Bloody Germans

The German Christmas

I really love Christmas --

But the sad thing is, I always feel quite homesick when I am not in England around Christmas time. And I have felt like this for every year I have been living out here in Germany.

However, be that as it may -- the Germans do most certainly display far more effort than us Brits when it comes to their Christmas paraphernalia. The people will not only joyfully put up pretty little white lights on the commonplace trees that stand tall in their front gardens, they’ll even go as far as twirl them around the branches of those that run along the streets outside their homes. The now leafless trees that line up and encircle Hamburg city centre are also fully decorated in this same illuminating way, making the whole of the shopping areas look really spectacular around Christmas time. All around there are additional colourful flashing lights, some high up on buildings and others that stretch right across the streets. There are also many decorated Christmas trees of all sizes that stand brightly outside almost every merchandise building. And right in the heart of it all, stands two very large illuminated Christmas trees; one that is placed within the middle part of the city shopping precinct and the other is smack bang in the centre of Hamburg’s large watery lake.

 

As a finishing touch, a large number of the stores will proudly show off their own brightly stocked Christmas windows, in an attempt to not perhaps just compete with each other, but maybe also to avoid being so eye-catching banal amongst the whole of the illustrious city Christmas spectacle.

 

Within the main part of the city shopping centre and taking up quite a large share of the street, there is one particularly giant sized store called ‘Karstadt’.  No other surrounding retail outlet would even consider attempting to better their elaborate and immensely creative Christmas window display.  Every year, thousands of people flock to the city and squeeze in amongst the vast crowds that hug around their several windows of excellent Christmas display. Through the many preceding years, 'Karstadt’s’ Christmas windows have become so  popular with the people; young and old, they have practically become as much of an annual tradition, as Christmas itself.

Whereas.., back home in Britain, and more especially in and around my own home town of Bournemouth, they will scarcely ever propel themselves to such effort. Come Yuletide, somebody will come along, flick on a switch and without hardly anybody noticing, they’ll light up a few large ugly coloured light bulbs that have been hanging up from last year; and the many years before then

-- and that is generally it!

I am unaware at the time of writing, who is charged with this most honourable commission. I’ve never seen it publicised myself, and I don’t think it has ever reached the vertiginous heights of ever being such a magnificent affair that has brought in a sprinting amount of Hollywood film stars or Statesmen from far off countries. My guess is, the person or persons who regularly inflame this annual Xmas grandeur, could be anybody from the town’s Lord Mayor themselves -- right down to some bloke who works for the council but has nothing else on at the time. Or maybe.., this whole gala is all part and partial of some joint enterprise that is solely enacted upon by the owners or bosses of the town’s premier commercial establishments. The one who coughs up the most money to replace the dud light bulbs from last year, gets to flick on the switch!

At Christmas time, the top German shops will also be stacked up high with lots of specially made Christmas chocolate goodies that are all very pleasing to the eye. While in UK,  its mostly normal chocolate that I can get all year round -- but instead, placed inside specially designed Christmas packs that cost a whole deal more, because now I have to pay the added extra for all that glittery razzmatazz!

The Germans also have plenty of Christmas Markets that feature in almost every town and shopping area. Small timber huts, that have been specially designed and fashioned for the Christmas occasion, either run in a neat line along the streets outside each and every emporium, or are simply scattered hither and thither within the traffic-free bounds of busy shopping areas. These small temporary erected wooden stalls, that are all lit up and look tremendously enchanting, sell various items of objet d’ art or trouvè that are somewhat peculiar to what is being sold in the less mobile stores that tower above and around them. Items of simple decoration; some more novel or extraordinary than others that have been handmade in some small back-room or workshop. Stalls full of home-made sweets and chocolate also add to this delightful Christmas bazaar. I have never seen anything of the like back home in UK.

But alas, in saying all this, although the Germans do have all this and more, they just do not celebrate Christmas in the way I know and love -- or the way I have always celebrated Christmas right from my earliest days of childhood.

You see.., in Germany, Father Christmas doesn’t come down the chimney pot late on Christmas Eve or early on Christmas Day morning. The German Father Christmas, or Weihnachtsman as he is known out here, comes late in the afternoon -- and on Christmas Eve!

