A Very Rees-Mogg Christmas: J for "Jingle Bells"

I would rather you didn't. It frightens the horses.

Ban this filth: The Holly and the Ivy.

I confess that I set out to write the 'H' and 'I' segment of this series as a celebration of the old English song The Holly and the Ivy. However,  in the course of my research the true meaning of the lyrics was revealed to me and so instead, I shall briefly 'out' this panoply of filth, that you might ban it from the music room when you gather around the Bechstein on the 25th of December. 

Prior to my enlightenment, I had believed that the song was nothing more than a gay amusement, innocently equating the suffering of Jesus on the cross with the bright colours of the evergreen plants. It seems however that as with so many elements in our modern Christmas, the references to the Messiah were added later. The song itself is 'pagan' and these perennials are not being celebrated. They are being used 'figuratively' as metaphors for acts best left beyond the boudoir door.

The 'holly' is a thinly concealed vision of raw manhood. The 'ivy', which represents womanhood,  is thankfully largely ignored in the text and while modern feminists might feel rather aggrieved that once again they have been overlooked by a clearly misogynistic 11th Century poet, one cannot help feeling that they got off rather lightly.

I shall say no more, lest the truth falls into the 'wrong hands' and spreads sensationally around the prep rooms of minor public schools. You can draw your own conclusions from the text . In the meantime, I have written a stiff rebuke to Breitkopf and Haertel, enclosing my sheet music and demanding reimbursement of eight-pence and a recommendation of a parental certificate . I would suggest that you do the same.

E, F and G are for Edwin Fermor-Garboldisham

Field-Marshall Sir Edwin Fermor-Garboldisham was a very odd man even by the standards of his eccentric and fascinating age. An exemplary soldier and veteran of all four Anglo-Ashanti wars, he was in his long life to see off three mutinies, two wives and the attentions of the sensational novelist Florence Marryat - who immortalised him as 'Alan' in her first book "Love's Conflict". 

He also invented the Christmas tree fairy.

Like his near contemporary Henry Evelyn Wood, Fermor-Garboldisham had a passion for airedale terriers and a fervent religious faith. During the Siege of Sevastopol in 1854 he was to lose both spectacularly when an enormous crucifix fell from the bell tower of a Byzantine church and crushed his much loved dog, Edward, as well as several sepoys (whose names are forgotten to us). The loss was incalculable and he never owned a hound again. 

On his return to England, the grieving Field Marshall grew closer to the increasingly deranged Marryat, who somehow managed to convince him that fairies were real, long before such nonsense was to become fashionable. Against the advice of friends Sir Edwin embarked on a long quest to prove that "fairy folk" did indeed exist, taking out a full page advertisement in The Times in which he promised to pay a farthing per unsubstantiated sighting. He was declared bankrupt the next year and following a long and complicated lawsuit over the intellectual rights to Tinkerbell, he retired to the village of Paxford in the Cotswolds, from where he penned misspelt hate mail to JM Barrie, while plotting his revenge.

Unfortunately it was not to be. A plan to mass produce paper fairies to use as bait was the last straw financially and the bailiffs were called in. The Field Marshall died in disgrace of second degree gout and the planned statue to him that would have graced the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square was never cast.

Fermor-Garboldisham's debtors immediately seized his only asset and sold the fairies as  'traditional Christmas tree decorations' to members of the newly emerging 'middle' class who took to them immediately and have foolishly placed them atop their trees ever since.

To the chagrin of all.

A Very Rees--Mogg Christmas D is for "Drummer Boy"

When I was a very small child I was taken one day to see a theatrical presentation of "The Sound of Music", the tale of a nun who falls beguilingly in love with an Austrian naval captain and his seven delightful children. As I sat in the stalls with my notebook and  pencil, waiting for the curtain to rise, I confess that my expectations were low. Even at the age of six I had very strong views on how theatrical productions should be staged and felt, as I still do, that if the performers were neither grossly overweight nor singing in Italian, something was probably very terribly amiss.

