I’m talking advertorials and infomercials, here.

Advert– Wha–??

An advertorial is an advertisement, presented in the form of an editorial.
In print, (newspaper, magazine, Web page) it is usually tailored to resemble a legitimate and independent news story. Often, the advertorial is designed to look just like the other articles  which appear in the publication. Subtle differences may be added, to meet legal requirements – such as the inclusion of a disclaimer, like “special promotional feature”. Often in tiny print.

Infomercials are direct response television commercials, and often include an associated phone number or website. They are also known as paid programming, or teleshopping (in Europe).

Long-form infomercials range from 15 to 30 minutes in length, while short-form infomercials are typically half a minute to 2 minutes long.

The practice of showing infomercials began in the US, where they were often broadcast overnight (2:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m.), as an alternative to signing off.

The term infomercial is now also used to refer to any presentation giving out information intended to promote a specific point of view.

You Say Potato…

I say “King Edward’s”. Or “spud.”

Different words. Same product. Different emphasis.

Depends on how you look at it.

On 9th January 2012, headlines emerged about a scientific study which suggests that carbon dioxide emissions from global warming might prevent or delay the onset of the next Ice Age, due in a few thousand years.

Here’s how the British newspaper, The Daily Telegraph pounced on the good news.
In an article entitled “Carbon emissions to block next ice age”, The Telegraph interpreted the findings with such gems as:

“Carbon dioxide emissions will delay the arrival of the next ice age,
according to a new study.

Researchers from Cambridge University who examined variations in the
Earth’s orbit and global climate patterns calculated that the next ice
age should begin within the next 1,500 years.

But the impact of carbon dioxide emissions on the environment means
that the global freeze which should be on its way will not be able to
take hold, they said.”

“The temperate stretch in between global freezes can be longer or
shorter depending on a number of factors, but with the last ice age
having ended 11,600 years ago the arrival of another already appears
overdue.”

“Dr Luke Skinner, who led the new study with colleagues from University
College London, the University of Florida and Bergen University in
Norway, said: “From 8,000 years ago, as human civilisation flourished,
CO2 reversed its initial downward trend and drifted upwards,
accelerating sharply with the industrial revolution.”

“The Global Warming Policy Foundation said the study demonstrated that
man-made carbon dioxide emissions were preventing a “global disaster”.

The think tank, set up by Lord Lawson, cited a controversial theory
proposed by Sir Fred Hoyle and Professor Chandra Wickramasinghe in
1999 which said we “must look to a sustained greenhouse effect to
maintain the present advantageous world climate.”

In the spirit of open-mindedness, the article did include this proviso:

“Dr Skinner told the BBC such an argument would be “missing the point”
that man-made climate change will heat the planet much more than
current temperatures, and that failing to slow the rate of carbon
emissions could have “huge consequences.”

A view more in keeping with the tone of the research itself, as originally reported on BBC television.

(http://news.bbc.co.uk/today/hi/today/newsid_9673000/9673997.stm)

Hmm.

And then, there are the (product) promotions.

Some of which are… well. Terrible.

Or for products that don’t actually work.
The Good Housekeeping website has a page dedicated entirely to a review of non-performing infomercial products.

(http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/video/infomercial-products-that-dont-work-video-42474344001)

Many of which are just plain dumb.

Actually, that last video was a parody. But, still.

Diss Information

And, yes. I did spell that correctly. At least, in the current context. When the advertorial goes adversarial.

I mean mud-slinging. Disrespect.

Political campaigns.

Barack Obama’s 2008 presidential campaign set up an Obama Channel on satellite TV networks, to promote his views through a series of infomercial broadcasts. A week before the polls, Mr. Obama bought a 30-minute slot during primetime, on seven major networks – drawing a peak audience of some 33 million viewers.

Fast forward, to 2012.

With no clear front runner emerging for the Republican Party presidential nomination, the candidates have taken up the infomercial cudgel, in earnest. To beat each other over the head, with. So…

An ex-Romney aide disses Mitt Romney:

http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2012/01/06/new-anti-romney-video-attacks-bain-capital-work.html

Newt Gingrich disses Mitt Romney:

Mitt Romney disses Newt Gingrich:

And so it goes on.

