The Festering Season

Christmas is not my favourite time of year, although I've mellowed towards it as I've got older.

Back in the late 1980's and early 90's I actually boycotted it for quite a while, for a number of reasons, ranging from my then-idealistic stance towards religion and capitalism, to an unfortunate reaction by my Mum soon after I came out, years ago. She told me that my grandfather would be unhappy with me bringing a partner home for Christmas (which I read as her being uncomfortable with the idea). Fine, I said, then I just won't come home for Christmas at all; and I didn't, for at least five or six years.

During this phase of my life I also refused to give Christmas presents. No I wasn't being cheap; it was a stance - admitedly a slightly pretentious one! - in reaction to the consumer frenzy which Christmas has become; and wherever possible I tried to give back any presents I received (an act which one year greatly upset my late paternal grandmother), while actively encouraging friends not to give me any presents at all.

To explain my position a little more: it frustrated me that everyone seemed so accepting of a social custom that demanded we show our love by giving presents on the one state-and-church sanctioned day of the year. If we really love someone, why not give them a present on some other day, a day that has special significance for your shared relationship for example, instead of on the obligatory Chri$tma$ Day?

These days I do Christmas every couple of years. Traditionally my Mum and my older sister Megan take turns in hosting a family Christmas at their homes in Numurkah (north of Shepparton, in VIC) and in Canberra respectively. I'll usually go to my mum's when it's her turn to host the event, although not every year; and to my sister's slightly less often (due to a combination of factors that include distance, the expense of flying, and a general dislike for being trapped in Canberra's sterile suburbs - if you're reading this, big sister, it's nothing personal, I assure you!).

Other years I'll spend the day ignoring Christmas as much as I can; perhaps doing a radio shift at RRR, or DJ'ing the night before and sleeping through most of the day before going out in the evening to some suitably Bachanalian festivity ie a club or band or party.

This year, I'm actually starting to get nervous about the whole bloody day, to be totally honest.

Because my sister and her family have headed overseas for the first time (they get a white Christmas, in Switzerland I believe) Mum was feeling at a loose end, and consequently asked if she could spent Christmas with me.

"Sure," I said, "but bear in mind that because I largely ignore the event, it won't be very flash: no tree, tinsel, cards, wreaths etc. I will cheerfully drink and consume lots, though."

As an aside, a Watts family Christmas traditionally begins with champagne, strawberrys and croissants for breakfast, and gets more decadent from there. It's one part of the festival which I have no problem with, and if that makes me hypocritical, so be it. It also amuses me greatly that you'd be called a lush if you offered someone a glass of bubby at 9am on almost any other day of the year, so maybe Christmas has its good points after all...

Back to the point of this post now: and time to cut to chase.

Because I'd said that a Christmas day at my flat could be a bit spartan, Mum had the idea of two of us should perhaps have Christmas lunch with my Uncle Trevor and his family out in Epping. I was supposed to wrangle us an invite but procrastinated; eventually Mum did it herself, and so that's where we're going now.

Uncle Trevor is my late father's youngest brother, and an ex-army careerist (he drove tanks in the armoured corp, and I believe was responsible for writing off at least one, although that my just be a family myth).

A couple of years ago he and I had what narrowly avoided being a major argument over the whole 'children overboard' affair during my first ever Christmas day at his place (it was during my Collingwood renaissance, and I'd hoped we would bond).

Trev was firmly convinced that the 'illegal immigrants and queue jumpers' about the SIEV IV literally threw their children into the ocean in an effort to help stop their ship from sinking, and was siding with Howard's 'We don't want those kind of people in our country' argument.

I took the view that the event never happened, that Howard had seized on a fiction in order to help push his racist line about border protection, and had blatantly lied to the Australian people about the event in order to help influence the 2001 federal election, held just one month after the alleged children overboard affair. By December 2001 the truth had already began to circulate, with senior navy officers stating that no children were ever thrown overboard. Trevor didn't believe this, which given his military background, now strikes me as incredibly ironic.

After things got heated, I changed the topic to the fortunes of the Collingwood football club, essentially a neutral discussion, and things cooled down a little.

This year, in fact only last week, Trevor forwarded an e-mail to me applauding the actions of the Sydney thugs who rioted at Cronulla, the original author of which took an 'it's our country and if you won't assimilate fuck off" line - as well as encouraging those people reading the e-mail to forward it on until it reached the "PC bigrade" and woke them up as to what most Australians "really think."

I read the e-mail, shook my head, and deleted it, knowing that Trevor had probably sent it to me deliberately.

So anyway, I'm actually starting to get really uncomfortable about spending Christmas Day at my uncle's place. Essentially, I think he's a bit of a redneck, although he can be a nice guy at times, too; and his wife Brenda is really lovely; as are their kids, my cousins Nicholas and Julia.

Part of the reason I'm uncomfortable about spending the day with my uncle is that I know that, sooner or later, the issue of the Sydney riots, immigration and multiculturalism will arise, with Uncle Trev and myself taking radically different positions.

Essentially I can either bite my tongue when the topic is raised (Mum has suggested that I politely say 'I disagree with your position, but let's not argue about it - an eminently sensible decision but after a boozy Christmas lunch I have no idea if I'll be capable of such an action); or I can help create an uncomfortable, even antagonistic situation on Christmas Day by having an argument with Trevor when everybody else is trying to have fun.

Either way, I'm really not looking forward to going out to Epping any more.

Damn it, why didn't I just tell Mum that she was welcome to have Christmas here so that the two of us could just have some drunken quality time together?

Ho bloody ho, anyway. Have a safe and happy one, my dears!