In classic Guardian/Observer style, in today’s edition of the Observer there’s a piece titled The Best Books To Give As Gifts This Christmas, in which a number of authors, most of whom I have never heard of, inform me of the books they will be gifting family and friends this Christmas. Colm Tóibín, one of those I’ve never heard of, recommends Colin Barrett’s Wild Houses (Jonathan Cape) and Richard Flanagan’s Question 7 (Chatto & Windus), adding that they “would add excitement to anyone’s Christmas.” Rachel Clarke, who I have heard of, says she will be be gifting Raising Hare (Canongate), the tale of a Westminster hotshot floored by a leveret.” A what? Written by Sally Rooney, it is about, and I am not making this up, the bond between a woman and … ahem … “an abandoned hare during lockdown.” Why would anyone who knows me think, “Well, Rick would absolutely love those books. I’ll pop down Waterstones right away?” I would like to think they wouldn’t, but you never know, do you?
Like most, if not all, forms of art, what you like is very personal. I consume vast amounts of music, for example, and significant numbers of books, not all of which I have got round to reading yet, but the point about this is very simple. I know what I like. And if someone is going to the trouble of buying me something for Christmas, say, or my birthday it would make sense to buy something I actually like and would listen to or read. It’s why I have an Amazon wishlist which I share with as many family members as I can.
Inevitably, I have a seemingly endless number of albums and books that I desire and if any of the appear under the Christmas tree, I will be a happy bunny. Frankly, following the advice of various authors in the Observer would represent a complete waste of time and, more importantly, money. I rarely read fiction and there are numerous music acts whose music I would happily condemn to the municipal tip rather than listen to. And although my preference will always be non-fiction books, it’s not just any old non-fiction I want to read. Second guessing is a very bad idea indeed. I also hate surprises.
I do not like surprise parties, gatherings or surprise anythings. I like a predictable world order where if things change, they only change slowly. I like my days and weeks to pass in broadly the same way. Christmas has the potential do do the exact opposite of that. If someone buys me something that I really don’t want or need, I will of course show sincere thanks because ultimately it is the thought that counts, unless of course someone has the sheer stupidity to buy me Margaret Thatcher’s autobiography or some Manchester United merchandise. Seriously, though, just to show I can do serious, does anyone really listen to music they don’t like and read books they’re not interested in? The latter happened to me at school when I was forced to read Shakespeare and the bible, both works of pure fiction. I grew not to love both but hate them.
The point I return to and close with is that everyone likes their only kind of thing and not necessarily what someone else thinks they should like. Playing Possum: How Animals Understand Death by Susana Monsó (Princeton University Press), Orbital (Vintage), by Samantha Harvey and Robin Wall Kimmerer’s The Serviceberry: An Economy of Gifts and Abundance (Allen Lane), the latter recommended by former Green Party head luvvy Caroline Lucas, who describes it as “the perfect Christmas gift – a beautiful meditation on abundance, reciprocity and community, drawing inspiration from indigenous wisdom, and inviting us to reimagine what we value most”, whatever the fuck that means, are prime examples.
If you are considering buying me a present – and please spend as much on my presents as you can afford – then please ask me first what I want. That Freddie Mercury biography will be in the local charity shop before you can say Flash, always assuming I’m not too embarrassed to take it there in the first place.
