The ultra-violet rays that illuminate illegal substances
and bodily fluids are nowhere near as revealing as the neon glow of Christmas. As for many of us guys, Christmas shines a light on the fact that life isn’t all ‘coke and blowjobs’.
If you’re in the midst of a rough patch, it may seem even rougher over the festive period, because for a couple of weeks everyone else has been possessed by the Festive Spirit.
The tight-arse in the pub suddenly becomes the local philanthropist offering anyone a drink (just ‘a half’ mind you); the misery behind the counter at the Post Office has shaped the sagging meat-hole in her face into a sort of smile; your mother and father actually talk to each other, and everything you touch and everything you see has been rolled in glitter.
Meanwhile, your turmoil remains, and the added pressure of Christmas is like your aunt’s gift of loose-fitting underwear… unwanted. If this is the case for you, then hang in there and ride it out in the knowledge that within a fortnight, everything and everyone will be back to normal and that Henry the Hoover will be choking on glitter and pine needles.
At WMD we like Christmas, not the juiced-up, consumer glitter bomb, but rather the part of it that encourages Giving over Taking, the Season of Good Will and all that. At WMD we’re big on Giving. Not that we’re the most generous or self-sacrificing, but just in general we are all united in the view that to give is ultimately more rewarding and fulfilling than to take.
While in the Giving spirit, WMD was recently asked to contribute a Christmas piece for another publication, poles apart from CALMzine, a newsletter for the local Anglican Church. And while the views, tastes in fashion and music and age of the reader differ massively, the relevance of the content transcend all of this, and talks to us as men, so here it is:
In early August when I returned from vacation I discovered the shop where I obtain my morning newspaper had closed down. A week later it re-opened and I met the new owner. However the first three mornings I stopped by he only had red tops for sale. I explained I was addicted to ‘The Times’, and from then on it became available most mornings. Invariably in the past I’d bought the paper there three days each week.
The other two days, due to my ‘dogs-body’ status, I pick the paper up at the local supermarket, while carrying out my ‘milk and coffee’ duties in order that our caffeine fueled workforce continue to function.
However, since the new entrepreneur set up shop I’ve made a point of buying The Times at his shop despite it meaning I have to make a detour. (If enough of us ask, he may start selling milk and coffee and hence save my legs). In my own little way I’ve been trying to give this guy some daily business. Of course, I’ve no idea whether he’s noticed my daily visits but, hey, there’s a personal warmth in Giving; if there wasn’t, a charity such as the one where I work wouldn’t occasionally receive an anonymous donation.
It says in the WMD Guide, ‘You Get what you Give.’
It follows this up with, ‘If you Give fuck all, fuck all is what you Get.’
I was running late this morning so by the time I arrived at the shop he was out of ‘The Times’. As I moved to leave, the new owner called out, ‘Here’. He had the Times aloft.
‘I saw we were down to the last one, so I saved this for you.’
Like it says, you Get what you Give.