A week to go before Christmas

 A week to go before Christmas

Well, it's exactly a week to go before Christmas and it's beginning to look like Christmas everywhere we go, although not every corner of the globe. For the lovely Jewish population, the lighted candles were finally blown out last Thursday but Chanukah will always fall either a couple of days before Christmas or overlap Christmas Day. Next year the first Chaunkah candles will be lit on Christmas Day. Oh for the joys of the leap year, hey?

Anyway it's seven days to go and around the corner from the family home, some of us witnessed, for the first time, our first sighting of a  Christmas tree. It was all very jolly and festive with a smattering of residents from the local community, some home made mince pies sprinkled with a liberal dusting of sugar on top, mulled wine to warm the cockles of your heart and a splendid singer warmly chanting the familiar Christmas songs to loved ones, families and friends the world over. 

For some people this week represents nothing but darkness, solitude and isolation. These are the voiceless, the helpless ones, those who are despairing. These are the homeless who are destined to throw a warm blanket over themselves but then shiver in the freezing cold of the London streets without a roof over their heads and a place to call their own. We tend to think of the homeless as the people who were neglected, disenfranchised and alienated by those who simply didn't want to know them any more. 

At Christmas time, the homeless are always highlighted in TV advertisements in extensive campaigns because they are so richly deserving of our sympathy. They are the ones whose relationships may have been soured by petty domestic quarrels. Or maybe they just couldn't cope anymore with their own personal demons and travails. So there they are, huddled away in shop doorways, curled up like a ball with nothing more than a cap next to them and a tattered cardboard sign pleading for a couple of pounds just for a cup of tea and lunch.

Now though in the highest of political circles, they are now a helpless victim of circumstances. But since when did politicians ever care for the traumatic plight of the homeless? According to one celebrated member of Rishi Sunak's Tory government, the homeless have made their spartan existence a lifestyle choice. What we now have is a government who are not so much completely out of touch with the real world but are so heartless, callous and patronising that if the roles were reversed you wonder if Cabinet ministers could endure harsh winters with nowhere to go or live.

But once again the tents are now multiplying in London's West End and the scene is so full of contrasts and paradoxes that it is rather like living in two different countries. On the one hand there are those window shopping looking for another affluent bundle of Christmas presents, wandering the streets of Oxford and Regent Street while weighed down with merry merchandise and bags groaning with all of that festive paraphernalia. It is one of the most familiar sights of the year and it does only happen once a year.

Meanwhile for whatever reason- and it may be perfectly understandable- the homeless and poor will continue to pull up their winter coat hoods, hold out their imploring hands and beg for mercy. Their faces are unshaven, totally unkempt, their appearance haggard and weather beaten. Their eyes are bloodshot and sunken, cheeks pinched and red, their clothes  now filthy and there is dirt on every part of their anatomy. It must be both demeaning and degrading for those who can never smile or put on a brave facade. But they must be optimistic because this must be their only salvation.

You are reminded of the lyrical prose of George Orwell in Down and Out in London when the great essayist and novelist recounted the distressing experience of trying to imagine what it must have been like to live the life of a tramp, dossing on park and street benches, fending for himself and realising that it was hell on earth and unbearable to boot.

You begin to wonder what it must be like to just sit there for hour on hour just waiting patiently for  something to keep them going. You admire their hardiness, their forbearance, the suffering, gritty stoicism and their powers of endurance. Morally you find yourself on the horns of a dilemma. Do you kindly drop a couple of pounds in their caps or do you resort to cynicism? Maybe they are feeling sorry for themselves and they should just pick themselves up, get a well paid job in the City and all will be fine and dandy.

But hold on. These are people who may be a homeless because society has turned its back on them vehemently. Maybe they have a mental or physical disability that prevents them from working properly. This could be the truth and something that happened a long time ago. It could be that there are perfectly good reasons as to why they're homeless, extenuating factors in their lives that might have left them in this terrible mess. We jump to easy conclusions, make too many honest assessments about the homeless and we invariably end up with nothing but compassion because that's all we can do.

