This Christmas, 2006, I am boycotting “Fairytale of New York.”

I told you you’d be shocked. Allow me to make myself very clear: I take this action not through boredom, sickness or dislike of said heart-of-gold drunken yuletide anthem. Quite the opposite. I’m doing this because I like it far too much to see it meet the fate of every other Christmas song: overplayed, irritating, redolent of tired, forced fun.

I remember when “Fairytale” first came out. The first time I heard it, I hated it. I was eight, for heaven’s sake; I wanted synths, beats, and preferably a little mini-rap for the middle eight. I really wasn’t ready for MacGowan’s lazily anguished snarl, or MacColl’s lilt for that matter. And yet, after my first listen, something stayed with me. By the next day I’d listened to it several times, learned the words, and put it on a tape I was making for a friend (along, if I remember correctly, with “Pump Up The Volume” by M/A/R/R/S, which must imply something).

For a long time, “Fairytale” remained, if not a secret passion, at least a pretty cliquey one. In the oh-so-ironic 90s, unashamed party ‘classics’ like Slade’s “Merry Christmas Everybody!” went down better than dark old “Fairytale.” I heard that it was kept from video appearances on Christmas Top of the Pops specials by the word “faggot,” but I’ve no idea if that’s true. Certainly, it was a badge of honour to admire the song over the array of Christmas crap out there. This, after all, was the decade when the coveted slot of Christmas number one was competed for almost entirely by novelty acts - from Mr. Blobby to Bob the Builder. I’m not saying that liking “Fairytale” made you some sort of musical guru, but it was a marker of discrimination. Like Radiohead, nobody who was really interested in music would dismiss it, and nobody who was basically more interested in football could really enjoy it.

I remember exactly when I realised that things had started to change: when, in 2000, I heard that likeable-but-dull Irish warbler Ronan Keating* was recording the song as a B-side to his single “The Way You Make Me Feel” - not, regrettably, a Michael Jackson cover, but a cliche with lyrics so mind-meltingly clichéd I’ve often wondered if they were the product of some drunken songwriter dare. Although I’ve never heard Keating’s actual version (with Clannad harp-n-vocalist** Maire Brennan), just the news of its existence made me sad to my core. The one genuinely meaningful Christmas record - the only one that portrays the contrived optimism of the festival in its true context, the misery and bitterness of winter - softened, made saccharine, safe, granny-friendly. Never mind that it’s about an elderly, drug-addicted couple whose dreams have been crushed into dust. It’s about Christmas! Let’s turn the violins up in the mix!

Then, even as Ronan’s cover was bothering the charts - and the ears of Radio 2 listeners - Kirsty MacColl died. Amidst the heartfelt (and well-deserved) tributes that flooded in from fans who’d long loved Kirsty for her tragic sensibility, unique voice, and sometimes biting wit, there were many who talked as if all she’d ever done was “Fairytale” (I’m talking about you, Duncan Connors). From that moment, the song began a quick ascent towards national treasure status. It topped a VH1 poll of the greatest Christmas song in 2004, and has done so every year since. When a colleague in my office recently started a poll on a popular gay networking website about the best Christmas song, it shot to the top. It’s just been re-released for the second time, and is currently at no. 10 in the charts. There are 64 versions of the song on YouTube, ranging from the official video (starring, incredibly, Matt Dillon) to a version by the parents of someone called Sam.

Perhaps I should be happy to see such a great song so popular. But I’m not. “Fairytale” was an aquired taste for a reason: it’s dark. It’s difficult; it contains a vision of Christmas that isn’t dominated by food and things.

He’s an alcoholic shambles, who spends Christmas Eve in a police station. She’s a bedridden junkie. The only hope on the horizon comes from his recent gambling victory (”Got on a lucky one / Came in eighteen to one / I’ve got a feeling / This year’s for me and you”). We all know he’s going to piss it away; that his cheerful Christmas optimism (”I can see a better time / when all our dreams come true”) is a grotesque annual ritual. And the song’s final verse, while it initially seems to bring resolution, in fact offers the protagonists only a weary resignation:

I could have been someone
(Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you)
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can’t make it all alone
I’ve built my dreams around you

In the end, their complete dependence on each other is all that holds them together: their dreams may be dead, but they huddle, shivering, warming themselves over the ashes.

This is an odd candidate for a feel-good Christmas anthem. And yet, in the words of one EMI staffer,

Fairytale Of New York is an adult answer to Jingle Bells. It’s difficult to remember a Christmas party without a drunken singalong with The Pogues.

