The Atheist’s Guide to Christmas (17 page)

We think so—and in fact have come up with one. It’s a romantic comedy. Atheist boy meets atheist girl. They are united in love and atheism. It’s perfect. So perfect, in fact, that atheist boy starts to think it must have been divinely ordained, a match made in a heaven he finds himself believing in for the first time. Trouble is, atheist girl can’t be with a believer . . . so she dumps him.

That’s the first act, anyway. Now all we need to do is work out who plays the archangel Michael, who will come down from heaven to reunite our young lovers. . . .

Chapter 31
A Christmas Album

S
IMON
P
RICE

The next time some nit-picking ninny asks you why you celebrate Christmas and listen to Christmas songs when you don’t even believe in God, please try to refrain from throttling him—it is, after all, the season of peace and goodwill to all men.

Instead, try politely pointing out, for starters, that the man who shaped the sound of our modern Christmas wasn’t a Christian either. Harvey Philip Spector might not be everyone’s idea of a devout and observant Jew, but he sure ain’t no Santa Claus. It may feel counterintuitive that a misanthropic gun-wielding maniac should come to define the joy-to-the-world spirit of the festive season, but define it he did. Roping in the Ronettes, the Crystals, and other artists from his stable to record seasonal songs old and new, his trademark Wall of Sound augmented by a thousand jingle bells, Sp
ector made the album—1963’s
A Christmas Gift for You
—which, to this day, is the only Christmas record you really need (so much so that the only decent Christmas song released in recent-ish memory, “All I Want for Christmas Is You” by Mariah Carey, is a total Spector pastiche).

And the next time someone points out that the “true message of Christmas” has been lost among an orgy of consumerism and self-indulgence, not only are they absolutely correct, but—give or take a few centuries—’twas ever thus. For all Cliff Richard’s hearty arm-swinging efforts to drag us back through the metaphorical church doors, the British have always been more inclined to celebrate in the same disgraceful, decadent, and hedonistic manner as their heathen ancestors.

Roy Wood, the terrifyingly hirsute leader of seventies glam rockers Wizzard (who, perhaps not coincidentally, bore an uncanny resemblance to a Dark Ages Druid, albeit one who had narrowly survived an explosion in a paint factory), understood this proud tradition when he prefaced his own Spectoresque classic, “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday,” with the wickedly cynical
ker-chinggg!
of a cash register. And so, several decades before her name became euphemistic rhyming slang for bowel movements, did purring jazz siren Eartha Kitt on “Santa Baby,” even if her craving for a sable doesn’t quite
sit comfortably with modern sensibilities regarding animal rights.

What we’re reaching toward, as you can see, is the rather wonderful truth that not being a Christian isn’t necessarily a hindrance to enjoying Christmas—and the music that goes with it. On the contrary, it’s arguably a very handy qualification.

Even if the singer of a Christmas tune genuinely is consumed by religious fervor, it’s a relatively tiny obstacle. The pop critic, and any serious fan of music, learns pretty quickly that it’s useful, nay essential—particularly in the case of the aforementioned Mr. Spector—to be able to separate the art (immortal and sublime) from the artist (all too fallible and human). When you’ve read the small print on as many album sleeve notes as I have, especially on recordings by soul singers, you soon become immune to God thankers and, after the slightest sigh of disappointment, turn a blind eye.

We all surely have a favorite Christmas carol, even if the rationalist voice in your head, if left unchecked, begins picking apart its metaphysical logic and its historical veracity. In the same way that one can gaze up in awe at a spectacular cathedral—or, for that matter, a fascist sports stadium—it ought to be okay to admit to getting tingles when you hear “Once in Royal David’s City” or “O Come, All Ye Faithful” without feeling like a sellout.

Even for secular pop lyricists, the language of religion provides a handy set of references, a cultural shorthand that’s there to be plundered, from the most overwrought crucifixion metaphor to the most innocuous use of the verb “to pray” and the least literal exclamation of “My God!” If atheist listeners tried to rigorously excise that stuff from their record collection, they’d be left with a handful of instrumentals. And, most likely, no friends.