And on. And on. And…

Look. All I’m saying is – what with election campaigns, sitting governments trying to sell painful austerity measures, and corporations looking to make a fast buck – you’re likely to be seeing a lot of this advertorial / infomercial stuff.

And, when you do, you should take it all with a hefty pinch of salt. Saxa, preferably. Or a similar name brand.

And, yes.

I am a professional writer. It’s how I make my living. So, if some wealthy client rolled up to me with a proposal to write an advertorial for them, I would seriously consider taking their money. Man’s gotta eat, after all.

BUT. I’d have to check them out, first.

Let The Reader / Viewer Beware…

Keep an open mind, when you read or view this stuff. But, not TOO open.

And look into the background. Read around the subject.

Due diligence, they call it. That’s what Google Search is for. Sorry. I mean Yahoo! Search. Or Ask.com. Or…

And keep a firm grip on your wallet.

Now, go forth and be skeptical.

Peace.

What follows is an extract from my forthcoming thriller novel, “Xero Option.”

Hmm. Cool logo, yes?

“Forthcoming.” As in, “I have to finish the damn thing, first.”

In the meantime, here’s Chapter One.
Feel free to leave a comment if you like it, loathe it, or just want to pass the time of day.

And happy reading.

*  *  *  *

Earl Grey. Or jasmine.

Farrell nodded, grimly. That’s what she should have gone for.
Something simple. Not some “exotic blend of fragrant leaves, grown on
the rolling plains of Outer Tyberia”, or wherever it was. With “a
rich, yet delicate flavor, that…”

Yeah, right.

She scowled, stabbing the soggy teabag into the depths of the thermos
cup, for the umpteenth time.

The guy at the grocery store had sold her a lemon. Or – Farrell
grinned ruefully at this – he should have done. Would have had more
flavor in it, than this stuff. Farrell–

Paused. Head bowed. Still scowling at the offending mess in her cup,
as the short hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end.

Someone was watching her. Had been, for some time.

It didn’t take going on 20 years of police experience, to figure that
one out. The feeling was primal. That idiot, Vitale, would have
described it as gut instinct, street smarts, or some jassack cliche,
like that. The Lieutenant would phrase it more elegantly. He had a way
with words that Farrell frankly admired. A sense of style, about him.

Whichever way you put it; she was being watched.

Farrell looked up.

He was standing about a foot in front of the reception desk, in an
attitude Farrell would describe as parade rest: feet slightly apart,
hands loosely at his sides.

Average height. Average weight. Average build.

Not ugly; not handsome. Average.

There was something about him, though.

“I’d like to report a murder.”

His tone was mild, uninflected. No discernible accent. An average voice.

“Oh, yeah? Who’d you kill?”

Farrell’s question was as much a reflection of the cynicism that
seemed to worm its way into the DNA of every resident of Metro City,
as it was a genuine concession to the fact that this guy might
actually be dangerous.

And a way of easing her own tension.

That primal thing, again.

Farrell felt her hand sneaking involuntarily toward the shelf beneath
the reception desk – even as the guy opened his mouth, to respond.

“You. And every other person, in this building.”

Farrell’s hand completed its journey, fingers closing round the butt
of the 9-millimeter automatic stowed beneath the desk.

Since the terrorist incidents of recent years, Homeland Security had
made this – and several other precautionary measures – standard
procedure, at station houses across the city. Together with
recommended practices for dealing with alleged or potential
perpetrators of terrorist acts.

With her free hand, Farrell lined up a pen and steno pad, beside the
computer terminal on the desk. Fingers poised to scribble. Still
fingering the weapon below Mr. Average Guy’s line of sight.

“What did you say your name was, again?”

“I didn’t,” he replied. “It’s Psmith. John Psmith. With a ‘P’.”

Farrell went through the motions of writing this down.

“John… P… Smi–”

“No.”

Psmith smiled, a Zen-like tranquility oozing from him, as he shook his
head. He leaned forward, both palms spread flat on the desktop.
Friendly. Cooperative. Totally harmless.

It took all of Farrell’s strength of will, to stop herself from flinching.

