I don’t want to be branded a hypocrite. Come to think of it, I don’t want to be branded anything, it looks like it hurts, but least of all maybe would be ‘paedophile’. But rest assured, ‘hypocrite’ is definitely up there. London Me Up itself can easily be accused of jumping on top of bandwagons like Lara Croft jumps around on rocks. What with last week’s Halloween edition, with all Orange text (as if Orange is a ‘scarier’ colour for some reason), costume parties – with costumes like rabbits and Johnny Depp, reviews of vampire TV shows, and what was basically a history lesson. The last time a history lesson has been scary was when my teacher threatened to kill herself if the class didn’t keep quiet (she went for a long holiday soon after).

And now what with this week’s Fireworks. It’s not that the Me Up formula is old, weathered and dying on its feet. It’s healthier than ever. But the quick succession of annual specific celebratory events is no more prevalent than at this time of year, specifically this past week. The past 6 days alone have seen the celebrations of Halloween, 5th November (Bonfire Night), and Christmas what with London’s main festive lights on Oxford/Regent St getting the celebrity switch on.

It has forced me to consider the Annual conundrum of Christmas. It is the classically remembered adage, that Christmas ‘Gets earlier every year’. This of course being a hyperbole, as if it actually did, we’d be celebrating sometime in June by now. And we’re not doing that, however far you try to take the joke. The reason for it in fact, is that it comes surprisingly early every year. I say surprisingly because we spend 2 months complaining about how early the shops are filled with seasonal stock, the lights are on, and annoying cocks can get away with telling you to ‘Smile, it’s Christmas!’ and not receive a broken jaw in their stocking. It’s not Christmas you imbecile, it’s November 20th!

In some part then, I agree. If the world were to all beat to my drum, then we’d probably only consider Christmas during the surrounding week. All the Christmas special editions would be on then, all the parties, all the decorations. Of course people would still think about it, plan parties, book holidays and buy presents. But you might buy someone’s birthday present a month before their birthday, you wouldn’t tell them to cheer up after losing their job as they’ll turn 50 in a month would you?

Sadly, the world does not beat to my drum, no matter how hard I bang. In truth, the world beats to millions, billions of drums. Society is a product of those living within. The reason they start selling Christmas bumper packs of biscuits in mid-October is because people fucking buy them you dense shit! There’s no point blaming retail, or even blaming advertising. It’s you who buys this crap, it’s you who the advertising works on, it’s you who are facilitating the very thing you’re complaining about.

An interesting point floats to the top of my mind like a recently deceased body in a swimming pool. When would you say is the start of Christmas? Because nothing can be determined (in my belief) by dates alone, and only by experience, the start of the festive period must be triggered by an actual incident. Could it be lights? When you walk down your local high street, and see bright green, red and gold lights, do you suddenly feel a burst of kindness to your fellow man? Perhaps it takes you decking out your house with the kind of lighting equipment to help Pluto (the planet not the dog) find its contacts in order to feel the season. The first touch of a mince pie on your salivating, salty, sweating lips? The first Christmas song someone bravely plays on the office stereo? Personally I share quite a strange trigger, but it’s such a common one, it has its own facebook group! I truly believe, that it isn’t quite Christmas, until the first time I see the Christmas version of the Coca-Cola TV ad.

There’s just no way I can get into the whole spirit of the thing until I see that ad. I was seriously in trouble a few years ago, when despite forcing myself to watch incrementing levels of television in the lead up to the 25th, it wasn’t until Christmas Eve that I finally managed to corner it.

I dislike Coca-Cola as a brand, I’ve got to be honest, my opinion. The way they make the suggestion that a black, syrupy, sugary, chemical-filled drink is actually good for you and makes you feel good seems ludicrous at best, dishonest at least and downright dirty at worst. I don’t drink Coca-Cola, not because of a statement against the brand, but because I don’t like it. It’s too sweet, dense and sticky. But I do drink Diet Coke. I have no problem with it whatsoever. But I know it’s not good for me, I’m not an idiot. The marketing tactics seem akin to the classic Guinness posters of yore.

Then why is it that I put so much feeling into the sight and sound of one commercial, for a product I don’t even like? I don’t know. It’s nostalgic. Part of my childhood. Part of the whole of my life. Every Christmas I can ever remember, with it comes the memory of those coke vans’ lights coming over the hill flowing with it, of the slow fade of the chanting children’s choir. It’s magical.

I’ll probably stave off all TV for the whole of December, until the 21st, when I will keep a constant watch on the magic picture box. Only then will you see a gingerbread latté fueled smile cover my face.

But Once a Year – Brought to you by James Wormald -