Shooting Santa

I am invited by a magnificent friend of mine to come and share the Christmas cheer. That is most kind and gracious of her. The fact that she resides in France while I am in New Zealand and any such sharing is largely vicarious in no way diminishes my appreciation of her offer. Appreciation, kindness, grace are all part and parcel of Christmas of course. Not so, apparently, for Jehovah Witnesses. I wished one Merry Christmas the other day only to suffer the retort that “I am a Jehovah Witness. I don’t believe in Christmas. You’ll forgive me if I don’t wish you Merry Christmas in return.” Now, I can accept most religions (well, in truth I can’t but that is another story) but it seems somewhat churlish of this one, Jehovah Witnesses, that an exponent is not allowed to exhibit the simple grace of accepting another’s belief and set aside one’s own to offer a common courtesy. Besides, I thought Jehovah’s Witness was a Christian church. Did you know they don’t believe in Christmas? Well, I do. I believe in Christmas and in that belief, I wish you a very Merry Christmas. Unless you are a Jehovah Witness of course. In which case all I can offer you is commiseration and a request that if Santa somehow mistakenly stumbles down your chimney you don’t shoot him as a home invader—others do need him.

Shut the Closet

Salivating at the prospect of Christmas and the attendant break, are you? I am. It has been a harsh year for many, me included, what with the economy, employment uncertainty and the return of the Backstreet Boys. In addition I have this year played a tutu-wearing fairy, a gay hairdresser and, most recently, a character whose propensity is to get into another man’s trousers. I have also with my wife bought a new house, which is good in most respects but does add to my already over-burdened vocabulary the phrase “household chores” and commits me to a life in servitude to the National Bank. I have written little of significance in 2009 and with the departure of George W. Bush and Helen Clark, Fryday has struggled. Thank God for Brian Tamaki, though God has little to do with Tamaki. On the positive side I have bought that house, my resilient wife still tolerates me, Lagavuhlin still distils and imminent puppies insist. Life after all is good and destined to get better.

I don't loke it

One of the guiding principles of my life is to minimise my use of the word whatever. Whatever in the young lexicon is to imply tacit rather than wholesale acceptance and intent to move on. As I am no longer young and have no respect for the young their use of whatever in that context will not knowingly be replicated by me. Nor will their profligate use of the extremely versatile but somewhat soft word “like”—as in seemingly every second word uttered by a young woman being like. Interesting point that, I never hear it used by boys. Have you noticed that? Have you also noticed that it always appears in the middle of a sentence, sometimes several times, but never at the end? A young woman told me once that the reason for that was compliance with an unwritten rule now in customary use. Strange, considering the very use of that word in this context defies all rules and logic that I know of. But whilst the use of like is strange the word itself is not. A strange word is loke. There is a word, the wonderful Urban Dictionary designates and defines it. Loke means deep affection towards your significant other, which is stronger than like, yet not as strong as love. I am told that you can even buy mugs, T-shirts and cards proclaiming your loke for someone or something. I am not tempted. It is yet another travesty of English. I say to you emphatically, it is with “whatever intent” that I will either like (most) everyone or love some. I refuse to loke anyone. Loke it or leave it.