 

While everybody is munching away on a kind of Christmas Eve supper of sausages and potato salad; with dollops n’ dollops of mayonnaise and mustard, he kind of magically appears, places all the toys around the Christmas Tree -- and ‘Poof ’ -- he’s gone again till next year.., or next door!

So everything for the Germans happens around four or five during the Christmas Eve afternoon -- and then that’s it as far as Christmas is concerned!

Christmas, in a sense (to me) is then over for them. The next day -- Christmas Day; our ‘Big Day’, is for the Germans, just like us having our Boxing Day. A day for being dragged away from the telly or our new toys, to go visit the rellies -- often with bribes to coax us away, that they might have been out and bought us a nice big and exciting pressie!

But what I am mainly stating here, is that Christmas Day in Germany is like our Boxing Day in Britain; it sucks because it is all over and done with ‘till next year!

I once decided; in one of my more delirious moments, to put on a big Christmas Day spread out here in Hamburg. I provoked Rolf to invite over his brother and wife, plus their two young teenage children. The strategy of my plan was to demonstrate how we in England like to celebrate our Christmas. You have got to admit it, my plot was pretty groundbreaking and adventuresome!

I woke up early that Christmas morning; just like I used to do every year back in England, and began straight away to prepare the veg and shove the large turkey into the oven. Along with my radio; that was tuned into BBC Radio 2, I was accompanying ‘Slade’ by singing, ‘So here it is Merry Christmas -- everybody’s having fun’, whilst taking sporadic quick swigs of Christmas Sherry as I toiled away merrily (hic) in the kitchen.

I was really getting geared up and well into the Christmas mood..,

Then around midday, all my guests arrived.

But they were all so bloody miserable -- they had that sinking ‘Boxing Day’ mood!

I felt so very alone in my own private Christmas ambience, as my German guests; who were that melancholy, even asked me if I could turn down the volume of my happy Christmas music. I couldn’t even get them to pull on a few crackers or wear funny hats, because they just don’t have Christmas Crackers; with traditional cheap plastic toys, inane jokes and funny hats out here.

They’ve never even heard of Christmas Crackers. In fact, I bet they don’t even have ‘Cream Crackers’ out here!

I desperately struggled through the whole of that day trying to maintain some of my Christmas spirit. But they just wanted to be quiet and settle down to get over their exciting ‘Christmas Eve’-- in which we; back in England, would merely spend on last minute rushing around shopping and preparing for the ‘Big Day’.

Even the shops in Germany close at midday on Christmas Eve -- and there appears to be no mad run-up to Christmas shopping out here either. For them, its just seems to be like any other shopping day of the year. How I miss all that UK Christmas insanity.

Anyway, my ‘Christmas’ guests finally left around seven in the evening -- and I was bloody glad of it. I tried to muster up all I could to preserve what I had left for Christmas Day. What I did do to help me, was to ring up all my friends and family back in Bournemouth, and listen to their lovely Christmas Day joviality spraying insouciantly out of my phone.

Many things are so different and strange to me with the way the Germans celebrate their Christmas, as I am sure it would be for them if they instead, celebrated their Christmas in Britain.

 Even the Christmas dinner is not the same as ours -- a big fat turkey in not normally the way of things on the festive German plate, and neither is Christmas cake or pudding.

 

They just do it all so different to us.

So every year and around Christmas time -- I just find I want to be back home in England. I miss my family and I miss my friends.., but most of all -- I simply miss having a good old British Christmas!

‘Booo Hooo!!!’

However, there is one delightful little custom that I have very quickly picked up from living out here in Germany, and have well adopted it as a main component within my lifestyle. It derives from the tormenting pressure of having to purchase Christmas cards every year. One tends to always worry when we forget somebody on our long Christmas list -- let alone the sheer embarrassment of not being able to send a Greetings card out to someone, simply because we have mislaid their address. A whole list of dilemmas can arise from the annual practice of sending out Greeting Cards; and not just for Christmas alone. To add even more frustration to this anytime-of-the-year commitment -- the darn things become more and more expensive each time.