And in the end we find ourselves back at square one. We look to our politicians for wise words and homespun guidance but then we look at the Tories who don't really seem to give a damn about any of us and when they do so it may be grudgingly because they feel obliged to do so. The image of the Prime Minister serving soups and hot meals to the hungry at roughly this time last year is almost sickening and benevolent at the same time. 

For Rishi Sunak and his Tory colleagues, this is well and truly the season to be jolly. They must be seen to being friendly and accommodating, ready to muck in as and when necessary. Sunak has to be portrayed as a Prime Minister with heart because if he fails in his duty then the snipers and critics are ready and waiting to indulge in character assassination. Outside 10 Downing Street there is a huge and  impressively colourful Christmas tree and yet behind those doors, there must be a man who is privately running scared, terrified that the Tories may take a hammering in next year's General Election and, to all intents and purposes, hung over with amnesia.

Yes folks, Rishi Sunak, at that comprehensive Covid 19 inquiry, has conveniently forgotten all about those important details that he was supposed to be jotting down through the coronavirus. But Sunak pauses for breath, looking both awkward and anguished. He keeps looking down sorrowfully at his notes and has no idea or recollection of what happened from March 20 2020 onwards. It's all a bewildering blur and please could he go home because there are more pressing issues on his mind.

And just a couple of words for the likes of one Boris Johnston, who used to be Prime Minister, Dominic Raab and Matt Hancock. Boris of course should have been a capable pair of hands on the ship's tiller but sadly went missing when it mattered. First it was the confusion and then those embarrassing blunders, the delaying tactics, the ridiculous obfuscation when somebody should have told him to make himself abundantly clear and just the buffoonish incompetence. There was also of course the troubled blond hair which refused to be combed, the scruffy and dishevelled appearance at Downing Street conferences and a stubborn refusal to apologise for his mindless misdemeanours.

Matt Hancock as we all know now, had other thoughts on his mind rather than Covid 19. When Hancock became unforgivably distracted we knew exactly what he thought of the global virus. Then there was Dominic Raab and the bloke who kept driving all the way up to the other end of Britain just to rave the night away with his friends and pretending that one of his parents was unwell. But of course he didn't mean to behave or conduct himself in the most appalling fashion. It just happened or didn't as be it the case.

Then there were the cheese and wine parties at the height of Covid 19, the blatant ignorance of all the rules that shouldn't have been broken but were. There were the incidents and accidents to quote an old Paul Simon song. There was the Boris Jackanory moment when, stuck for words, he resorted to a story about his weekend with his new baby when Peppa Pig suddenly assumed an importance all of its own.

But here we are a week before Christmas and everybody is getting excited. Sadly the old traditions are no longer the ones we used to remember. There are no TV programmes on Christmas Day where Santa Claus dutifully carries a huge sack of presents to young children who may be in hospital. And lest we forget Top of the Pops is certainly not worth watching anymore if indeed it's still on. There were also the TV specials where everything was covered in snow, Wham were No 1 in the charts with Last Christmas and everybody charged their glass with a bottle of port from the cupboard. It was Christmas after all and booze is mandatory.

There is a stillness and feverish anticipation. The shop and supermarket tills are still ringing with the resonance of Jingle Bells and you can't walk anywhere or meet anybody in the street without feeling as though you should also extend seasons greetings to them. The goose is no longer getting fat and the turkeys are being prepared for the great Christmas family gathering. It really shouldn't get any better. Of course the kids love Christmas. They always have done so and why ever not.

Whatever you do just remember to get another consignment of wrapping paper for Uncle Trevor's vast array of new Santa jumpers festooned with all those glorious designs. Oh of course you'll have to hurry up because the Tube trains won't be running their normal service on Christmas Day because they'll be shut and have been for decades. One more thing. Have a brilliant Christmas everybody and don't forget to stick that crepe paper hat on your head and go easy on the chocolates because some of us have cravings for anything associated with chocolates. Have a good one folks.