'Tis the season to be jolly. Or merry. or goodwilly, or something. Apparently. Heh. We said willy.

For approximately one month a year - or four if the decorations in some supermarkets are to be believed - we're called upon to eat like there's no tomorrow, drink like there's no liver disease, and buy like there's likely to be a shortage of bath gel.

Sisters Meg and Anna (not in the nun sense of the word) (they're actually related) (and aren't nuns) and Brothers Cliff and Bobbie (Not related, just franciscan monks) (possibly) are here to relieve your Crimblennui (tm) and make your December just a little more spangly.

Think of it as our little gift to you. You may not have asked for it, you may not want it, but then, you could say the same for whatever Uncle Billy's going to give you this year.

Happy Advent, from us, to you. 'Tis the season, after all...

We've been doing this for a few years now. You can catch up on everything you missed in the full archive. There's loads there. Honestly, it's a wonder we had time for shopping, really, with all that content.

Link to this site using this handy button, if you can be keffed (you'll need to copy it to your server space):

'Tis the Season is a Pickard Production by Meg and Anna

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10 December 2006

Fascinating Festive Fact #10: The birthrate in most western countries rises sharply nine months after Christmas, peaking in August.

Anna says:

Alright, admittedly, August is not (in the strictest sense of the word) nine months after Christmas, although if you take all things into account, involving in the calculation prematurely born children, different cultural calendars and the gestation period of the Thompson's Gazelle, when averaged out it all works out pretty well, and I think we can therefore say that Christmas in some way, shape, or form contributes to birth rate, or that September and August may quite possibly be in the wrong order.

Still, whatever the truth of the matter, there's something about the depth of Winterval (apols, Daily Mail readers) that makes people want to rut The Rut of Procreation.

So what is it about Christmas that sets the mood for the makin' of the little babies? Is it the food? The booze? Or is it, I think we might find, the decorations?

Yes. The solid, manly, upthrusting pointiness of the christmas tree; the comely, wanton, welcoming holes of the paper chain; rudolf's hot, throbbing nose; cuppable, bouncing baubles; flashing lights; the rough, cats-tongue quality of tinsel on bare skin, the unbeatable sensation of sinking your teeth into grandma's pudding. The Queen's speech. There is no accounting for taste.

It was always going to happen, eventually someone would realise that the correlation between festivities and fucking, but I am glad to have been the one to bring it to yours. And your grandmas.

Is it deeper than than that? Are people so spurred on by the birth of the messiah that they immediately produce one of their own? Does the Queen's speech so inflame the proletariat that they join together to try and spawn an army for the revolution (when it comes)?

Well, no. No, it isn't, aren't and doesn't. Because the birth rate actually, in all dull factual "correct" senses, peaks a whole month and a half earlier. But if it didn't, it might, yeah? You know what I'm saying.

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