Written by Howard Blake for Raymond Briggs’ The Snowman in 1978 and played ad nauseam ever since. Covered by all and sundry. Even the film does my nut these days.
Walking in the Air has as much to do with Christmas as Ding Dong the Witch is Dead in that the only connection to Christmas is that it is part of a film traditionally shown at Christmas. But still it invokes the imagery of the festive season. For some.
Oh my pants. This song is so cringe-worthy I can’t believe that people still play it.
Nobody walks in an atypical winter wonderland per this songs lyrics. When was the last time you walked in snow? It’s not so much a walk, its either a trudge (deep snow) or a bit of a flail (that icy bollocks shallow snow) as you try to maintain your balance.
Nobody walks in snow. Sure when it first falls it’s nice and crisp and glisteny. Yes its fun to chuck lumps of it at passing people. It’s fun to build androgynous phallus shapes out of the stuff. Fun also to try and pass the effigy off as a snowman by dressing it up in an old hat and sticking a carrot in the bit that passes off as a head.
But calling it Parson Brown? Is that a euphemism? Then you’re asking it to marry you?? My pants, this is turning into some weird snow based death cult isn’t it? This is where you clonk me on the head, bury me in the icy slush and try to pass off my corpse as a snowman. Isn’t it? Sort of a snowy version of the Wicker Man.
This song is the only song people will remember Wizzard for. It’s been in the charts at least 9 times since its release in 1973. Most importantly though I chuffin’ hate this song. The day I never hear this song ever again will be the best day ever. Really. I mean who really wishes it could be Christmas everyday? You? If so, seek help. Can you imagine? Christmas everyday?
For a start the only shops that would be open would be the 24 hour garage and the corner shop. None of which have a great deal of stock so you’d soon run out of turkey and don’t be thinking one of those crap windmills they sell or a pack of playing cards will pass off as a good present for long.
You’d soon get sick of those relatives that only show their faces at Christmas too. Imagine seeing them every day. Coming round pretending not to be on the sniff for a Christmas dinner or a begrudged gift.
Then theres the economy. Sure no trains or buses will run and most businesses are closed but who will pay for the power generation? Where will the money for the taxes come from?
If it was Christmas everyday, the world would grind to a halt, murders would increase and within 12 months the global economy would collapse resulting in devastation, disease and death everywhere.
And there’s only a very slim chance it’ll snow too….
It’s Cliched to be Cynical (at Christmas) – Half Man Half Biscuit
Ah Christmas! That time of year when the shops force you to buy stuff you don’t need to give to people who aren’t necessarily thankful. That time of year when it gets a bit nippy and the nights get darker. That time of year when, no matter where you go, you are forced to listen to bloody awful music on repeat. Over and over and over and over and over.
Last year I went on a cruise. It was a lovely cruise. I saw lots of the Caribbean. I saw my brother, his wife and my niece. I was nice and warm. Tropical you might say. But there is something weird about going to a hot part of the world when you are from a cooler part of the world. Especially at Christmas. It feels like August. It looks like August. But there’s Christmas trees and Christmas music blaring out wherever you go on the ship. Which makes it feel like you’ve sailed into some weird Twilight Zone.
As you can imagine I was subjected to all of the Christmas songs from the past 40 years or so. For 14 days. All day. If it wasn’t for the company, the scenery and the endless food and drink, I probably would have picked up one of the sun loungers, fashioned a crude weapon and systematically started bumping off the entire ship.
Sadly, the one song that didn’t play was today’s entry. Last year in the Composts I moaned a fair bit about Christmas. I feel that sometimes it takes someone or something to remind us not to be such a misery guts. This song does that so, if you ever feel ever so cynical about the season, you should listen to this. It’s my second most favourite Christmas song. I think is quite apt.
Christmas eh? That period of enforced shopping and spending.
There was a time when Christmas meant nipping down to the local church, doing a few carols with a mug of warm mulled wine before giving up and having a sing a long in the local pub round the old Joanna.
These days Christmas is heralded by gaudily dressed shops in November and incessant repetition of God awful Christmas pop from the previous 40 years.
Long term readers will recall that I wrote about Christmas music last year (and even then before that!) during the Bah Humbug series. But Christmas music needs a whole series to itself. For the next 24 days, I will be selecting and discussing a Christmas song from across the decades. Some you will be familiar with, others probably not. So, in the interests of tradition, I give you:
The Existential Compost/Compostual Existentialist Christmas Advent Series 2014
Miserable fuckers. All they do is bring everyone down. “Oh I hate Christmas, it sucks” and “It’s not as good as it used to be”.
Personally, I think by doing away with the whole festive season you would actually do away with these incessant moaners. Sitting there with their bottom lip on the floor. Anyone would think they had wasted a shit load of money on a load of old junk and eaten so much they had to diet for the next three months as a penance.
People like that should count their blessings. It could be worse, they could be in debt, fallen out with family members or some how broke bones when walking in the snow and ice.
I hear that the poor children in Africa aren’t sitting round moaning about the Christmas period. They’re more likely to be moaning that they had corn maize and flies again for dinner.
And then there are those that don’t get irony. They ask for it and all they get is socks. I mean how can you press your shirt and trousers with socks?
Now…does anyone want this strange smelling old Aunt that’s been sat in the corner drinking all the port? Oh and you can take them decorations down now, they make the house look untidy.
So there I am. I’m sat waiting for my dinner. My tummy rumbles and groans as the perfume of roasting meats and vegetables permeate the air. But because my eldest brother is working late we have to wait for him. Of course this means that the usual Christmas day dinner time of 2pm has long passed and it is approaching a gut gnawing 5pm. He arrives. The meal begins.
So there I am. Asked to sing at a special specific Christmas day carol service. The lack of public transport and reluctance for people to give me a lift (I bare an uncanny resemblance to Peter Sutcliffe) means that I have to walk the 3 miles from the church to the family home. I arrive at 3pm. The meal has long been consumed. I am left with a shrivelled and desiccated dinner in the microwave on the none matching dinner plate, the none matching cutlery, the none matching place mat and the cracker from the previous Christmas.
So there I am. Much older. Much wiser. Still sitting on the odd chair, eating from the none-matching dinner plate with the none matching cutlery while observing that the other dinner guests have matching plates and cutlery. It was at this time…I realised….I was special specific. Something like that sticks with you for life.
Anyway, I digress, dinner time. Every year my mum would ask “Do you want sprouts?” “Do you want Parsnips?” “Do you want Christmas Pudding?” and every year I would reply “No mother, I have been eating here since 1973 and you should know by now that I do not partake in the illegal consumption of sprouts/parsnips/Christmas pudding (delete as applicable)”. So to avoid any arguments I will now do a poll to find out your preferences for Christmas dinner.
There is simply just nothing more frustating about christmas than giant green radioactive maggots. They’re everywhere! I really cannot see the appeal or see any reason why people insist on having them. All they do is ooze slime all over the place and lay eggs in the ears of sleeping people.