“It’s Psmith. With a ‘P’,” he said. “P-S-M-I-T-H. Pronounced ‘Smith’.”

*  *  *  *

Shouldn’t it be “Smythe?”

Vitale wrinkled his brow.

“I mean, that’s how it’s spelt.”

Still frowning, Vitale cast a critical eye over the desk.
Preternaturally tidy. Custom stationery, designer ornaments. Gilded
plaque, in front: John Smyth.

Everything put in place, just so. Evidence of a fastidious nature,
which permeated the entire office.

Prissy, thought Vitale. That’s the word.

Polished bookshelves, neatly stacked. Plush furniture, like you’d find
in an old English gentlemen’s club. Everything spotless, and
positioned as if by design.

Except.

Behind the desk, an upturned swivel chair. Sprawled in it, the body of
John Smyth, a well-groomed man in his fifties. Polished as his office.
Save for the bloody hole, in his forehead.

On the wall above Smyth sat a circular depression, at the center of a
splatter of blood, bone, and brain tissue.

Some of the goop had splashed a series of frames on the wall above the
desk. A diploma. Certificates of Appreciation, from various Bar
Associations across the country. Photo of a fishing trip: Smyth and
the current Attorney General. Smug expressions on both men. Look at
us; we’re just a couple of regular guys.

Vitale grunted. “Hmph. Probably had an intern catch those bass, for ‘em.”

“Privilege of power.”

Vitale almost jumped, as Garber stepped up beside him. A big
African-American man in his forties, the Lieutenant was remarkably
light on his feet. And quiet. Vitale often joked that he should start
a training program, at the precinct. Ninja Sneaking, 101. Could be a
useful skill.

“The man moved in exalted circles.”

The Lieutenant’s voice was dry. “Fellow of his standing, station in
life, he’d want to be a cut above. Set himself apart from all the
other John Smith’s, out there. Guys with solid names, like us -
Vitale, Garber – we don’t have that problem.”

“Hmph.”

Vitale was unmoved. “Why the hell doesn’t he spell it right. Did. Didn’t he.”

Behind the two detectives, Forensic Investigator Matthew Clapton
fussed around the body. A solidly built man in his thirties, Clapton
had the look of a teenage computer geek; he was that absorbed, in his
work. Plotting trajectories, doing scrapings, dictating notes into his
iPod. Clapton was meticulous. Thorough. Brilliant, on occasion.

Slow, thought Vitale.

“Hey, Matty. What do you say? D’you think he’s dead?”

Clapton interrupted his work-flow just long enough to respond.

“It’s Matthew.”

He didn’t even look up.

Vitale rolled his neck, as he adjusted the knot in his tie. Though in
his early thirties, Vitale seemed uncomfortable in the slacks and
sport jacket combo favored by so many male detectives (and a fair few
of the women; but that was another story) in this city. Like a brash
college kid gone formal to impress his rich girlfriend’s snooty
grandparents, or something.

He turned toward Garber, who was frowning over the nick-nacks on the
desk of the late Mr. John Smyth, pronounced “Smith.”

“So, Lenny–”

Vitale caught himself, as the frown on Garber’s face grew deeper.

“Len. Lennox. What’s it look like, to you?”

Garber nudged a drinking bird paperweight, on the desk. Like Vitale
and Clapton, he wore surgical gloves.

“I’m not sure.”

Nestled neatly behind the bird was a sleek little cell phone. Garber
picked it up, and hit last number redial. He held the phone close to
his ear, as a whiny, nasal voice piped up from the other end.

“Arnold Gleissner, paparazzo. Hello? Hello?”

“Hello. Mister–”

But Gleissner had cut the connection.

Mouthing the word, “Paparazzo?”, Garber turned toward the Forensics man.

“Anything?”

Clapton held out a clear plastic evidence bag, with a scrap of paper in it.

I pried this out of the victim’s hand,” Clapton said. “Had to smooth
it out, a little. Well, a lot, actually. See the edges, there?”

Garber held the bag up to the light. And grinned.

“Paparazzo.”

He passed the bag over to Vitale, who studied the paper. It was a
fragment from a glossy photograph. Vitale smirked, as he took in its
content.

