I went to the pub today with my son Andrew to watch the Manchester City v Arsenal game. As we were watching it a Christmas tree walked in. It was soon joined by a silver sequined star, a middle eastern backpacker in scarlet and yellow silk and a few shepherds. Seems the nativity and the panto came together in a performance later today, but the guys decided to come to the pub and watch the football first.
It was a hilarious sideshow watching a nativity play and panto combining with the roles of football supporters and pub regulars enjoying a beer. Just now and then, all the pre-packaged laughter, the incessant battering of our retail instincts, the repetitive strain syndrome of millions of index fingers punching PINs, the overdone music, ubiquitous decorations and overloading of food expectations is exposed as sadly unreal, and the real thing emerges. Folk enjoying themselves, engaged with Christmas but able at least for a while to stand outside the addictive magnetic pull for just long enough to have a drink, watch a match, and do so with no sense of incongruity that they are really, or is it virtually, a christmas tree, star, shepherd, wise man or whatever.
I suppose if I wanted to turn this into a wee homily I could say that even then, in the reassuring incongruity of that pub, in the company of those nativity panto actors, and while watching a game that finished 6-3, there was still no sign of that baby in whom infinity was dwindled to infancy. Maybe in the laughter, the good natured engagement with the story to the extent of dressing up and telling the story, for me, that will do for now. I'm glad they came.
Burne-Jones nativity is a favourite ever since I got a Christmas card years ago using this picture.
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