Alan Coleman

I love Christmas, always have done. I can remember vividly getting worked up into a frenzy as Christmas came closer, school finished and family started to congregate in houses far too small for the purpose.

Looking back, it was all about the build up as the day itself was always, for some reason or another, a bit of an anti climax. The waiting,  the familiar smells and tastes, The Poseidon Adventure on our portable black and white TV, the old man disappearing up the pub and Mum struggling to cook all that food for all those people. Happy days.

As I got older and started going out and drinking myself, the focus seemed to turn towards Christmas Eve as the pinnacle of the season’s excitement. Finishing work, a few days off, beering it up in decorated boozers and round people’s houses. The continuous soundtrack of Slade and The Ronnettes blaring from juke boxes and Halfords aftermarket car stereos. More Happy days.

One particular Christmas Eve I came home shitfaced and vomited on the sofa, couldn’t be bothered to clear it up so just turned the cushion over hoping nobody would notice. It was my Grandma who came back from church the next morning and bubbled me to the old man. Very fucking Christian Grandma, cheers.

By that point Christmas Day had become one big blur, the whole thing mired by an unearthly hangover and paranoia about the previous nights activities.  Being uncontrollably drunk in front of the family, warm cans of lager, steamed up windows, shitty moods and dried up Turkey. The reality of Christmas.

Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve and as usual I can’t wait. In a couple of weeks I’ll have forgotten the tears, hangovers and the shit presents and will be wishing it was Christmas all over again.

Happy Days indeed.

When I was younger I used to read small colorful comic books about war called, Commando. You can buy them concatenated as huge volumes in bigger bookshops. Gripping and predictable stories from all wars about fighting and destruction. I couldn’t get enough of it, the struggle between good and evil laid bare by Tommies with stubble pitted against skinny and monocled Jerry officers with leather gloves. Great stuff, honestly. Like with most things in life though I eventually grew out of it, I can’t remember when or why in particular but for some reason one day I was into reading Dick Francis.

I grew up, but as I look around me the real stories of our current wars still seem to take on the same Commando comic theme. Huge tabloid lettering laid onto pictures of ‘OUR BOYS’ in action. Enemy kill counts and detailed tales of bravery and valour, all complimented with big regimental cap badges and motto’s.

The very same simplicity that attracted me to stories of war in the first place is being used in the next generation to flog copy of tabloid rubbish to the masses. It’s an effective and fairly cynical tactic, although not new if one remembers the shameful coverage of the Falklands Conflict.

What bothers me most about this kind of sanitisation is the effect it’s had on how we’ve have come to view warfare. Not as a horrific and destructive waste of life and culture, but as a kind of triumphalist entertainment that leaves the reading itching for more excitement. Pictures of soldiers firing from the hip are great for paper sales, recruitment figures and flag waving, but behind the comic book stubble lies a terrifying pit of betrayal and damage for everyone involved.

We are simply kidding ourselves as adults in very much the same way that Commando Comic writers did as children. The idea that ‘OUR BOYS’ and ‘Harry the Homecoming Hero’ are somehow made of steel and will overcome evil with British grit and determination is ludicrous. Don’t get me wrong, I love the armed forces as much as the next bloke. But turning them into comic book heroes to hide the inconvenient reality of war will only exacerbate the disappointment of our eventual defeat. Worse still, it’ll make it easier for small religious men in suits to wage war with other peoples children.

It’s always been easy, conservatism.

Not much thought has ever been required to identify with its principles, policies or morality. The way that almost everything can be simplified into channels of right and wrong provides a tempting path for those wishing to easily convince themselves of their fortitude. There’s plenty of company too, family, friends and religion will almost certainly line up and acquiesce, because it’s easy to do so. Safety in numbers, mob culture and the comfort of knowing that if others agree with you, your opinions must be right.

The media also provides for a willing soundboard, often leading the thought process with an intoxicating channel of hysteria. Knee jerk reactions being the easiest headlines, fewer and bigger letters on the page. The ultimate business model, everyone’s a winner. Everyone.
This isn’t party politics I’m talking about here either, for Labour and the Tories each perpetrate their own sub brand of conservatism. As such, conservatism is often wrongly associated with the Conservative Party, twenty years ago this may have been a fair assumption, now it would display simple naivety. Labour or Tory, everyone’s a winner, the reoccurring theme.