“Hmph. Couple of exalted circles, there, all right.” His eyes widened.
“Hey! Isn’t that…?” He tapped a portion of the the image. A face.
Partly obscured, but recognizable.

Garber’s silent nod confirmed it.

Vitale gave a low whistle.

“You guys can go ahead.” Clapton studied the expressions of his two
colleagues, as they both turned to face him. “I’ve dusted for prints,
already.”

Vitale barked a harsh laugh, jerking a thumb toward the corpse behind them.

“Yeah. That’s what this guy was, looks like. Dusted.”

He held up the photo fragment.

“For prints.”

“Mm-hmm,” nodded Garber. “Let’s go pay a visit on an Arnold Gleissner,
photographer. See if he can put us in the picture.”

*  *  *  *

“Ten to one; Gleissner’s skipped.”

Vitale drummed a tattoo on the dashboard as Lieutenant Garber swung
the cruiser into the parking area of Metro West Police Department
headquarters.

“Guy knew we’d be onto him,” Vitale continued. “Knew his part in the
scam would be exposed. Left town.”

They had spent an unproductive hour and a half at Silver Lake Palace -
a set of low-rent condos, in an area of the East Side that was equally
low-rent. Silver Lake was home to one Arnold Gleissner, paparazzo.
Whose apartment was unoccupied. And whose neighbors hadn’t seen him,
in three days.

Garber killed the engine. “And which scam would that be?”

Vitale shrugged. “Blackmail. Extortion. You saw who was in that photo, right?”

“I did,” said Garber. “Do you think murder was part of the plan?”

“I dunno,” Vitale replied. “Maybe the pay-off went south. Smyth tried
to plea bargain his way out, short-change the guy.”

Garber shook his head. “Smyth and Gleissner were opposite ends of the
social spectrum. Gleissner wouldn’t have made it past Mr. Smyth’s
palatial front gate, even.”

He continued, as they exited the car. “All we have is a phone number,
a photograph, one word, and a hunch. To score a warrant to search
Gleissner’s apartment, we’ll need a whole lot more than that.
Something more…”

Garber’s eyes narrowed, as he looked toward the precinct house.

“Explosive.”

The circus was in town.

Bomb Disposal officers with sniffer dogs walked rounds of the parking
area, checking vehicles. At the entrance doors, cops and civilians
crowded the steps. A local news crew had set up at the base of the
stairs, shooting alternating footage of the security sweep and the
crowd.

No panic, though. This kind of scene was pretty common, now.

Heads turned as the barred shutters rolled back from the entrance
doors, and a Bomb Disposal officer emerged, megaphone in hand.

“All clear,” he said.

A collective sigh of resignation went round, as perpetrators,
complainants, and peace makers began to dribble back into the
building.

“Another day, in the business of law and order,” Garber noted.

Vitale nodded. “Yep. Life, in the big city.”

*  *  *  *

The crowd in the reception lobby had thinned out considerably, by the
time Vitale and Garber cleared the metal detectors, and approached a
glum-looking Sergeant Farrell, at the desk. Her expression brightened,
as she greeted the senior detective, with a respectful nod.

“Lieutenant.”

“Sergeant Farrell.”

“Hey, Sarge.” Vitale’s grin was cocky. “Still slurpin’ down the herbal tea?”

“Hmm.”

The thunder clouds descended on Farrell’s brow, again.

“Hey, what’s with the, uh… ?”

Vitale jerked a thumb back, to indicate the last of the Bomb Disposal
Unit, loping out of the exit doors.

This brought a smile, from Sergeant Farrell. The kind a snake might
wear, as it contemplates a clutch of chicken eggs in a deserted roost.

“I am so glad you asked me that, Detective. I think we’ve got a live
one, for you. Upstairs.”

*  *  *  *

At the third floor, they pushed past the bullpen housing the
Detectives’ Division. Fallout from the morning’s bomb scare had the
plainclothes investigators juggling between their existing work load,
and a fresh influx of new cases.

That wiseacre, Hashida, found time to whistle the theme from “The
X-Files” at them, as Vitale and Garber passed from view, into the
adjacent corridor – which was home to the SIU.

