The young man carried the newest selection boxes to the
display stand, and set them up next to the sun-cream.
The shop sound-system looped back to the beginning of the CD
and Noddy Holder shouted out maniacally once again. The young man removed his
santa hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead before replacing it.
“Brian?” His supervisor shouted over.
“Yeah?” He shouted back.
“We’re going to need a refill on the mulled wine after this.
It’s next to the Pimms.”
Brian wished that there were windows in the Supermarket. He
looked at his watch. Nine-thirty at night. He wished he could be in the pub
garden with his friends. He wished he could see the sun instead of just feeling
the heat.
Slade gave way to Wizzard, who sang that they wished it
could be Christmas every day.
Finally, it was too much for
Brian. He sank to his knees in front of the selection boxes and burst into
tears.
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It was an announcement that nobody expected. It came during
the budget statement, and the Prime Minister stood up to support the Chancellor
while he made it. The financial situation in the country had become untenable,
and something had to happen. Every measure they’d tried had failed. It was time
for something drastic.
The Chancellor explained that the build-up to Christmas was
always a strong one for the economy. And so, for the next calendar year,
Christmas would not be held just once a year as it had always been, but would
instead be held every Sunday. Fifty-two weeks in a row.
The live twenty-four hour news coverage ground to a halt due
to none of the presenters or producers quite knowing how to react. There was
silence across the channels for a full two minutes before the voice of the
producer on BBC Live 24 was unintentionally broadcast, screaming to get the
fucking Archbishop on the phone.
When they actually managed to get the fucking Archbishop on
air, he gave a very hesitant endorsement of the idea, since worshipping the
birth of Our Lord was obviously a good thing, wasn’t it? And since more people
going to Church each Sunday would be good for the Church, wouldn’t it? It
sounded like he was actually thinking it through while answering, since he
ended up far more confident about the idea than he did when he started.
Richard Dawkins refused to take part in any interviews.
The first week it happened went smoothly. Presents were
bought, roasts were cooked and churches were attended. TV channels had been
given enough notice that a completely new schedule of Christmas specials filled
the TV screen throughout the day.
Even the Queen’s speech had a lighter touch than normal, as she giggled twice during it. Of course, for her, this had been the biggest change in her routine that her life had ever seen. A Queen’s Speech during the first week of January was possibly the most mind-blowing thing she had ever been asked to contemplate, but there she was anyway.
The second week wasn’t quite as good.
The Queen forgot her words and froze. Shops ran out of Brussell sprouts, wrapping paper and cranberry sauce, having not had time to order in advance. There was a new status quo and they just weren’t prepared.
The protests outside Downing Street started on the fourth
week, although they ended by the seventh week, when it was deemed illegal not
to celebrate Christmas, using an extremely old law dating back to the early
celebrations of the fifth of November.
At first, it seemed that the law was on shaky ground, however the Government made clear that they would not extend this law to other protests, and it was, after all, only for one year. When the arrests started, the population began to realise that they were tied into it after all.
The TV specials had notably declined in quality, as the lead-time ran out. By June, the Christmas Special of Doctor Who involved Matt Smith in a sixty minute story featuring him fighting no enemies at all, and just having a Christmas dinner with former companions. Although, to be fair, this was actually the most critically acclaimed episode of the entire year, and was seen as a triumph for Stephen Moffatt. The September episode where Matt Smith was ill and spent most of the hour trying not to vomit was less well received.
Suicides reached their peak in May, which surprised statisticians. They’d expected them to keep rising throughout the summer, but they gradually fell off throughout the year. “Maybe it’s the thought that we’ve got less to go than is already done,” one theorist said. Less optimistic statisticians pointed to the overall fall in the poverty rate, suggesting that those least able to afford Christmas had been the main ones to go, but other than the Guardian, nobody bothered reporting that. It just seemed a bit too grim.
The rich had their own problems. Sundays had just become doubly expensive to pay anybody to work, so employment cost a bit more over the year than it had done before.
However, by August, it had to be admitted that, on a basic financial level, these measures were working. Spending had definitely gone up. Savings were being depleted, but profits were up.
The response was taken well by some, but others were devastated. A large part of the population was hoping that it would be judged to be a complete disaster, and the plans would be abandoned. Royalists were also up in arms, as the Queen was visibly more and more distressed as the weeks went by (although by September, she stopped giving a shit and just stared angrily at the camera for the length of the speech each time it was on). There was a small and continually growing group of people who seemed to completely love it, though. The whole thing. Not just Cliff Richard fans and people who owned novelty ‘Keep Calm, It’s Only Xmas’ mugs either. Some people seemed to carry Christmas around with them all year in a way that suited them.
In October (the same month that the murder levels reached their peak), Mary Berry was fired by the BBC, for her diatribe on a live episode of the Great British Christmas Bake-Off, in which she declared she “couldn’t take any more fucking cake. I’m done. I’m done with fucking cake. I’m done with fucking Christmas Puddings. I’m done with fucking crackers and their shitty gifts inside. I’m done with fucking Mass every Sunday, and I’m seriously tempted to kill the next fucker that sings ‘Silent Night’. No, don’t try and stop me, Sue, I’m going to have my say. There is no God, this is just a sham, and fuck you all.” Paul Hollywood tried gamely to keep the show going with her replacement, Vanessa Feltz, but the magic was generally agreed to have gone. Mary Berry, meanwhile, was offered a job on Channel 4, where she seemed to massively enjoy her new role in charge of the hit show “Mary Berry’s Merry Bally Christmas”, where she was encouraged to rant. Sales of ‘Mary Berry Was Right’ t-shirts suggested they were an increasingly popular Christmas gift.
The strangest thing happened in the third week of November. TV ratings dropped almost entirely, and everyone appeared to spend time with their families and actually enjoy themselves. The crime rates dropped to almost zero, and the overall mood of the nation grew rapidly.
It appeared that the usual point where the serious run-up to Christmas started was actually the point where people started actively anticipating the end of the year. The blitz spirit had taken hold of the country, but it could only have endured as long as people had an end in sight.
The 25th of December itself was an enormous party, although the nation as a whole seemed to suffer from a metaphorical hangover for the final week.
The 31st of December was a sedate affair. People nodded at each other when they passed in the street, the weathered and aged faces reflecting what they had been through. Nobody spoke about it. Nobody needed to.
The country had endured and come through stronger. The economy was undeniably doing better, and the boost had definitely helped.
But six months later, it was down again.
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The Chancellor stood up in parliament. His eyes were sunken, like someone who had spent the entire previous night crying.
“I have an announcement…” he began, knowing he was throwing away the next election.
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