Another reason that’s often given, by believers and heathens alike, for switching off the radio as Christmas approaches is that the songs tend toward the sickly and the sentimental. While there is undoubtedly a lot of truth in that—one need only consider ye olde standards like “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby or “The Christmas Song” by Nat King Cole for proof—it’s by no means the whole story.

Christmas provides an irresistible backdrop for the mini-drama of the pop song. Romance is, as songwriters instinctively know, that bit more romantic when conducted under cheap Chamber of Commerce fairy lights to the distant screams of Noddy Holder, and tragedy, as the scriptwriters of
EastEnders
are aware when concocting their fiendish doof-doof finale, that bit more tragic.

In the words of Jerome K. Jerome, “Nothing satisfies us on Christmas Eve but to hear each other tell authentic anecdotes about spectres. It is a genial, festive season, and we love to muse upon graves, and dead bodies, and murder, and blood.”

Why else would so many people feel inspired to throw their arms around each other’s shoulders for an emotional sing-along to the Pogues’ “Fairytale of New York,” in which a pair of drunken old derelicts, wishing away what’s left of their sorry lives from the discomfort of a police cell, serenade each other with the unforgettable words, “You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, ‘Happy Christmas’ your arse, I pray God it’s our last”?

Heartbreak and Christmas go together like plum pudding and brandy sauce. If you want evidence, just listen to Darlene Love’s tear-jerking “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home),” this writer’s favorite Christmas song of all time. Other examples of tears among the tinsel include Elvis’ “Blue Christmas,” Mud’s distinctly Presleyish “Lonely This Christmas,” and, of course, Wham!’s immortal “Last Christmas,” and even “Christmas Time” by the Darkness (although the Hawkins brothers sabotaged their song’s poignancy somewhat with the innuendo-riddled chorus “Don’t let the bells end . . . just let
them ring in peace”).

Happiness pure and simple, on the other hand, is banal and boring. This is why nobody remembers the eighties efforts by Shakin’ Stevens and Gary Glitter with much fondness (the latter, admittedly, is also scuppered by the sinister edge the line “You’ll never guess what you’ve got from me” has acquired in hindsight).

“Do They Know It’s Christmas?” by Band Aid, the biggest-selling Christmas single of all time, is unsurprisingly (given the tight turnaround in which it was written and recorded) an ugly and jumbled thing, its titular rhetorical question providing successive generations of smart alecks with the opportunity to reply, “Given that 66.5 percent of Ethiopians are Christian, of course they do” (not to mention the chance to point out that of course there will be snow in Africa this Christmastime, at the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro, which has a 365-day covering, at least until 2050, when s
cientists predict it will all have melted).

In its defense, that song’s most histrionic moment, the fist-clenching, neck-bulging contribution from Mr. Bono Vox, has given us one glorious addition to the English language. Friends of mine have become accustomed, every December, to receiving a card wishing them “clanging chimes of doom.” It’s a joke that never gets old, or at least, if it does, they’re too nice to tell me so.

Band Aid wasn’t the first attempt to graft a humanitarian message onto Christmas. John Lennon used the season as a platform for pacifism with “Happy Xmas (War Is Over),” as did Jona Lewie with “Stop the Cavalry,” in which the pub rocker adopts the persona of the universal soldier, from the trenches of the Somme to the nuclear fallout shelters of the Cold War, while an old-fashioned colliery band parps away in the background. The thinking behind these songs is that Chris
tmas encourages us to consider the plight of others for a few fleeting days before we get back to bashing each other over the head with large pieces of metal. (The folly of which would become apparent to anyone who actually watched the December 25 episode of the aforementioned
EastEnders
.)