The Special Investigations Unit shared a name and a few structural
elements with a civilian oversight agency in Ontario, Canada – but
very little else. Its officers were charged with “the discreet and
thorough investigation of cases which – for reasons of national
security, procedural, technical, jurisdictional, or political
implications – might otherwise fall outside the remit of the
mainstream law-enforcement network.”

A polite way of saying “sensitive”. Or “outside the box.”

In practice, this meant the SIU would often work in tandem with the
Detective bureau. Occasionally, though, the Unit could be called upon
to act, independent of it.

The SIU had been set up by special order of the Governor – more or
less in direct consequence to Lennox Garber’s retirement from the
military, his relocation to Metro City, and his expressed interest in
continuing to work as an investigator, outside of the armed forces
umbrella.

At present, the SIU consisted of three officers: two Case
Investigators, and a Forensic Investigator. The team had scored some
notable successes (discreetly, of course) in the several years since
its inception.

Some pretty bizarre cases, actually.

The Unit had its own forensics lab, custom fitted to Clapton’s
specifications. And an interrogation room. Your standard double space:
observation room, with computer access to the online crime databases.
Santa hadn’t delivered yet, on the polygraph link-up Clapton had been
lobbying for.

So Vitale and Garber would have to rely on their wits – and their own
powers of observation – with the occupant of the room beyond the
one-way mirrors.

*  *  *  *

Not your average-looking terror suspect, Vitale thought.

But, that was just it. The guy seated at the table in the center of
the room looked exactly that.

Average.

Neutral expression, as his gaze swept over Vitale, ignored him, and
locked eyes with Lieutenant Garber.

Vitale felt it, then.

A ripple, in the atmosphere of the room. Scent of blood, in the air.

Growing up, in the neighborhood – the guys he ran with – it was often like this.

Couple of them would be horsing around, one minute. Yucking it up.

A wrong word or move, and BAM! One of the guys would pitch over, a
blade in his gut. Or worse.

It was there, for an instant. Then gone.

That feeling.

“John Psmith.”

Garber consulted the clipboard he held in his hand.

“P-S-M-I-T-H. Pronounced, “Smith.”

“Great.” Vitale rolled his eyes. “Another one.”

He felt Psmith’s gaze shift toward him. His expression, unreadable.

“Says here,” Garber frowned over the text. “You’ve confessed to the
murder of Sergeant Farrell, at the desk downstairs. And the murder of
every other person in this building.”

Psmith nodded, affably.

“I’ve also killed every man, woman, and child, on the face of the Earth.”

There was silence, for a moment, as the detectives took this in.

Catching Garber’s eye, as they took their seats either side of the
suspect, Vitale twirled a finger above the table top: “This one’s a
Looney Tune.”

“Hmm.” Vitale cracked a lazy smile. “I don’t know.”

He stretched out an arm. Flexed his fingers, as he looked at them.

“I still seem to be, you know, alive, right now. Pretty much. You’re
looking pretty chipper, too, Lieutenant. How’s it hanging there, Len?
You alive?”

Garber nodded. “It would seem so. Yes.”

Vitale turned toward Psmith.

“So, um, Mr. Psmith. When did you, uh, you know, kill us? Exactly?”

Psmith considered, a moment.

“Today’s Tuesday, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Vitale nodded. Let’s humor this guy, he thought.

“Thursday.”

Psmith’s tone was firm.

“Thursday.” Vitale struggled, to keep a straight face. “As in, two
days from now, Thursday.”

It was Psmith’s turn to nod, now.

“Yes.”

“Woo-ooooooh,” Vitale whistled. “End ‘o’ the world, huh?”

Psmith smiled, as he shook his head.

“The end of humanity, when it comes, will happen one death at a time.”

“That’s very philosophical.” Garber appeared to contemplate the idea.
“And it helps us, how?”

Psmith shifted his attention to the older man. That atmospheric
frisson, again, as their eyes met.

“1523 Highland Terrace’” he said.

A look flashed, between Garber and Vitale.

“Nice neighborhood.” Garber kept his tone mild.

Psmith’s smile didn’t waver, as he replied.

“Door’s open, I think.”

Another look passed between the two investigators.

