It's half one in the morning, and I'm reclined on the sofa at my mum's, finally wrestling off the vestiges of my New Year's Day hangover with the aid of a hot chocolate and Fake Bailey's. The festive season is crawling off, wounded, into the gossamer field of memories, and the bleak, soulless January spreads before us - a bitter necessary evil to be borne,to be faced with determination and, hopefully, to be survived. It wants to defeat you. You must resist.
However, there are remnants of Christmas still with us, and they make the slide from Yule Joy into New Year Horror the more bearable. There are still some Roses left, and not just the shitty caramels and poisonous orange creams. I've got more Stilton than I can hope to eat in this lifetime, and the novelty of my Christmas toys hasn't worn off yet. And there is still a smattering of interesting and unusual TV to watch, a festive selection pack of viewability.
Not a whole lot though. It's not been a vintage year for Christmas telly. Readers of a certain vintage will remember the pre-Christmas excitement when the bumper double issues of Radio Times and TV Times were released on the approach road to the holidays. Gaggles of small children would pour over the pages like pirates drooling over new treasure maps, carefully planning the fortnights viewing, accompanied by intermittent 'oohs' and 'ahs' as another televisual wonderment was unearthed*.
I remember TV at Christmas as being packed with nuggets of distraction, fizzing with spectacle, transmitting unending fantabulousisms. Among the ever-present Bonds, Poppinses and Wizards of Ozzess were mornings of wacky cartoon treats, obscure gems like Anne of Green Gables and strange films from the Australian Children's Film Workshop. There were big film premières middle-class seasonal uplifters like Truly Madly Deeply, and costume dramas so superior to Dumbtown Abbey they could kill it with one hand while munching a mince pie and sipping a brandy.
Even the nostalgia was better then,.
During the Yule weeks, one of the great things over the years has been lazing around, hungover, watching good honest programming. Unfortunately, these last two weeks it seems to have mostly been Diagnosis Murder and Bones repeats, with the occasional scrap of quality meat thrown at our feet to remind us how shit everything else is. Even Christmas Day's Dr Who was a bit of a limper. Sadly, the best TV has been the four episodes of Match of the Day**.
But tonight, I've found some nuggets. A programme about nasty insects. Two BBC Four docs - on Roman Art and Art Nouveau. And a QI I haven't yet seen. And I'm watching them. Because I must. Christmas is a time for traditions, and I refuse to let those traditions die. Even if I am dog-tired, and there is the siren call of bed awaiting. If I give up on this, I let January win.
Never let January win.
* I may be slightly over-romanticising this.
**Apart from the one where Sunderland beat City which was both implausible and overly-tragic. Like Mike Leigh's Naked in sporting form.
