiled as she watched him fly off. And when he disappeared between the trees, it started to snow in Neverland.