They do say Christmas brings everyone together. This power has never been demonstrated as starkly as in the video to “Little Drummer Boy,” in which unlikely “neighbors” David Bowie, then at the height of his coked-up Berlin phase, and sweet old Bing Crosby, three weeks away from death and wearing a golf sweater, start pa-rum-pa-pum-pumming away together like bosom buddies, in what must surely go down in pop history as the most surreal duet of all time.

Even a staunch bah-humbug stance can sometimes be overcome by the general festive mood. In the Waitresses’ cult classic “Christmas Wrapping,” the protagonist’s sour post-punk cynicism is melted unexpectedly by a chance encounter in the frozen-turkey aisle of the late-night grocery. And bonhomie is always to be welcomed, wherever it comes from, even if there’s an ulterior motive: when you hear that sly old dog Dean Martin singing “Let It Snow,” for example, you just know it’s only so that he can cop a feel under the mistletoe.

So this year, if anyone accuses you of hypocrisy for engaging with the Christmas spirit, don’t give him too hard a time. Crack open the brandy, crank up the Crystals, and remove your hands from around his neck.

Chapter 32
Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree

N
ATALIE
H
AYNES

Blitzes on Christmas by the irreligious are the stuff of tabloid headlines every year—according to them, atheists are always banning Nativity scenes, Santa, Rudolph, and a Christmas Day showing of
The Great Escape
on B
BC
2. Which is kind of strange, because most godless people I know are in favor of Christmas and wouldn’t dream of censoring a glass of mulled wine and a viewing of
The Bishop’s Wife
, partly because they aren’t rude enough to tell other people what they can and can’t enjoy, and mostly because they have already rented the Cary Grant movie, made the popcorn, and settled down on t
he sofa.

To the non-Christian, Christmas represents something very different from its official job description, but what it represents certainly isn’t trivial. The values behind Christmas—I mean the ones that should, in my view, underpin Christianity but so often seem to get lost—are ones I think many non-Christians share. I’m not crazy about the baby, the shepherds, the kings, and the virgin birth, but loving one another, forgiveness, generosity? Most of us would agree that the world could do with a bit more of those.

So I, at least, choose to keep Christmas with gusto every year—the tree, the demented cooking, the presents, the surprises. Dammit, I make my own crackers. I am, frankly, Christmas hardcore. And the reason for that is my mother, who has always kept Christmas like a post-ghost Scrooge.

Throughout my childhood, I remember Christmas being as it should be: magical. Of course we put mince pies and carrots out on Christmas Eve; we made Advent calendars and cards. For my mother, Christmas was one long distracting-us-from-rainy-days craft project. Pritt Stick, felt-tip pens, and colored cardstock were our metier. I don’t think we had a window without a skewed paper snowflake adorning it. She’s had her home recarpeted twice since then, and there is still glitter lurking.

The preparations for Christmas are, I think, what I like about it most. Don’t get me wrong—I’m fond of a present—but the buildup to something is usually more fun than the thing itself. As a child, I always loved the process of buying a Christmas tree, getting it home, and decorating it. Once it was done, I still loved it, but the exciting bit
was over. Every year my mother would suggest buying an artificial tree, to save us the trauma of getting our tree too early and seeing its needles fall sadly to the floor (those have also, I believe, survived the recarpeting) by December 20. Or the opposing fear: that by the time we made it to the garden center, all the good trees would be gone, and we would be left with a gnarled twig that could barely support a single bauble. Either way, obviously, Christmas would be ruined.

Every year we would wail that a real tree made it Christmas. That the house wouldn’t smell of Christmas without one. That Christmas wasn’t Christmas if no one got stuck in the corner trying to pull the netting off a Nordman fir without losing an eye. My mother would mutter something about a scented candle and then concede defeat.