“What’s going on, in Highland Terrace?”

There was an urgency to Vitale’s tone, now.

“Huh? What have you done? Answer me!”

Vitale slapped a hand down on the table. Hard.

Psmith regarded him mildly – as an entomologist might look at some
amusing new species of bug. His seraphic smile hardly faltered, as he
continued to stare.

Garber studied the two of them. He quickly concluded that the
stand-off wasn’t going to be resolved, like this.

“Gianni?”

Vitale broke eye contact with Psmith. He straightened, and rose from
his seat. It was Garber he addressed, as he opened the door.

“I’ll get ‘em to send someone. Check it out.”

But his eyes were on Psmith.

*  *  *  *

Highland Terrace. A quiet residential development, on the outskirts of
glamorous Metro City.

How the realtor’s brochure had described it, when Chavez toyed -
briefly – with the idea of renting accommodation, here.

One look at the house rents – and the figure on his monthly pay check
- put the kibosh, on that idea.

That was shortly after his transfer, to Metro West.

Glamorous Metro City. Yeah.

Chavez guessed it was all right. He had seen worse towns. Seen better.

No matter where you were, though, some things never changed.

Guys in the muster room took to calling him Hugo. Cracks about
slumming it; moonlighting from the White House, or whatever, in
Caracas, Venezuela. Hysterically funny. Yeah. The first six hundred
times you heard it.

A quiet, residential development.

Try suburb.

1523 was a neat two-story. Just like all the other houses on the street.

Chavez imagined the eyes of two and a half children on him, as he
stepped onto the porch. From their curtained windows. A neighborhood,
watching.

Paranoid, really. It was the middle of the morning; kids would all be
in school by now. Probably.

They had left the cruiser out front. Parkes was circling the back of
the property, while Chavez –

The front door was open.

Not gaping, but clearly unlocked.

Unsecured premises.

He addressed the presumed occupants of the building, as he approached the door.

“Hello! Metro PD. There’s been a report of– We’ve had a– Hell. Parkes!”

No answer. Parkes must be out of earshot. The structure blocking out
Chavez’ voice.

“Is anyone in there? Is anyone hurt? Shit.”

Chavez unclipped his service revolver. Thinking of the paperwork to
come, he nudged open the door. And entered the house.

“Oh, mierda!”

The smell hit him, first. Then, the visual.

In the front room (spacious lounge; that’s what the realtors would
say) lay the remains of a typical suburban family: Mom, Dad, couple of
kids. Not two and a half. Though it was difficult to tell.

They had bled a lot, when they died.

And they had died quite horribly.

“Oh, shi –!”

He couldn’t finish. Chavez turned, stumbling to the door. Bolted, for
the porch rail. And retched, uncontrollably, into the yard.

*  *  *  *

That’s all, for now.

Peace.

Or, how about New Year’s Day? Whenever that is.

So, When IS It, Exactly?

Well, New Year’s Day is widely observed on January 1, the first day of the year on the modern Gregorian calendar – as well as the Julian calendar, used in Ancient Rome. January 1 on the Julian calendar now corresponds to January 14 on the Gregorian calendar. It is on this day that followers of some Eastern Orthodox churches celebrate the start of the New Year.

With most countries using the Gregorian calendar, New Year’s Day is the closest the world has to a truly global public holiday. Its arrival is widely celebrated with special events or activities to mark the stroke of midnight.

Some History; First

The ancient Romans dedicated January 1 to Janus, the god of gates, doors, and archways. Some scholars regard Janus as the god of all beginnings. The start of the day, month, or year were all sacred to him. A two-faced deity (literally; one face looked forward, the other backward), Janus lent his name to the month of January. His festival, the Agonium, actually took place on January 9. But, who’s counting?

New Year’s celebrations then, can be traced back to pagan roots. Among the 7th-century pagans of Flanders, and the Netherlands, it was customary to exchange gifts at the New Year.

In Western Europe, most countries officially adopted January 1 as New Year’s Day, before formally adopting the Gregorian calendar – which was proclaimed in 1582, by Pope Gregory XIII.

England did not officially adopt the Gregorian calendar until 1752. Prior to this, the Feast of the Annunciation on March 25 was the first day of the new year. The day marks the announcement by the angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary that she was to be the mother of Jesus Christ.