Is it too elitist to suspect the millions of people who round off every Christmas party with a “drunken singalong” haven’t fully appreciated the dark bitterness of the story? And of course, there’s the depressing irony of watching drunk people imitate MacGowan’s alcoholic drawl.

And the Pogues aren’t helping, cheerfully performing the song with any passing female singer, not to mention Shane’s mum. And, of course, re-releasing the song any time they’re short of beer money. Think I’m being harsh? Note that Warner encouraged the single’s current re-release “because a whole new generation of fans have heard Shane through his association with Kate Moss and Pete Doherty.”

Now look, I’m not unrealistic. I understand that when fine things become hugely popular, a little of their meaning is inevitably lost; and to stand in the way of it is not only Canute-style arrogance, but pretty close to snobbishness. But that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it, and it doesn’t mean I have to take part. Hence, the boycott. Before I’ve heard it once too many; before it conjures up images, not of postwar Manhattan with its dazzling lights and freezing tenements, but of work colleagues puking on my shoes; before I learn to associate it with that heady mix of plastic packaging, junk food, cheap wine and lazy nostalgia that is Christmas for childless adults. Before I see it on a bloody advert for holidays in New York, I’m having this Christmas without “Fairytale.”

It hasn’t been easy so far. It was mercifully forgotten at the work Christmas party, but when we had people round for an early festive dinner on Sunday, I had to smilingly ignore several requests. Several times, when Christmas shopping on Saturday, I felt myself bolting a shop without my planned purchases when I sensed the festive soundtrack CD was drifting Pogues-wards. Just today, a colleague put it on on his computer towards the end of the day, minus headphones, so the whole office could enjoy it crackling out of tinny, tiny speakers. I quickly stuck in my earphones and shoved on anything else.

I don’t, to be honest, know how much longer I can last. But I’m going to keep trying. “Fairytale” is a disarming, mature, evocative story, a real adult Christmas song, not to mention one of the most eloquent ever portrayals by an Anglo-Irish writer of the Irish-American urban immigrant experience. It deserves better than to be a drunken singalong, an afterthought, “even better than Slade.”

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Thank you so much for your Christmas card. I was hoping my first one this year might be from a friend, or my mum, so I was obviously delighted to find it was from a book catalogue company.

And thank you so much for the gift! It was really thoughtful. How did you know that what I most wanted for Christmas was free postage and packing on my next order? How clever! A saving of 3.99 will certainly come in handy over the expensive festive period.

I must apologise though: I haven’t got you anything. It’s always so embarrassing when that happens!

To be honest, I never expected to get anything from you. You see, I never realised I was “one of your most valued customers”. I must say, I’m honoured!

I’m also a little surprised, seeing as I’ve never actually bought anything from you. I did order my four free books when I joined, of course. They’re lovely! Three history books and a nice, weighty biography. I haven’t actually read them, of course, but they look marvellous on my shelf.

It’s especially nice, given that I cancelled my membership a few months ago. It felt quite odd, not having to phone up and reject the editor’s choice every month. A bit lonely, I suppose. So of course, I was thrilled when you rang and asked me to rejoin – and offered me another free book! I remember I chose a really weighty, difficult one this time. It was nice of you to tell me their original prices, so I could be sure to choose the most expensive one. It’s a shame you had to send it out four times before I finally received a copy.

All in all, I reckon you must have sent me over £150 of free stuff! And I’ve only ever paid you, funnily enough, postage & packing. And now you’re giving me that free as well! It’s really very generous. But, then, I suppose as one of your most valued customers, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?

So thank you very much for making me feel a little more special this Christmas. Although I know your standards are high, please don’t forget your less valued customers this festive season. They deserve your Season’s Greetings too!

Kind Regards,

Rav Casley Gera

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“Dear member,” reads the card that plopped through the door this week. “Season’s greetings from everyone at TSP.”

It’s signed “Alice Ryan.” Obviously, I have no idea who Alice Ryan is. Nevertheless, I could live with the card. It has some harmless, albeit soulless, red and gold wrapped presents on the front. “Alice’s” signature is printed in a deep blue colour that almost looks like real pen. And, isn’t everyone used to corporate cards by now? I’ll never forget by genuine dismay when the only card in the post on my 17th birthday was from my temping agency. It showed a couple of jacket-n-cuffed wrists, one male, one female, clinking together glasses filled with sickly, yellow, fluid that looked like fizzy pee. Nine years on, I understand that insincere corporate wishes on special occasions are just part of the spectrum of modern life. And hey, at least I didn’t get 18th birthday cards with credit cards inside, which have been known in the US.

