‘And a Parakeet in a Palm Tree’

Ar ais, arís - January, where the chutney overlords retreat to begin their initial stages of fungal growth, where Primark matching pyjamas are reunited with the personality of their owners at the bottom of the landfill, where bounty chocolates sit idle like goths during secondary school PE, where instagram feeds reset from questionable engagements and (not so) surprise Australian homecomings to equally insufferable and vapid fitness routines, where the opportunity to regift thoughtless and unimaginative kris kindle presents passes and where the choice between hypothermia or an increase on your already uncontrollable overdraft remains a daily decision - nothing quite burns like the cold. However this year wasn’t one of tradition or ritual, the new year was kicking off on another continent and for the first time I had experienced the festive period abroad, a budget economy 20+ hour three connecting flights kind of abroad, Cartagena, on the Caribbean coast of Colombia kind of abroad.

Christmas in the sun has always been both a fascinating and perplexing concept for me. Gravy and humidity, snowmen and sand, stuffing and suncream - the socks simply don’t match the togs, so how does it work, or does it ? Well, as the mercury hit 32c on the 25th of December, I called my fourth Coco Loco of the afternoon. My vista, (aside from my pale scraggy trotters) the crystal clear Caribbean water that encircled our secluded boutique resort on a private island off Baru. My initial sympathy and concern for the local workers along with the intrinsic and inherent Irish feeling of shame and guilt in experiencing pleasure began to wane as the rum took effect. The sole thought keeping me grounded was the terrifying possibility of personifying a Gen Z influencer who is living in Dubai with his emotional support Louis Vuitton schoolbag, trading Forex and has been (unbeknownst to him) abandoned by his family. Although this paradisaical and celestial setting supplied an inexhaustible amount of vitamin d, line caught snapper, Lays (limon & chorizo) and the odd menthol cigarette it also provided an opportunity and a lens to appreciate all a Christmas at home has to offer..

It’s the bellowing cacophony of ‘Here I Am Lord’ from the lubricated midnight mass goer’s. It’s the wafting threat of an eviction notice as it perforates through the letter box. It’s the slap of a crisp brown cow (€50) in your paw followed by intense hand and eye contact with onward instruction to buy yourself phone credit from the uncle who is a touch too fond of the sherry. It’s the uncomfortable interaction of unexpectedly encountering acquaintances from your past and the frantic internal battle of placing their face, recalling their name and judging every word they speak whilst maintaining a cowardly smile. It’s the insatiable ‘did ya hear’ gossip that disseminates around the urinal of the local pub - confirming who’s married, who’s expecting and who’s gay. It’s seeing the ego’s crumble of those living abroad as they realize their big ‘I work in London’ coat provides only ammunition not protection. It’s the I’ll have a drop of me mothers Baileys in my cornflakes and four packs of Hunky Dorys for supper. It’s the inspection and assessment of structural integrity for every and any potential cheese vessel before it makes its maiden voyage from plate to mouth. It’s the intense, immediate and continued regression to an inebriated neanderthalic state that coexists with the overbearing impending doom of normality on the horizon. It’s the realisation that Christmas is not an ideal but simply a state of comforting unease - the magic and beauty comes from knowing it’s not perfect and never will be , the joy comes from not having to strive for any one thing or wish to be in any one place but to be mediocre in a realm of comforting mediocrity. It’s the fact that letting rip a fart on the couch that your mother refuses to replace after a feed of spuds and a skip of porter gives as much comfort, ease and joy if not more than the Caribbean sun could ever comprehend.

Christmas is where your socks might not match but your feet will always be warm.