Radio Times/1923/12/21/Christmas is Coming!

WAS sitting very quietly the other evening writing a beautiful essay on "The Uplift of the Soul," which I was hoping the B.B.C. would let me broadcast.

It's a funny thing they won't let me talk on subjects like that. I was speaking to Uncle Jeff about it only a few days ago.

I said: "Uncle Jeff, what the public wants is Moral Urge, and I can give them what they want: I'll dash off," I said. "a series of soul-stirring altruistic little things that will rouse the people like a trumpet blast. Just say the word," I said, "and I'll sling them a line of dope that will send the last pirate to the nearest post-office with tears in his eyes. contrition in his soul, and fifteen shillings in his hand. What about it?"

"John Henry," said Uncle Jeff, "far be it from me to dash cold water on your young and fiery enthusiasm, but if there's any trumpet blasting to be done round here, my orchestra can attend to it. What do you mean," he said, "by coming in here, rattling on like a cheap car, talking tosh about Moral Urge? I'm the fly's ointment round here," he said. "Now you make a noise like a hoop and roll away."



Uncle Jeff can't deceive me. I could tell he didn't want me to do Uplift Talks, but, anyhow, as I said, I was writing one, just in case, and I'd just got to a noble bit about the soul being like an elevator and lifting you ever up and up and I was wondering how I was going to get it down again when my Perpetual Motion, who'd been strangely silent for some moments, said, "John Henry."

I said, "What?" She said, "Don't you say 'What' to me. It may be all right for Uncle Rex, but I won't be whatted, so just you remember."

So I said, "Yes, please," and she said. "John Henry, Christmas is coming."

Well, of course, I knew that myself, but I hadn't mentioned it, because I know what it means. I've noticed that I always begin to get better-looking towards Christmas.

She'll come to me and say, "John Henry, I've seen worse-looking men than you, after all. When you've got your hat on and you don't get the light on your face, you aren't so bad, considering," and then she'll give me advice about letting my hair grow long at the sides, and I can brush it over the top and people won't notice it much, and she'll tell me to get some stuff and rub it in night and morning, because perhaps the roots are still there.

So, of course when she began talking about Christmas coming I knew what to expect, so I just said, "Is it?" and she said. "Yes; what are we going to give 'Erbert for Christmas?"

'Erbert's our dog. He's not a valuable dog. The neighbours call him "that hound," and things like that, and the woman who lives underneath says he's as much trouble as that elephant I once had. 'Erbert's the possessor of a low contralto voice that ought to have some machine oil put on it. Although he was christened 'Erbert, he'll answer to anything in the name line. Any brand of vituperation or profanity will bring an answering wag from that ever-ready tail. 'Erbert has one good point. He doesn't answer back. That's one thing my Big Noise could learn from 'Erbert. but she won't.

So I said, "Give him a bone," but she said, "No, he's going to hang his stocking up, the precious darling."

Well, of course, that's all wrong, because he hasn't got a stocking, and I told her so, and then she said she'd buy him one. So then I asked her, "Why not get him or Christmas-tree?" I said this sarcastic, but she didn't take it that way, and now I've got to get a Christmas-tree and play Father Christmas for 'Erbert.

She hasn't told me what she wants for Christmas yet, but she did say she's going to buy me a pair of nice new curtains for the front room. Ah, well! I'd buy her a pipe, but I daren't.

It's a funny thing. I always manage to get into a bother at Christmas. One of my very earliest memories is of hanging my stocking up and my brother filling it with a cheerful mixture of cinders and cold porridge.

And then there was another time, when I thought my stocking wasn't big enough, so I tied up my pyjamas and hung those up, and in the morning I found my mother had put all the silver in, with some polish and a cloth, and I had to clean it all for being greedy.

So, of course, I'm wondering what kind of bother I shall get into this Christmas. I think I know already where it will happen, and I've got an idea there'll be a lot of it. She's gone and accepted an invitation to a party. Now, I don't shine at parties. I don't mind being among a lot of men, but when I'm confronted with the Sex in large quantities, I get perturbed.

And then some woman comes up and says, "Oh, do sing, Mr. John Henry," and I'm just saying I've not got my music when my Commander-in-Chief hears me and makes me sing, and I forget my words and nobody's listening, and I bleat a few lines, and before I've finished the hostess says, "Let's play Puss, Puss, Come to my Corner," and they do, and I'm Puss, and I fall against a table and break a plant pot, and when at last I get home I get told off for not being a social lion.

But on Christmas Eve, after we've read the letters and looked at the Christmas cards once more, and it's getting near midnight, I shall be sitting in the big armchair near the fire, watching the blue smoke curl up out of my pipe, and she'll come and sit on the chair with me and put her arm round my shoulder and whisper, "Happy Christmas, John Henry. You're not so bad, after all," so perhaps I'm just a bit glad that Christmas is coming.