I find all this to be nothing less than emotional blackmail that has been ingeniously dumped on us poor consumers by the Greeting Card industry -- and the swine's seem to get us everytime. I used to constantly fret at all times of the year that I might upset somebody if I did not send them a card. Not only that, I also had to send them the very best; the more expensive, simply because the cheaper variety.., well, they just look cheap. It would seem to be more of an insult to them if I were to send out a cheap card, rather than to give them none at all! This mad cult of sending out Greetings Cards is getting so much out of hand today -- they are now even inventing new days of the month for us to go out and buy more of these blessed things.

But for the Germans -- they have none of this palaver, because as a rule, the Germans don’t bother so much with Greeting Cards as we British uncannily seem to do. Instead, the Germans much prefer to invite or visit people and give them their best wishes face to face. If they live too far away to be able to do either of those, then they just simply call them up on the phone and pass on their Greetings that way, plus talk about many other things at the same time.

This practice is not only far simpler and makes common sense, it also much nicer -- don’t you think?

Well, that’s what I keep telling all my family and friends back in England, when I phone them up around Christmas, Easter, Birthdays, Weddings, Christenings etc., etc., etc., time. Yet somehow, they just do not seem to be able to grasp this most superb and innovative German custom. No matter how many times I have tried to explain it all out to them, they will still continue to call me a ‘tight git!’

I tell you, I don’t understand them. After all, I am only trying to be more like an European!

My Childhood Christmas

Christmas, back in the days of my childhood, really meant something to me. It was a time for us and all our distant families to come together and argue the toss over what happened twenty years ago.

But the best thing about Christmas for me when I was young, was late on Christmas Eve.

How excited we all were when it was time to go to bed; we could hardly get to sleep knowing that as soon as we did, Father Christmas would come down the chimney pot and dump all his rubbish on our bed.

I never figured out why he did that.

Mother would always come to our room first and check if we were asleep. She would shine a torch in our face and say,

“Are you asleep?”

And of course, we’d all shout --

“Yes!”

But she never guessed we wasn’t, because we kept our eyes screwed up and shut real tight.

Back then, we were pretty bed-wise kids.

We’d wake up very early on Christmas morn; around four or five in the a.m., and begin to search for our Christmas paper-sack. First with our feet; slowly moving them under the blankets to see if it was a the bottom of the bed. Then with our arms; feeling each side and then finally checking above or next to our pillow. It was never in the same place twice yearly on a run.

The old terraced house that we lived in back then, was so far gone past demolition that it had decided to slowly destroy itself. One Christmas, I was awoke not long after I had been to sleep -- and I felt a big lump being dumped at the foot of my bed.

I thought --

“Aha! Great! This year Father Christmas has come early to me!”

But I was wrong -- it was just a large part of my bedroom ceiling that had fallen down and landed at the foot of my bed.

Sometimes, I would get quite concerned and think that Father Christmas had forgotten all about me. I never did have much faith in Father Christmas back then -- and I most certainly didn’t trust him.

Everytime I went to my Dad’s firm’s party -- Father Christmas always seemed to give the bosses kids the more expensive toys than he did for the rest of us. I’d stand around with my balloon on a stick, watching all the rich kids play with their electric cars or brush the long rich curly red hair on their bran new Christmas dollies.

And every year, my Mother used to take us to the large local store and I would sit on Santa’s knee; for a small fee. He would open up his big red book and ask me what I wanted for Christmas.

Every year I used to give him my long list; it hardly ever required much amending -- and he would write it all down with his long feathered quill pen.

But come Christmas.., when I opened up my Christmas sack at the foot or head of my bed -- not one item from my long list was ever to be found! I never asked for a lousy bag of coloured marbles, a woolly hat, a packet of imitation sweet cigarettes or four liquorice smoking pipes --

What were they thinking of back then? It’s no wonder I’m practically a chain-smoker today!

I used to dig deep every year into my Christmas bag -- but not once did he ever bring me a Shetland Pony!