My initial scepticism was not alleviated by the niggling inconsistency of the father's profession. Why on earth would a land-locked country like Austria be in need of a navy at all?  However, by the denouement in the convent graveyard, where the demonological "Rolf" tries to 'entrap the Von Trapps', my pencil and notebook had been cast aside and it was all I could do to stop my little lungs from shouting "Liesl! Run! Run for your very life!" The scene remains for my shilling the most terrifying moment in modern stage drama.

Shortly afterwards I began to listen to the recordings of the real Von Trapp Family singers and their bakerlite discs, sung rather shrilly and at varying speeds on my wind up gramophone were  to become the soundtrack to my teenage years in the 1980s. Indeed, my first girl-friend Susan, was wooed to the joyful Es Wolt Ein Jagerlein Jagen

No Christmas was complete without my take on the Von Trapp Family's rendition of my favourite song of all - The Little Drummer Boy. Accompanied by my cousin Earnest on the alpenhorn, while my Aunt tapped out the rhythm on a marble bust of Napoleon, I would thrill visitors with my rendition and fight off compliments in the vestibule afterwards.

And then one day my sister took me aside and insisted I listen to the 'Bing Crosby and David Bowie' version that she had recently purchased on a 7 inch disc. I was instantly appalled. The tempo was wrong, an additional tune had been added, the drum was barely audible and there was no alpenhorn at all. In subsequent years this dreary dirge has become the 'standard' while the Von Trapp version has slipped from the collective memory.

I have tried in vain to track down a recording of the Von Trapps singing the original, but like the message boy "Rolf" I am afraid I have failed you. As you decorate your trees or pen those 'last minute' cards, take a moment to remember the real Von Trapps, think of the small boy who had nothing to give the Christ child but a pathetic drum beat and try to excise the ghastly "Bing" and his chum Mr Bowie from your ears. Christmas is no more about 'Bing' Crosby than it is about tarmac and his monopolisation of the season is - as you will discover if you read on - something of an obsession of mine.

A Very Rees-Mogg Christmas C is for "Christingle"

I confess that oranges and I have never seen eye to eye. As a youth the pleasures of pith escaped me and rind was known to bring me out in a rash. To make matters worse a maiden great-aunt, whose husband had absconded with a Dutch ski champion, decided that the quickest route to the conclusion of a broken heart, was to move as far away from snow as was feasibly possible. She acquired an orange grove in the 'Algarve' and I spent an awkward summer there in the late nineteen eighties, patiently trying to explain to Portuguese labourers how best to pick a fruit and place it in a barrel on the back of a mule. Their singular failure to master even one word of English in the nine weeks I was there, shaped many of my views on the question of the then EEC and I have not been able to look at a donkey in quite the same way since.

The colour orange, unlike blue, has had a somewhat promiscuous relationship with different political movements over the years. It has been associated with socialists, white supremacists, Unionists, liberals and 'anarchists'. Just as one would never trust one's wife if she were to flit about a cocktail party chatting to every willing man, one should never put faith in a colour that cannot make its mind up.

And so to 'Christingle', an event that has crept into the Christmas calendar and is now inextricably linked in many people's minds with badly decorated fruits, poorly tied ribbons and The 'Church' of England's Yuletide celebrations. As with so many other topics in this series "Christingle" is an invention, that has nothing whatsoever to do with the birth of the Christ child. Oranges are barely mentioned in the New Testament and one cannot quell the doubt that this entire 'child-friendly' sing-song was invented by a citrus salesman. Avoid it. And stick to apples instead.

A Very Rees-Mogg Christmas B is for "Bah Humbug"

B is for Bah Humbug

It seems that barely a year goes by without news of another 'metropolitan' council deciding to re-brand, 'reimagine' or simply cancel Christmas altogether. I am regularly lectured by acolytes of 'Professor' Richard Dawkins that the origin of the festival is the Roman feast of "Saturnalia" and indeed sometimes that 'it has nothing to do with the birth of our Saviour at all'. 

