We decided yesterday there was nothing to stay in for. The weekend’s sport had gone pretty well perfectly, with Liverpool winning and Arsenal and Manchester City losing, Bristol Rovers shocked the shocker world by knocking mighty Weston Super Mare out of the FA Cup (and still some Gasheads were unhappy – d’oh), Feyenoord had beaten AZ Alkmaar and in the only rugby match that mattered at the weekend, England defeated Samoa. I could not have been less interested in any of the Sunday sport, other than the only driver I could could a toss about in F1, the controversial and therefore interesting, Max Verstappen won the São Paulo Grand Prix Instead, it being 3rd November, two days ahead of Guy Fawkes’ night, we decided to go for a walk in town, assuming it would be relatively quiet. We could not have been more wrong.
Bristol has two main shopping areas in town. The flashy, soulless and slightly upmarket Cabot Circus and the tired, actually completely exhausted, Broadmead. I avoid Cabot Circus, rather like I avoid the plague (and clichés). I visit Broadmead because it has HMV and Waterstones and for no other reason. However, as I arrived in Broadmead, I was appalled: it was Christmas.
What? Christmas? How could it be? But it was. What we call 50 Sheds of Shit were all in place at Bristol’s faux German market. Right down the middle of Broadmead the sheds were selling classic German hog roasts, classic German Churros and classic German high fat offal tubes, all at absurd and frankly extortionate prices. And, as per usual, there were two piss poor pop up bars, one slap bang in the middle of Broadmead, both filled with festive revellers guzzling some of the worst lager on the planet. (I know: I had a pint a couple of years ago, having sold a kidney to pay for the privilege.)
I understand the attraction of German Christmas markets. Friends and family have been to Germany, have thoroughly enjoyed them and, importantly, have confirmed that the German markets we endure are about as German as cricket itself.
Wandering through a sea of litter, much of which appeared to be discarded fast food packaging, some of which appeared to include what passes for food, and squeezing past Bristol’s forgotten people, hunched in doorways, some crashed out in sleeping bags and toothless beggars outside of Gregg’s, asking for cash or mince pies, I just wanted to be anywhere else. All the while, I reminded myself that Christmas was nearly two months away and as I passed a large stall selling English cheese – nothing says a German Christmas market more than a stall selling English cheese – I could not help thinking it was ridiculous. It wasn’t even cold. This crass, tacky market glowed and glistened beneath slate grey autumnal skies. It’s not beginning to feel a lot like Christmas. Remember, remember: we haven’t even had that great festival on 5th November where we scare the shit out of family pets by setting off small explosives.
It was not hard to get away from Christmas in Bristol, not least because The Big Day is so long off and the gaudy, tacky festive displays are hopefully some way off, too. But what yesterday’s premature celebration of the birth of the supposed Jesus of Nazareth said to me was 21st century greed and, frankly, exploitation. Christmas for me is all about family, friends and avoiding Mrs Brown’s Boys. A few pints of Schlüssmeister, brewed in Burton on Trent and unheard of in Germany, is not going to shake me out of my grinch-like unfestive attitude.
I don’t mind Christmas, despite the endless tat and the endless replaying of Christmas songs that I am absolutely sick of hearing (sorry Noddy, Kirsty, Shane, Roy, Mariah, Chrissie and everyone else who made Christmas songs years ago that were fun at the time but a million plays later are not so much fun). But part of me wants this bullshit out of the way. Let’s cut the crap and do the celebrations on the day itself. If a giant sink hole were to appear overnight in Bristol and swallow the entire Christmas market once and for all, I’d be a very happy man. And if my partner thinks I am going to enjoy her at Bath’s dismal 50 Sheds of Shit, she can forget that one, too.