When I did, at long last, find my Christmas sack, I would first feel around it to try and figure out how big it was that year. Next, I would squeeze around the bottom edges to see if I could find the apple. It was so dark in my bedroom, I couldn’t see a blessed thing.

Suddenly, in the darkness -- I would hear a loud crunch coming from across the way, where my brother slept --

“The swine!” I thought, “He’s found his apple way before me again!”

As I continued in my own vain search, I tried to figure out what I had done wrong not to deserve an apple -- ‘cause to me, I considered that my bruver’ had done a lot ‘worser’ than me!

Then I found it; a nice ‘roundy’ thing in the corner of my large Christmas bag -- no time to dig down for it from the top, so I just gnawed out the bottom corner of the paper sack like a demented rat.

I got it!

I take one big bite --

Yuck!!!

It was my paraffin tasting orange!

My Mother; for some quirky reason, considered an orange would look exceptionally bright and shiny, if it was first polished with a paraffin rag -- bless her!

Next -- I’d hunt around the top looking for my biggest pressie. My parents always used to tell us that the best things in life, always came in small packages -- but who needs a rotten school pen-set anyway?

Have you ever known anything more ridiculous than opening a present when its pitch black?

Where’s the joy in that you might think?

Believe me, it was fun.

Maybe I should have listened to my parents and checked out the small parcels first, to see if Santa had brought me a torch -- or perhaps even a bloody light bulb! 

 

You see, many kids today, they can’t sleep in the dark and have to have a little night-light installed. When I was young, the only night-light we had when it was time to make a mad dash to the toilet and back again, was to wait each time for a car to come up the road and drive past our house. When it did, we had to try and keep up with the light from its shining headlamp, as it rushed up the walls and along the ceiling.

Too slow.., and I’d hit the door frame on the way out, or stump my toe on my return at the foot of my solid iron bedstead.

I remember once, when we did have a light bulb installed; I think my Father must have received his bonus that week, it was probably my first -- and nearly my last, childhood inspiration to write.

As I sat up in my bed, I took hold of a pen and paper, and thought..,

“I think I will write about ‘The Darkness of The Night’.”

I was pretty inspirational, even back then.., but to help assist me more with my mode of thought and gain a good atmospheric perspective -- I jumped out of bed and switched off the light. I couldn’t see a damn thing, let alone hardly manage to find my bed again. I thought this writing is so bloody difficult.., so curled up and went to sleep instead.

It just makes me think today, I wonder just how much innovative art has been lost to the world, simply because the creative genius didn’t properly think things through?

I’d gently turn the parcel around to try and get a fair idea of what was inside; from its shape and size, then I’d rattle it a bit to gain a few more clues. Finally; with my patience quickly wearing thin, I’d ravage it apart to try and see what it was.

“I’ve got a jigsaw puzzle!"  I’d shout to my brother.  “No hang on.., I think its a book.

“So have I!” My brother would shout back -- “What colour is yours?”

“I don’t know -- black I think!”

“Yeah, I think mine is black as well! Ah! Brilliant -- I gotta black army truck as well!”

“And I got some crayons and a drawing book -- and they’re all black too!”

“Oh and what’s this?  It’s all big and soft -- oh no.., that’s my pillow!”

“Oh this feels good -- I can’t wait for the daylight to come so’s I can find out what it is!”

And that’s how it was for us each Christmas morning. First we’d have fun out of finding and opening up our Christmas presents in the pitch black -- then as the morning light started to slowly drift in, we’d find out what each thing was and what colour the damn things were.

“No.., its not black hat -- its a kind of dirty dull grey!”

In the end, it turned out to be red.

Before moving to Bournemouth, we used to live in Jersey; one of the small Channel Isles. At Christmas time then, my Mother used to make all our toys herself -- out of wood!

One Christmas Eve, she was up all night trying to finish painting them off, so they would be ready for us the next morning. We woke up to the smell of strong paint, reached out to grab our toys and then became more attached to them than my Mother first hoped we would.

