Sunday, 8 May 2016

Celebrate good times.... come on!

I'm sure there's something wrong with me. OK, so there are probably many things wrong with me, but for the time being there's one thing in particular that makes me wonder if I'm a bit weird.
I don't understand the concept of celebrations.
It seems that for the majority of people, it doesn't take much for the bunting to be hung out and a collection of stalls to be erected in a public place giving the locals ample opportunity to spend a couple of quid on raffle tickets, guess the weight of the fruit cake and return home with food poisoning from a dodgy burger.
I, on the other hand, am happy to ignore these seemingly pointless events - preferring to tut and shake my head in confusion as to why anyone would bother with such things.
I know, I'm a grumpy old git.

We've just had a flyer shoved through the letter box about the upcoming village feast which I've written about before in a post entitled 'Funland comes to Craggy Island'.
This event takes place every year, along with countless other similar village feast celebrations across the country, and I've yet to figure out the idea behind it. Yes, I know that money is raised for charity at these things which is all very well but I can't help but wonder if it wouldn't be easier to just go door-to-door with a collecting tin and knock the whole feast thing on the head.
In the same way I don't get the idea behind big weddings, which seem to happen primarily for the benefit of the guests appetite for free food and drink, while providing the happy couple with a wonderful opportunity to accrue a massive debt which they can enjoy paying off for the next five years, just so they could emulate the celebrity weddings they've seen in Hello magazine.
Then there's new year where crowds flock together to celebrate the opening of the new Kylie calendar by getting pissed and making resolutions they won't even remember in the morning, let alone manage to keep.
It's the same thing with birthdays, Christmas, mother's day, father's day, easter and any other day that Clintons can use or invent to persuade people to buy a greetings card which will be looked at once and be in the bin two days after the event.
Recently it was the Queen's 90th birthday and I was indifferent. Yes, she's the monarch of this country but I don't know her any more than the old lady up the road, so what does it matter to me?
Leicester won something or other to do with football the other day and although I couldn't give a rat's arse, the fans were out in force waving flags, cheering and of course getting pissed.
In fact, the more I think about it, practically any kind of celebration is nothing more than a thinly veiled excuse for a giant piss-up.

Your average wedding reception involves a bar and free-flowing champagne. At a wake everyone drowns their sorrows in alcohol, and when it's your birthday people buy you booze because it's more or less guaranteed that you'll like it - I bet even the Queen sunk a few G&Ts on her birthday.
The football fans celebrated their team winning by drinking the pubs dry of crap lager, and in church they crack open a bottle of red wine and wafers to celebrate Christ's sacrifice - they're missing a trick here if they want to get a few more bums on pews because if they were less stingy with the measures there would be far more people prepared to tolerate a boring sermon and a couple of depressing hyms if communion involved a proper large glass of wine and a plate of chocolate Hob Nobs.
I knew someone that got involved with Morris Dancing which I thought was very brave of him to admit, but he did confess that waving their hankies and bashing sticks together was nothing more than a prelude to the post-dance pub visit.
The village feast, despite its many pointless and dreary aspects does at least include a bar and a stall selling the awesome Pickled Pig local cider (a potent brew that makes you forget where you left your legs), both of which are the only things with big queues in front of them.
So for this reason alone, weather permitting, I'll probably wander up to the village green next Sunday to investigate this year's village feast. Then once I've reached the stage of wondering what I'm doing there, I'll remind myself by queueing up for a couple of pints of Pickled Pig cider, safe in the knowledge that I'm not getting drunk, I'm celebrating.

"Hurrah, the mail turned up on time! Party!"