Xmas in Trump's America (Again...)

Eggnog. No plum pottage. Ditto mince pies or brawn (alas). Which church in the hood does midnight mass again? Welcome to the festive vulgarity of Christmas in Trump's America. 

It's a holy time for superstition and self harm. Take stodgy English festive grub. Buying it was never a prob in ye olde cock-a-bang (Bangkok). Just trek to Villa Market on Sukhumvit Road. The pricey, high-end expat grocery store stock Tiptree puds by Wilkin & Sons for Baht 1000, Walkers mince pies, and Ecclefechan tartes. You can even a bag a real Fraser fir Xmas tree at Baht 5000+. However, I'm no longer doing the holy day in Buddhist Thailand. I'm spending it in Atlanta, Georgia, USA, yet again. Ho-Ho-Ho or Hey Nonny No?  

Mustn't grumble. No humble pie here in Trumpland. Not with daily entertainment via the impeachment hearings live on NPR; not to mention the hopeless hopefuls of the Democrat Party ripping one another apart on the race to be contender. Everything is too emotive here. No rational, logical analysis. No "nuances and complexities" either. Everything seems skewed. Hmm, perhaps it's time to reread the 1960 political classic The Making of the President by Theodore H. White. Or listen to its recording, from an age less satiric than or own, whilst trimming the ivy and holly about my private house in Taco Town? 

Droll comments about the 2020 election race have not gone down well with Democrat friends. Intolerant liberals and proud taxpayers who entertain no criticism about the punch drunk performance of Joe Biden on the campaign trail. But what of the others? I'm glad Kamala Harris dropped out. That was a non-starter. And what of Tulsi Gabbard, is she really Trotsky Garbage like Mrs Clinton hints? She has a LOT of advertising on the Daily Mail. Hmm, sleepy Joe Biden does-not. Who's funding the gorgeous Tulsi? I dare not debate nor speculate; not even to Democrat friends, intolerant liberals or proud taxpayers. 

Now I'm on the hustle for an Xmas pud in Yankland. And mince pies. The latter confuses the natives. They think minced meat, not fruit. And a tree. A real one. Home Depot is the best spot for a bargain. At least it won't cost a hundred quid like Portobello Road back home in London. And where to midnight mass? How about the local Catholic shebeen on Boulevard? Not tried, nor tested. How about back to Virginia Highland and the Episcopalian bungalow? The gaffer there was a nice chap. The congregation civilized. And there's always a bar crawl back home. Best not. Get's nippy that time of year. Don't want to wake up dead of exposure on the holy day of five and twentieth. 

What about the sheer fun of Christmas-Day disturbances? Should I stay up till 3 AM singing carols and getting bombed on cocktails like the Royal Family allegedly do on Xmas Eve? Perhaps not this year. I wouldn't want to go to church service the next morrow and fall asleep in the pew "to the dull sermon of a stranger" like old Samuel Pepys did way back in 1660. Enthused by the restoration of Charles II, he blamed seasonal excess on a kingly feast; a shoulder of mutton and a chicken whole. That's no puritan fast.   

Who's to blame for all this nonsense? Charles Dickens. Ever since the publication of A Christmas Carol in 1843 the author popularized the very idea of the season and its day of reflection and renewal. Wrongs get righted. Reparations sometimes made. Forget the anxiety of a terrible year, or decade, there was more cause for such in 1843 than now. Eating. Chatting. Jokes. Wine. Good food. Good company. Still, some opt out, some hate Christmas life altogether. Terrible cooking. Gift wrapping. Buying presents. No presents. Sibling rivalries and family hostilities. Stress. Panic. Agony. More than enough to brine a turkey. 

I am a passionate fan of Christmas and not a Grinch... However, the one day that brings out full Grinch at a switch is New Year's Eve. There is no obligation for fun and japes there. I'd rather sit alone in front of the TV in Taco Town with an Xmas box of Quality Street (if I could find one at Publix or Kroger in the USA). I don't wish to dwell on the enduring apoplexy of New Year's Eve. It ruins the Christmas excitement.  Sitting in the glow of a church pew, or next to a roaring blaze with a glass of eggnog, in an insane world of upheaval and change, Christmas endures wherever an Englishman finds himself. Magical. Constant. Peaceful. It really is the most wonderful time of the year.