My Mother told me that when she was a child, her parents used to give her a doll on Christmas morn., then take it away again when she went to bed. She wouldn’t get to see it again until Christmas Day the following year. And it went on like that for the rest of her childhood. I don’t know how her parents managed to take the doll away from her so easily. Probably when she was fast asleep and cuddling up to it in bed, they would swop it for a roll of newspapers or an old log from the fire-grate. But no matter how tough we had it as kids, my poor ol’ Mum, always had it tougher!

I can also well remember that during my childhood, we incessantly had chicken every year for our Christmas dinner; chicken was a real luxury for us in those days, so we only got to see it once a year. Our parents couldn’t even afford a proper Christmas Tree, so my brother Dave and I used to go out in search for our own kind of special home festive emulation.

The closest resemblance to one that we could ever afford get our hands on at Bournemouth by the sea, was to look for a second-rate; but equally divine, pine tree. The nearest place we could have ventured to get a real Christmas Tree was out in the New Forest; which was a good fifteen to twenty miles away from where we lived. Apart from it being much too far away for us to drag a tree all the way back to our home, we’d have never it got past the skilfully-eyed Forest Ranger and onto the A35.

So instead, we used to head off down to the cliff-tops at sunny Bournemouth and when nobody was about or even looking, we’d tear down a little pine tree to have for ourselves. Pine trees are nowhere near the same as a proper Christmas fir tree, but they still have that certain aroma that is just as ‘Christmassy’. Well, at least it was for us. And those pines used to turn brown, fall off and make just as much of a mess as those real Christmas Trees.

Obtaining the tree was a doddle in which over the years, we became quite expertise, but getting it home was the hardest part. It was never a big tree mind you; merely a twig compared to the giant Scottish pines we thoughtfully left behind. But when you’re just a pint sized kid, one has to think practical.

Of course, had we been caught removing one of these little pine trees, no doubt we would have been for the high jump. But when times are hard, needs must -- and we certainly needed to muster up a Christmas Tree!

There was a time when did ‘nearly’ get caught when we forgot to lower the tree whilst passing by a wall on our way home. At first, the policeman on the other side of the wall couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the top of a tree hastily moving from left to right. We heard him shout “Oi!” And we scarpered pretty quick. I still get an image of him today phoning in to his local cop shop..,

“Be on the lookout for a scantily dressed four foot green pine tree -- heading towards the direction of the town centre!”

After we got it home, we went out again and collected some large opened fir cones, painted them all with silver paint and tied them around the branches of our new tree. Then out we would go again, this time to collect as many old discarded cigarette packets as we could carry; it seemed everybody smoked in those days so they were always in abundance. We’d remove the silver paper from the inside of the packet, separate it from the tissue backing, then cut the small foil sheets up into lots of thin silver strips. It was our way of making crinkled silver tinsel and bear in mind, this was a long time before any of us had ever heard of ‘Blue Peter!’  A few of the more expensive ciggy packets in those days, use to have gold foil paper inside. This  helped us a great deal to bring in a little colouring to our joy, as we’d scatter all those tiny strips around the tree to brighten it up even more.

Of course, we had nothing similar to candles or flashing electric lights to add to our tree -- but it sure looked fine and was good enough for us. Then we made paper chains for the ceiling decorations. I don’t seem to see those paper chains in the shops these days -- but I surely do not miss them. They came in short strips of assorted shiny coloured paper and we had to lick the sticky end of each one, then link them together until we had formed one long colourful chain.

 

They weren’t all that effective, and after we’d suffered the taste of the glue from licking our way through several packets, it ruined the taste of our Christmas Dinner. But then.., that’s how it was for us around Christmas time back then.

It seemed in our early years; whilst we were still at junior school, we did everything for ourselves. Sometimes it brought sheer delight from our parents; in that we were being highly methodical and creative, but at other times, it just brought us an early night with a sore bum and no tea (supper).

Going back to what I first wrote about Father Christmas, I can even recollect the day when my brother Dave and I came to our senses and stopped believing in him altogether. Personally, I was always teetering on doubt, but this most remembered experience finally put the lid on things for me..,

In our town, we had a local large top posh store and every year they had their own Father Christmas; he was also the town’s Santa Claus, arriving by gold coach every year and throwing sweets out to the cheer of all the crowds.

