Christmas

As I alluded to in an earlier post, Christmas is my favourite time of the year in the Taps. As it happens I’m not a huge fan of Christmas in general, beyond Christmas dinner at my Aunt’s house (which is my desert Island food and totally fricking awesome by the way) that is, but I do love Christmas in the Taps.

I love everything about it. I love the Pogues, and the whisky. I love the decorations and the lights. I love coming in from the winter cold to a warm pub and a friendly welcome. I love the Christmas atmosphere and bonhomie. I love people stopping in for a quick drink while they’re doing their shopping and then heading back out again fortified and warmed. I love all of it (except amateur drinkers).

I think that there’s something slightly Dickensian about good pubs and Christmas. Something that’s redolent of a by gone era, when public houses were alive to the sounds of the crystal clink of glasses; and men in coats and tails would drink port and whiskey and brandy around an open fire safe from Jack the Ripper and the freezing fog and driving snow outside.

A time when people would stand outside in the snow, their faces pressed up against frosted glass windows, peering in at the golden glow of a warm fire lit bar and wonder whether they had time for a quick couple of pints before they made their way home.

It actually reminds me a little of the feel of Counterparts, my favourite James Joyce story from the Dubliners (which is about an alcoholic clerk on a night of drinking in Dublin). He just captures the joy of pubs in a way that only people who know them can understand:

"Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins! Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give his version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight of five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared laughing when he showed the way in which Mr. Alleyne shook his fist in Farrington's face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, "And here was my nabs, as cool as you please," while Farrington looked at the company out of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip.

When that round was over there was a pause. O'Halloran had money but neither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House. The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses. The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door and formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockabout artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would take a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions of what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too; but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical. O'Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another round, Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised to get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls."

Christmas to me seems to have that old fashioned feel to it. Of large rounds being stood, spirits being drunk. Toasts being made. Civilized laughter and honest goodwill.

You know, perhaps it’s something just as simple as that people are just nicer and happier. They’re more patient. More generous and less weary at Christmas.

And what is the Taps afterall but a social club. A home away from home. And at Christmas, then, a place of even greater safety and joy.