While it is very gracious of ninnies to show concern for worshippers of Roman Gods, one is only sorry that they cannot extend the same courtesy to those of us who have opted to follow the majority faith of these isles. One tries to fight the urge to wish such people nothing but ill, but I confess that it is a battle the 'urge' often wins. These no doubt are the types who wrap gifts to their children in back issues of Pravda and spend the festive period drinking herbal tea and pointing out that the Queen's speech is 'pre' recorded.

The dreadful term "Winterval" has increasingly been deployed in recent times by these and their allies in 'civic' council buildings, to encompass the 'broad range of religious festivals' that occur in December. There are those who argue that such consideration is a noble thing; that by making society 'inclusive' we encourage 'happiness' and general 'good cheer' amongst all men (and yes of course women). I would beg to differ. Inclusion is a ghastly concept. It drives colour and vitality from our streets and one feels quite sure that most other faiths are far too busy celebrating their own nonsense, to worry about ours. 

Throughout it all one imagines Mr Dawkins and his chums rubbing their hands with glee, for their determination to drive Christianity from these isles has nothing whatsoever to do with 'Darwin' or 'truth' as they so tiresomely claim. These modern Scrooges, along with their allies in the Labour party, the 'Humanist Society' and the governing council of North Korea have just one goal in mind - and that is the eradication of joy. They wish to excise it from the high streets and the department stores. They wish to ban it from the churches, the firesides and the public houses. They will indeed most probably never surrender, until we are living in a grey world of drab half-wits wittering on about how we are all descended from apes and there is nothing we can do about it.

The best defence of course is attack. Should you know such people please make sure you send them a card. Preferably with a nativity scene on the front. 

A Very Rees-Mogg Christmas

As Crīstesmæsse or 'Christmas Day' as it is increasingly, rather tiresomely called approaches, it occurs that there are many in our fragmented and mosaic like society, that have lost the ability to celebrate this important feast day properly. Indeed it seems that rather like those dreadful Brueghel paintings, so popular in the Flemish flatlands of the 14th Century, Christmas for far too many has become lost in a landscape of cheap plastic fairy lights and the inevitable 'Santa Clauses' that one frequently sees rather unconvincingly scaling the sides of houses in certain estates on the outskirts of Keynsham.

Generations of Rees-Moggs have honed the oft labyrinthine traditions of this season and indeed it is something we feel we do rather well.

With this in mind I have set myself the task of writing a brief guide to the season in a popular and easy to read A to Z form and I shall be sharing my thoughts with those of you nimble enough to click on the link in the coming weeks.

We shall begin, inevitably perhaps, with the letter A

Advent  from the Latin 'Adventus' (meaning coming) is the beginning of the Western Liturgical year and begins on the fourth Sunday before Christmas. The time is a traditional period of reflection on the 'second coming' of Jesus and is celebrated across the spectrum of churches with the exception of the tiresome Lutherans and the ever difficult 'Seventh Day Adventists'. Traditionally the high altar and priest are vested in a magnificent shade of purple, except on the 3rd Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday, when rose may be used instead.

From before the time of Queen Victoria Advent Calendars have been sold. Often depicting the events building up to the birth of Jesus in pictorial form, these miniature diversions have delighted generations with their images of Mary hearing the news that she is pregnant, or riding on a donkey to Bethlehem.

Unfortunately in recent years these charming introductions to the Nativity have been hijacked by confectionery manufacturers and marketing chumps, who have sought to sell cardboard cut-outs filled with 'chocolate' and decorated with pictures of popular television characters such as 'Hello' Kitty or "Where's Wally" instead. As far as I can remember there is no mention of "Fireman Sam" or "Bob" the Builder in Luke 2 verses 1 to 20. It might well have missed my keen eye but I am fairly certain that "Barbie and her friends" do not feature prominently in Matthew 1 (18-25) - although one is only sorry that they therefore escaped the massacre of the innocents. Do not buy your children these dreadful things. They will thank you for it in adulthood. And possibly before.