You know those trees people have where the baubles are beautiful, two-tone, and matching, like the ones in a fancy department store? Well, ours was, and is, nothing at all like that. At no point could you mistake it for one decorated in nuanced fashion by a window dresser with ambitions. Rather, it looks like what it is: a chaotic mass of every year we’ve been alive, distilled into wood, glitter, and foil. Every year my mother asks me if she can get rid of Zebedee—an aged, faded bauble-representation of the
Magic Roundabout
’s star. And every year I look at her like she is mentall
y deficient. The very idea of binning Zebedee seems to me roughly on a par with kicking a puppy.

And once the tree’s up, of course, there’s the cooking. I have been cooking Christmas dinner for as long as I can remember, certainly since I became vegetarian at the age of twelve. People always ask sorrowfully if I don’t feel I’m missing out on the turkey and its trimmings, but since I haven’t the least recollection of the taste of it, I can honestly say I don’t. Plus I can cook anything I like for Christmas—a choux-and-cranberry ring, a leek-and-chestnut crumble—without fear that someone will moan that they aren’t getting what they want. And I can line it with all the roast potatoe
s I can eat—a considerable number—which are the objective highlight of any meal.

It seems to me, in my rather biased view of things, that the turkey is the most miserable bit of Christmas. Even if you like it, you have to be awake before dawn to cook the bloody thing. And how many magazine articles are devoted to ways in which you can cook a turkey to prevent it becoming dry? It seems demented to me: why not cook something that doesn’t, as its default setting, taste of nothing? And, by the way, why not cook something that means you can have a lie-in? It’s Christmas, after all. Spoil yourself.

Again, I often enjoy the run-up to Christmas, foodwise, more than the day itself. Call me greedy, but by Christmas Day I have usually eaten all the mince pies I’m going to for that year. This is because I cook like crazy in the run-up to Christmas—another hangover from my childhood
. If you come round mine any time in December, you’re likely to be offered a festive bun, or cake. This is not, you understand, because I am trying to achieve some kind of domestic deity status. When I was a child, my baking obsession was down to eagerness; now it’s mostly work avoidance. Either way, you still get a cookie.

Christmas plays a huge role in our cultural lives, from the endless repeats of
It’s A Wonderful Life
to the endless remakes of
A Christmas Carol
. Again, it’s no less true for the irreligious—I cry every time I watch
It’s a Wonderful Life
. You don’t have to believe in angels to watch the movie, any more than you need to believe in dragons to read
Lord of the Rings
. Christmas has surely inspired some of the most brilliant television, films, and books that we have ever created, and many of them date back to my childhood.

I can’t imagine the run-up to Christmas without watching
Box of Delights
, the B
BC
’s adaptation of John Masefield’s classic children’s story. I realize that by confessing this to you, I run the risk of being seen as an emotional simpleton who can’t accept her age, but I don’t really care. I behave with impeccable adultness most of the time. Even in December, I am happy to discuss the complexities of Aristotle’s
Nicomachean Ethics
, if you really want to. But once we’ve done that, I intend to slide into the world of magical realism for a week or two, because it’s been a long year.

And, by the way, I’m not even close to joking when I say that I think the Muppets’ version of
A Christmas Carol
, released in 1992, when I was already, objectively, old enough to know better, is the finest adaptation of the book I’ve ever seen. And it’s Michael Caine’s finest film role to date, playing Scrooge with genuine pathos and passion. One of my favorite things about
A Christmas Carol
is its atheism: there are supernatural ghosts, sure, but the Marleys dwell in an afterlife that has as much in common with Greek myth as limbo. There’s no suggestion anywhere that Christianity is the key
to Christmas, no trip to church for Scrooge on Christmas morning. Rather, kindness and tolerance, generosity and hedonism are what is required to give Christmas its due.

I hope that’s what people find when they spend Christmas with me. It’s certainly what I grew up believing Christmas should be—my mother was a far bigger fan of Dickens than Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John. And like the haunted Scrooge, I try to keep the spirit of Christmas, his Christmas—gifts, food, excess, fun, and love—every day. And I say bah, and quite possibly also humbug, to those who disagree.