It Tastes A Bit Like Chicken

For many people, the “festive feeling” seems to happen all of a sudden. Perhaps when the television start spewing festive infused adverts and idents, or when the Christmas lights get turned on in their local town or village. For me the Christmas feeling is like the onset of a disease. You might feel a few symptoms here and there, but the full debilitating effects of illness are a gradual process. The only time I can fully relax into the Christmas spirit is when I have achieved all my shopping for presents. Which is usually around December 29th.

I did actually go to see the Christmas lights get turned on in our village for the first ever time this year. Being a small village, it was understandably a quite humble affair. At one point I even heard the rather sinister sounding announcement that Santa was - I quote - “round the back of the barbers giving presents for a pound”. So it was a humility which walked a fine line between the festive and the squalid. But personally speaking, there just didn’t seem festive about freezing my arse off, staring at light bulbs on a cold November night. I'll just remember having to purchase a cup of chicken soup from one of the makeshift stalls, just so I could hold it and try to warm some feeling back into my hands. Don’t get me wrong, I did drink it. But the cup of soup served much better as a hand warmer than a meaty beverage. For starters, the broth seemed devoid of any meat. Obviously there was a kind of chicken vibe to it and I’ve little doubt a chicken had been involved somewhere along the line (perhaps in some sort of homeopathic sense), but there seemed to be no actual substantial lumps of meat to chew. There were lumps to chew, but they were technically large clumps of congealed stock powder, all with a sticky, salty phlegm-like texture. The only way to face swallowing them was to try and delude yourself they were small dumplings. But in your heart you were always conscious of the truth, and couldn’t help but feel a bit nauseated whenever one of the globules slipped down your throat. And it wasn’t even that pleasant Christmas sickness you get from the gluttonous indulgence Jesus likes you to have.

The thickness of this particular broth also caused a bit of a problem. After keeping my hands warm a while, the cup was still rather hot, so the first sip I braved was taken with a degree of caution. The temperature seemed quite agreeable. And having allowed this initial taster to build by confidence up, I took a bigger slurp. But the cold weather had only really cooled the surface, like it would when forming an icy layer on top of a pond. Consequently I was left with damp-glazen eyes, quivery face and puffy lips as I had to force burning lava down my gullet. I suppose I could have spat rather than obliged a torturous swallow. But it just felt inappropriate to expel translucent creamy liquid out of a spasming face whilst in the presence of so many young children. It wouldn’t be fair to traumatise them. They’d already had endure the sinister grotto round the back of the barbers to get whatever presents Santa had for them.

So this day of soup-angst did little to fill me with the festive spirit. And neither did the Xmas-ing up of television. I tried to watch a movie about the superhero Batman the other day. Christmas is largely the only time when I can indulge in such schlock without feeling pangs of guilt or the abhorrent self-loathings of a timewaster. But clearly my mindset is still too set in work-mode to enjoy Hollywood frivolity. I sat through the antics of the caped crusader witnessing futuristic transport systems being torn apart, buildings getting irreparable damaged, innocent by-standers suffering injury. And I did so with a sense of great civil servant’s distraction, tallying all the insurance claims that would inevitably hit the council of Gotham City. It may have been all been a bit of harmless rollercoaster action to you, but all I could see was an unfolding bureaucratic nightmare. And not just for the Gotham council either. What about that Batmobile tearing around causing all them cars to crash and flip over on busy highways? Batman may well want to live a life of shadowy anonymity but is this really any excuse for him not to have the insurance policy like the rest of us? It just seems irresponsible; inconsiderate to the other road users really. Particularly for any victims who only have Third Party cover for their vehicles. What the hell happen to them? The premiums are going to be sky-high in the next financial year. It’s bad enough here in the Midlands, where thick people make a claim against the council after tripping over on a paving slab. So you wouldn’t catch me moving to Gotham City. Given the financial impact all that mayhem would have on public sector finances, I’d be out of job in a week. I very much doubt they’d have the budgets for me to book The Chippendales or Derek Acorah when they perpetually seem to have a city to rebuild. My best prospect might well be a career of hefty financial claims of my own, probably from soup-related injuries at Christmas gatherings.

Incidentally, I would not really sue over the soup burns I have endured. I maintain enough dignity to take responsibility for my own actions. When I slugged the aforementioned scorching broth, it may well have caused aural blistering, stripping the roof of my mouth. But as the burnt skin flaked away, dropping on to my tongue, it didn’t seem so bad. The way I saw it, at least there was something more authentically meaty to chew on beyond the bobbing tumours of powdery lumps; even if it was the flesh from my own mouth. I’m lead to believe human flesh tastes a bit like chicken anyway.