Father Christmas would sit up there in his Grotto at the store and the parents would pay for a ticket for their children to go and see him. Prices varied from as little as sixpence to one shilling and sixpence (old UK money).

Well Dave and I, we had sixpence each to spare and although we didn’t have our parents with us -- in those days we hardly ever did. We decided we’d give ol’ Santa a visit and so paid in our sixpence, stepped up onto the wooden stage and went over to see him.

He gave us a cheery “Ho! Ho! Ho!” And then asked us what we wanted for Christmas (same old spiel). He wrote it all down; as he normally does, listing it all into several pages of his book. He then asked to see our tickets.

This of course determines the value of the ‘present’ he would give us; there was one basket for a ‘tanner’ (sixpence) ticket, another for a ‘bob’ (shilling) ticket and a third one; for the rich kids again -- for the ‘one-and-a-kick’ (one shilling and sixpence) ticket.

Of course, we both had the measly low-end-of-the market poverty stricken cheapskate ticket. So he dipped into that basket and gave us each a bag of lousy marbles -- and bid us a ‘Merry Christmas and Farewell’.

‘Cause Dave and I being as we were, had not taken two steps from him, when we both pulled open our bag of marbles that he gave (we bought) to us. Maybe we did it to get a more gratifying look inside; despite them all being in a red plastic, easy to view, string bag. But as our marble bags suddenly bust wide open -- all our marbles fell out; one by one, and dropped onto the Grotto stage wooden floor.

Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! --

All twenty five or so per bag, bounced on the wooden deck of his Grotto.., and rolled away in just about every direction.

We looked back and Santa was far from pleased with us. In fact, his face was as red as his tunic.

Anyway, as soon as we departed from Santa’s Grotto, we caught sight of a sign that said we could get in to see Santa for ‘free’. They were now talking our language! Besides, we felt quite cheated out of our regular hard-earned sixpence-a-week pocket-money allowance; which totalled from many piles of  “I’ll Wash, You Dry!”

So we thought --

“Let’s go see Santa again -- but this time for free!”

And so we did.

We didn’t have to join any queue, as it seemed we were the only ones hither and yon, so we stepped right in and went up to Father Christmas again -- and again, told him what we wanted for Christmas.

He wrote it all down.., again. (I wonder if Santa keeps a computer record these days?)

But this time, there was no present for us from any of his baskets; we were now ‘cheaper’ than the measly low-end-of-the market poverty stricken cheapskate ticket -- so instead, he gave us each a balloon. It had a picture of him printed over it, with large words below saying, ‘Santa’s Christmas Grotto’.

This was by no means cool..,

It was just so tatty and pathetic.., Father Christmas was beginning to come across to us as a real swizz!

So as we walked off his stage for the second time..., and with our balloons in hand -- we both popped them in a joyful unison --

P’Pop!!

Father Christmas was by now turning more into a kind of reddish blue.

Of course, Dave being two years younger than me, was highly delighted by this event -- and wanted more. Myself I was bored by it all. I got more kicks out of hijacking the council’s Christmas trees and running away from the law; it was a pity our terraced house wasn’t big enough for two, three or maybe even four ‘Christmas’ trees.

So Dave decided to go up and see Father Christmas again and get himself another balloon.  I stood back and watched him as he did.

So up Dave went, all happy n’ smiling -- but as soon as Father Christmas caught glimpse of his happy smilin’ face -- he snapped loudly at him and shouted,

“F**k Off!”

Which poor ol’ Dave immediately did.

I mean there we were, two young kids of no more then eight, nine or ten years old, getting our first experience in life of being told to ‘F’ off --  and by nobody else other than our hero, ‘Father Christmas’.

That was it for us --

 

We could handle him welching on the goods of our Christmas manifesto each year, even settle for the cheap Christmas ‘Grotty’ or Works Office Party presents he festively dumped on us.,

-- but when he told my brother to ‘F’ off; and in no uncertain terms.., without even following it with a customary “Ho! Ho! Ho!” -- let alone, not passing my brother yet another bright red balloon..,

Well that just surely sealed the biscuit tin for us and afterwards..,

Neither of us ever believed in Santa again.