FIRE DOG

There's something very special
about the time of year
when Christmas wraps around us
with end December cheer.
The hardest heart may soften
the cold perhaps to warm
and for a fleeting moment
there's shelter from the storm.
Children stir in slumber
their hopes beneath the green
and will they won't they contemplate
the presents of their dream.
The kitchen smells of roasting
of spice and heat and sprout
the family kiss each other
or brush a festive pout.
The Queen comes on the tele
and with reverence we hear
how well she reigned all over us
and next her Diamond Year.
The fire dog sits and takes it in
enjoys the extra food
she too is feeling Christmassy
or maybe that's our mood.
Does it really matter
if only for one day
we maybe think of some else
some other different way.
If inner true contentment
can find in you a place
on Christmas Day may you be
full of season's grace.

BUCKS AND FIZZ.

My champagne cork has never popped perfectly. Nothing has ever been as precise or as well ordered as it is in the magazines or on the tele. Even though I've been to some pretty glitzy places, on yachts, in top hotel suits, manor houses, chateaux, helicopters, ski lodges, island escapes and film sets, nothing deemed top notch has ever been like it is painted or talked about, like it's supposed to be through the rose tinted lens. The cork rarely pops from out of my bottle at exactly the right moment, in precisely the right way. It sometimes breaks up on partial emergence and the remaining stump has to be unceremoniously dug out or worse still pushed back which gives the wine instant extra gritty body it doesn't deserve. Alternatively it may fly out with such startling premature force that it ricochets off the ceiling catching the person you are trying to impress and inflicting a sharp cork burn on her cheek which is then quickly flushed away by the torrent of white foaming spume ejaculating from the bottle you are frantically waving about like some dithering India rubber buffoon. On most occasions it will probably come out with your tug and make no more noise than a bill hitting the door mat giving the whole celebration just as much excitement as the opening of a brown envelope. Pulling corks from Champagne bottles like James Bond is just not how it happens at my gatherings for such things. My world always falls short of the neat well ordered glossy one we are encouraged to expect.

On the other hand the rough bits have always been portrayed as rough as I imagine they are. Black and white photos of the starving in Africa or the Humbrol paintings by the artist who should have won this year's Turner Prize, George Shaw, are spot on. Stories of drought or Tsunami are vividly recounted and totally believable in their horrid detail. None of them would be short of their frightful mark. We sob as we watch children in need and text Sir Terry with promises of help as we mop away the distress. It's an annual TV extravaganza that makes Kleenex rich. We look forward to it and it doesn't fail to satisfy and each year we give more and more.

Why is this? And why is our expectation of good short of the mark? Very few of us can imagine Heaven while most of us can envisage Hell and all its damnation. I think it is because we are encouraged to strive for perfection, to shop for the "best", to go for gold, reach for the stars, smell like we're worth it. We're not encouraged to take part in earth quakes or genocide and there in lies the answer. We are sold the good things in life and not the bad even though it's sometimes the good things in life that make it bad. We pay to stay in the best, we struggle to climb that ladder of excellence and strive for perfection. The first thing a big lottery winner does is buy a new car, the second is to visit Disney Land. Both will disappoint and neither will live up to their imagined brilliance. That is why disappointment prospers.

So why are we let down? If we accepted reality a little more mightn't we find reality a better option? The anti-capitalist occupy protests that are cropping up and fading away all over the world are also a victim of the reality check. What exactly are the protestors expecting? What is their dream? They don't have a decent tag line between them and their collective disorganisation will mean that they will fail. To squat in a cold tent on a concrete pavement is not really an alternative to even the lowliest that Premier Inns has on offer.The London rioters took the flat screen t.v's and flashy trainers because they were told that these were the things to have and because they were allowed to by the police who were just not there. How funny that on the day of "the keep your hands off my pension" strike it was the shops that won. Shopping and often spending money we have not got on things we do not want is the hobby of our times.

So to be an anti-capitalist is a bit like becoming a Methodist instead of a Roman Catholic.

I'm not sure what the answer is other than to be happy with your lot. I agree that if your lot happens to be a little then you'll be forgiven for wanting a little more. It will sadly never ever be fare shares for all until the day when the air and water run out and even then there will be those who will survive just a little longer than the rest of us, those whose champagne corks always pop perfectly.