Santa's here
Or rather, a big plastic version of him in the Rosebank Mall, according to this week's Metro.
Reader (for at the moment I can boast but one), your roving reporter will soon confirm this, working in Rosebank as he does. And it looked like there was fake snow. In a southern hemisphere city where it snows for perhaps five seconds once every 20 years, cheerful bearded Father Christmases wrapped in velvety red and white are ludicrous. But a big plastic statue version is Just Not Right. I mean, what's that about? Ja, we really want to buy into this Christmas spirit idea with a northern premise that completely doesn't work in the heat of a Highveld summer but we totally can't be arsed, so let's just put up a big old Santa doll that just needs dusting every now and again and all the kids will be thrilled.
Let's not get me started on a couple of other horrifying Xmassy items that are being foisted on the unsuspecting public. Or, let's. Viz.:
jamie's italy. I'm fairly sure Italy belongs to Italians, if not the world, and I can guarantee that it had its own fabulous cuisine for manymany years before Mr Oliver 'discovered' it, and subsequently Britpopularised it. Much like chicken tikka pizza, there are some things that really ought to be left alone.
Woolies' homeware catalogue. None of the items listed therein can go in my house, because it all requires that you possess an immaculate and completely colour-neutral house of limed oak floors, with lots of crisp white cotton and sandy linen everywhere.
And let the gods forbid that you get given any of the current SA bestsellers as presents this Christmas:
Rich Dad, Poor Dad
He's Just Not That Into You
French Women Don't Get Fat
and let's not forget that ghastly perennial favourite, The Da Vinci Code
Reader (for at the moment I can boast but one), your roving reporter will soon confirm this, working in Rosebank as he does. And it looked like there was fake snow. In a southern hemisphere city where it snows for perhaps five seconds once every 20 years, cheerful bearded Father Christmases wrapped in velvety red and white are ludicrous. But a big plastic statue version is Just Not Right. I mean, what's that about? Ja, we really want to buy into this Christmas spirit idea with a northern premise that completely doesn't work in the heat of a Highveld summer but we totally can't be arsed, so let's just put up a big old Santa doll that just needs dusting every now and again and all the kids will be thrilled.
Let's not get me started on a couple of other horrifying Xmassy items that are being foisted on the unsuspecting public. Or, let's. Viz.:
jamie's italy. I'm fairly sure Italy belongs to Italians, if not the world, and I can guarantee that it had its own fabulous cuisine for manymany years before Mr Oliver 'discovered' it, and subsequently Britpopularised it. Much like chicken tikka pizza, there are some things that really ought to be left alone.
Woolies' homeware catalogue. None of the items listed therein can go in my house, because it all requires that you possess an immaculate and completely colour-neutral house of limed oak floors, with lots of crisp white cotton and sandy linen everywhere.
And let the gods forbid that you get given any of the current SA bestsellers as presents this Christmas:
Rich Dad, Poor Dad
He's Just Not That Into You
French Women Don't Get Fat
and let's not forget that ghastly perennial favourite, The Da Vinci Code
posted by vivaldifan | 2:21 AM
1 Comments:
Rich Dad Poor Dad? STILL? Oh dear.
I am humungously tickled by your description of the dustable Santa though. I always grumble at the early onslaught of Christmas (love festive cheer in its proper place and time, i.e. Europe and December, hate the consumer frenzy that dictates we must be sold garish baubles for THREE MONTHS beforehand) - but a great big plastic one really takes the cake, ices it, dusts it with silver balls and then STOMPS ALL OVER IT.
And Jamie's Italy - yes - I couldn't believe the cheek when I saw that. It's being advertised here with huge bus-side posters proclaiming "the REAL taste of Italy". Dear lord. There are words for this sort of hubris... what are they again... oh yes: TWUNTY. There. Don't think we need another.
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