The Paolo that stole Christmas

PAOLO KERNAHAN

WAS local Christmas music always this bad?

People complain about the musical styling of Mariah Carey, but have they ever heard of Scrunter?

I mean, don't get me wrong; the man is a legend – an institution. But so is St Ann's.

The first real Christmas since covid19 plunged the world into chaos and isolation has got me thinking about what the season means to me.

As it happens, much of our Christmas cultural identity hinges on music. Some studies infer that Christmas ditties move shoppers to spend more. Perhaps it heightens a latent festive vibe; it's just waiting to burst out of us ­– kind of like the xenomorph in Aliens.

Truth be told, I didn't mind Christmas music in my youth. As I draw steadily nearer to the finality of life, though, my tolerance for the genre has thinned.

In the grocery aisle recently, a popular local Christmas standard started blaring on the audio system. For the feelings it evoked, it might as well have been an oil fire in the grocery kitchens.

"Aye, aye, Maria! Aye, aye, Maria!" – the singer (Singing Francine) strains noticeably to hit the high notes. It's not soca parang, but banshee parang. Yet this song has been around since Jesus was a boy. It and other classics are dusted off each Yuletide season and unmercifully thrown back into circulation.

I'm not, mind you, slagging off our cherished artistes.

Scrunter is our Bing Crosby. Is he tuneful? Well, he's tuneful in a garrulous macaw sort of way. But if you're sitting in a porch with long-lost friends and family and someone puts on the old Scrunts, you kinda know where the evening is headed, although you might scarcely remember it later.

Still, with this condition I have that's loosely coined by specialists as "miserable old bastard" syndrome, Christmas has become a humbug.

It's quite a shame. This time of year was once my favourite. Now it's more akin to Carnival for me. I hunker down and wait for it to be over. For example, today there's nothing more "Christmassy" than Christmas traffic.

I went to run an errand the other day in Chaguanas. Under the best of circumstances, congestion at the Price Plaza roundabout is tough. At this time of year, it's like a hopelessly blocked toilet. You sit there in motionless traffic burning up the government's expensive gas listening to Scrunter's throaty ode to pork on the radio.

Usually, I handle Christmas like an impending hurricane; I gather my supplies in advance of landfall. Everyone in my orbit is getting gifts from either Superpharm or Bhagwansingh's. Don't scoff at that flashlight! You'll remember me lovingly when T&TEC starts playing up.

It's OK to be this curmudgeonly if you live alone, revelling in your hermitude.

Admittedly, it's not fun for others who are involved. The madam has for years been needling me to put up the Christmas tree; it's been a while. I have the same tree you have (unless you're rich) – the one with mange.

After it's assembled I have to sweep up all these shed bristles that get into everything. Then, in March, when I'm taking it down, getting it back into the box is like trying to get toothpaste back into the tube. Did the tree sprout additional limbs in my living room?

It's not an ornery disposition you're picking up here (although there is probably a tincture of that). I've grown to appreciate a dramatically stripped-down version of the season – no orgiastic spending or consumption. No flitting about frantically to this shop and that grocery in a manic bid to keep up appearances. My curtains aren't to be admired, but to keep prying eyes out.

Carols at King's College at Cambridge on the BBC. A single pastelle, a modest wedge of black cake, and meandering, mindless ole talk with friends not seen in an age.

Another precious Christmas to spend with my elderly mother as her hourglass pours out its last of life and light.

I like to think of it all as a new-fashioned, minimalist way of celebrating the season.

Nothing is of greater value than the gift of either my presence or my absence. Both ways you can be sure of getting what you desire most.