20 December 2004
Ding Dong Merrily on Oi!
On a cold and wintry evening toward the end of December, on the darkest night of the year, in the still of the dark, there's a loud and unexpected knock at the front door.
Who could it be? Is it a lost traveller, weary from the road, in need of a cosy fireside and a cup of broth? Is it a friend, come to pass on greetings of the season? Is it a postman, bearing gifts from afar?
None of the above. Carollers.
I know this, because my footfall on the stair prompts a rousing (well, lacklustre, actually) chorus (and I mean chorus, because that's the only bit of the song they actually know) of "We wish you a Merry Christmas," which is swiftly followed by another loud knock and a gruff voice intoning "Oy! We know you're in! It's carow singahz, innit!"
You see, around here - as in many parts of the country, I expect - we don't have carol singers any more. In genteel areas with nice families, they have proper singing groups decked out in random Victoriana, carrying lamps on sticks and muffs and tripping gaily from mansion to mansion (Hampstead, Islington, Richmond; I'm looking at you), or at the very least, the local youth club (mature, sensible and accompanied by a responsible adult, natch) in bobble hats and scarves. Their tuneful offerings on the garden path are listened to respectfully, and rewarded with mince pies or a modest donation to the chosen charity appeal. All very civilised.
Around here, we have carol shouters. We have boys in their late teens from the local estate, riding around on bikes, doing wheelies down the middle of the dark road, bathed in orange light, their baseball caps at jaunty angles and their trousers slung impossibly low, as if one rogue sneeze could lead to an embarrassing moment. They saunter up to every door in loose gangs of five or eight or ten, hammer a tattoo greeting and shout out a unison, unenthusiastic chorus of the same tired song they learnt in primary school, before demanding some sizeable payment ("...or we'w kick yer door in, innit?").
These are the same boys who trick or treat in October (though actually, "money or dogshit-through-the-letterbox" might be a little more accurate) and who loiter outside the newsagent with their little sister holding a carrier bag stuffed with newspaper, onto which a crude face has been drawn in permanent marker (mmm, smells so good, tags even better), demanding a "penny for the guy." Bitter experience has shown that a penny rarely ever sufficient. Things would be a lot more straightforward if they just came out with it and demanded a "fiver for the guy" instead.
These are the same boys who scrawl their nicknames - and the name of their recently-run-over schoolmate (it's the tribute she would have wanted) - onto the bus stops of the area in thick black pen, and set light to each others's nylon sportswear at the back of the bus, or sitting on the back of the bench next to the pond, for a laugh.
So yes, shouting and being intimidating for cash. It's not that convincing, as a money-raising venture is concerned, because most people these days - including me, this evening - tend to ignore the knock at the door, the stranger in the night, and hide behind the sofa until the threats and raucous laughter and sqqeals of bike brakes and tuneless braying have passed by.
In case you should have a similar visitation one evening this week, here's a handy cut-out-and-keep identification guide to Carol Singers:
| Carol Singers:
| Not Carol Singers:
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