The simple fact is when it comes to left wing politics, more thought and brain power is required to reconcile the morality of being a decent person. An example is why practically all comedians have left wing sympathies, that’s unless you’re Jim Davison or Bernard manning of course.

Today, a proud black man called Toyin Agbetu had the decency and self belief to stand up and confront the establishment. He walked forward and interrupted a service at Westminster Abbey by denouncing the Queen and Tony Blair a disgrace, and yelling that they should be ashamed of themselves. I couldn’t believe my eyes, it honestly doesn’t get any better than that, apart from when Buckingham Palace caught fire just before the Golden Jubilee!

Piety was in his element. A big church with religious leaders in flowing white robes, him at the front with the aristocracy and a sun tan. Only a roof separating him from the almightily judgment of history, or the fiction onto which he places so much of our faith. The old dear sits opposite mumbling to herself on autopilot in the same outfit she always wears, just a different colour. Her buffoon hangs around looking as old as he’s always done, half stunned, half dead. Those two will never die.

As Africa wallows in an unbreakable cycle of poverty and debt, Piety and his white middle class friends mark the abolition of slavery with tokenism. The fact that they choose to do so in a church is indicative of the outrageously deluded nature of religion, worship and belief. It’s proper church stuff, the idea that a preened service full of dignitaries will somehow provide some solace to history before all the worshippers get driven back to their obscene wealth. The whole scenario is about as Blair as it gets, and about as far removed from Africa as Comic Relief or Lenny Henry.

It reminds of Piety’s self important piece about Africa being a stain on the conscience of the world. More words, more tokenism. He must have been dreaming of that little number to the Arch Bishops soothing words, that was before Toyin Agbetu dared to spoil the party.

And as the man of the moment was lead from the church, Piety winced and did that telltale sideways head movement that people do when things get fucked up. The rest of the congregation, seemingly selected on the basis of being ugly, looked on disgust, which is slightly ironic given the occasion. The plan was spoilt, it was Agbetu’s day. And when he pointed to the sun tanned suit behind the high alter of smug, and told Piety that he should be ashamed of himself, Toyin Agbetu was spot on.

Respect.

I was thinking about Sgt Steve Roberts this morning, the soldier from the 2nd Royal Tank Regiment who died in Iraq because he didn’t have body armour to protect him.

What upsets me most about his death is the waste involved, his life was simply squandered due to a lack of resources. He didn’t die leading his men in battle or trying to save someone’s life, he died because a man in a suit somewhere decided that he didn’t want to afford Sgt Roberts’s regiment a basic level of personal protection.

And because money is spent on more important things, like a new sign for the Deputy Prime ministers Office for example, people like Sgt Roberts continue to perform unimaginably dangerous jobs without the support they deserve. And he did so not because he was ordered, but because that was the sort of bloke he was. More importantly, that’s the sort of people they are.

So not only has a life cut needlessly short, but a regiment is now short of one of its most important ranks, Sergeant. The people young soldiers and officers turn to for advice, safety and recognition. The bloke that looks after everyone and says simple things like, “Well done lads, get your heads down and meet me back here in two hours.”

We know that soldiers are made of different stuff, and more often than not perform way beyond the call of duty. But it is that precise quality that allows others to take advantage of them in the worst way possible. Consider here the Metropolitan Police. The idea of Jon Reid asking them to venture out onto the mean streets of St Johns Wood without body armour is unimaginable. It wouldn’t happen, and rightly so, but the army have always been an easy target for accountants and politicians. Whether its trying to shave off a few thousand from next years budget, or posing for tabloid photographs with real men, they’re an easy touch.

Over the last few days, in the run up to Christmas, I’ve also been thinking about his wife Samantha and what she’ll be doing whilst we’re all spending time with our nearest and dearest. What will go through her head when she wakes up and realises again, that her husband isn’t there to wish her a Merry Christmas.

And what of Tony Blair? Consider what will be going through his head as he gets ready for church, the good Christian that he is.