No, what really stunned me was the inscription on the inside-left of the card. “You’ve been one of our most valued members this year,” it trills. “So we’ve enclosed a special Christmas gift for you to say a special ‘thank you!’”

Hmm. One of their most valued customers, eh? Wow. I must have bought a lot of TSP books. How many? Let me think… um… oh, yes, that’s right. None. Actually, come to think of it, I’ve never bought a book from them. I got four free books when I joined (Simon Schama’s three-volume History of Britain - I was having a period of patriotic guilt - and Robert Dallek’s famous bio of JFK). Since then, I’ve dutifully called every month to reject the editor’s choice. A couple of times, I missed the deadline, and actually received the editor’s choice, only to dutifully send it back and swallow the cost of postage & packing.

A few months ago, bored of the monthly routine, I swallowed my guilt over not actually buying anything to justify my £60-worth of freebies and called to cancel my membership. For a few months, the TSP left my life. Then I got a call in around June, telling me that they’d love me to rejoin, and they could send me a free book of my choice if I did. So I did. The free book took three months, and free phone calls, to arrive; when it did, I knew I wouldn’t read it - after all, I hadn’t touched the Sharmas or the Dallek. So I gave it to my editor. And a month later, after nearly forgetting to reject the editor’s choice, I cancelled again.

So, to recap, they’ve sent me about £70’s worth of free books; I’ve never paid them for anything other than postage; I’ve cancelled my membership twice; and I’m not actually currently a member.

Apparently, I’m nevertheless one of their most valued customers!

So I was nonplussed to be offered “a Christmas gift to say a special ‘thank you’!” What could it be? A £5 voucher? £10 even? Maybe, if they were being pushy in driving up Christmas sales, 3 for 2?

Nope. Free postage and packing.

Free postage and packing! JEsus! Even with such a broad definition of “valued customer,” that seems really naff. “Buy an item at FULL PRICE, and we’ll send it to you free - because you’re our valued customer!” Isn’t that like your boss telling you, “because you’re one of our most valued team members, as a special Christmas bonus, you can do slightly less unpaid overtime than usual this month?”

Don’t get me wrong - I’m obviously not in a position to complain, given that P&P is so far the only thing I’ve ever actually paid them. But that’s just it. The Christmas blarney that this voucher comes wrapped in is so out of sync, not just with my actual status as a customer, but with its contents. To offer free P&P on Christmas purchases (oh yes, the voucher expires on New Year’s Eve) is an entirely reasonable, admirable thing for a retailer to do to drum up seasonal business - and of all the daft things people buy too many of at Christmas, surely books have to be amongst the least unnecessary. But why does it have to come in a card, with a silly, gushing message? Why the ego massage? Surely, even in our isolated, screen-hunched digital days, nobody is so in dire need of emotional support that they might be heartened to learn of their “valued customer” status? Surely this crap doesn’t sell more books?

Advertising and commerce penetrate further than ever into our lives, through billboards, TV screens, sports sponsorship, and so on. I went to a restaurant recently and they were advertising Sideways DVDs on the Guinness glasses, for Christ’s sake. But at least that’s impersonal - aimed at a vaguely defined “audience.” It’s not pretending to be your friend. What makes this so nauseating is its cack-handed attempt to mean something.

In olden times, to chat to the guy who ran the grocery store - to maybe deliver him a Christmas card, to attend his funeral and be genuinely shaken - made perfect sense. Now, with your local Tesco’s staffed by an ever-changing roster of students and near-retirees, it’s still just possible to maintain a relationship with some staff - you’ll occasionally see a checkout person greeting a regular with a cheery hello. But a relationship with the institution itself? No chance. We used to associate a company with its people. Now we associate it with a logo, a slogan, a lifestyle. And when a faceless corporation tries to establish an interpersonal relationship - whether through a cheery email or an actual card - it just numbs and sickens.

So, sorry, Alice Payn - if you even exist - but my first Christmas card of 2006 is going in the recycling. In fact, I’m seriously considering buying some horrendous corporate cards of my own and sending them to all the corporations on which my life now depends.

Dear Amazon / Evans’ Cycles / J.D. Wetherspoon’s / Yahoo

You’ve been one of my most valued suppliers this year. Now as the nights draw in, we turn our thoughts to the festive season. So Best Wishes, from all of us - well, me - to you, your thousands of employees, further hundreds of affiliated contractors and agency temps, and all their families.

Here’s looking forward to another productive year together.

Season’s Greetings,

Rav Casley Gera

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