January 1 was known as “Circumcision Style”, because it was the date of the Feast of the Circumcision. This was eight days after December 25 – when Jesus was believed to have been born – and would mark the day in Jewish traditional practice that the child would be circumcised.

The Night, Before

Since the 1900s, the New Year has also been an occasion to celebrate the night of December 31 – known as New Year’s Eve. The festivities culminate in a massive blow-out of enthusiasm, as the seconds tick by to midnight.

In European countries, the New Year is ushered in with private fireworks. Some regions light bonfires, in which discarded Christmas trees are burnt.

Public fireworks displays are held at this time, too.

In London, England, huge crowds gather along the Thames River Embankment, to watch the fireworks around the London Eye.

In the United States, the huge Times Square Ball – located high above Times Square, in New York – is progressively lowered, from 11:59 P.M. A countdown is held from :10 seconds until :01, when the ball reaches the foot of its tower. The New Year is announced at the stroke of midnight with fireworks, music, and a live celebration that is broadcast worldwide.

In Russia and the former Soviet republics, the celebration of Old New Year (Novi God) is done with fireworks, and champagne. Family feasts are held, with lavish food and gifts. The Russian president traditionally counts down the final seconds of the “old year”, in Moscow. The Kremlin’s Spassky Clock Tower chimes in the new year (It is customary to make a wish as it chimes), and the national anthem is played.

In the Philippines, fireworks, booming sound systems, and lots of noise generally, are used to scare evil spirits away – and prevent them from bringing bad luck to the coming year. Tables are laden with food for the midnight meal (Media Noce). This includes a basket of 12 different round fruits, to symbolize prosperity in each of the coming year’s months.

In Greece and Cyprus, families switch off their lights at midnight, and celebrate by cutting the vassilopita (“Basil’s pie”) – which usually contains one lucky coin, or token. After the pie is eaten, a traditional game of cards, called triantaena, is played.

People in some countries – notably Canada, the Republic of Ireland (Eire), the United Kingdom, United States, and the Netherlands – gather on beaches, and run into the water, to celebrate the New Year. These events are sometimes known as polar bear plunges, because the weather in these areas is often very cold, at this time.

January, First

Having made the transition through midnight, special events typically continue throughout the day, itself. Parades, concerts, religious services; it all happens.

Plus, sports.

In England, a full schedule of fixtures is usually played in football’s Premier League (EPL), and the rest of the League and Non-League systems.

In the USA, January 1 is the date traditionally set aside for many post-season college football (American football, or gridiron, that is) bowl games. These are usually accompanied by parades and other festivities.

Baby, It’s You

Kid's got a long way, to go....

In the Brittany region of France, a common image used is that of Father Time (or the “Old Year”), wearing a sash on his chest with the previous year printed on it. Father Time passes his duties on to the Baby New Year – an infant wearing a sash with the new year printed on it.

People born on New Year’s Day are often called New Year babies. Many hospitals give out prizes – which might be baby-related items like diapers, blankets,  or gift certificates – to the first baby born in their Maternity wards in the New Year.

Other Places, Other Days

Chinese New Year is the first day of the lunar calendar, and is corrected for the solar, every three years. It is celebrated in many countries around the world – usually between 20 January and 20 February. Families celebrate the holiday with feasting, lucky red envelopes (filled with money; that’s pretty fortunate!), and other red items, as red symbolizes good luck. Lion and dragon dances, drums, fireworks, and entertaining activities fill the streets, on this day.

The Hindu New Year occurs when the Sun enters Aries, on the Hindu calendar. This is usually on April 13 or 14, depending on the leap year. It is celebrated by paying respect to parents and elders, and seeking their blessings. Tokens of good wishes are exchanged, for a healthy and prosperous year, ahead.

Ethiopian New Year is called Enqutatash. The Ethiopians use their own, ancient calendar, on which the holiday occurs on September 11 or 12, based on the leap year. The New Year hails the end of the summer season.

And so on.

Wherever you are – and whatever date signifies the birth of a New Year, to you – I wish you health, hope, and happiness.

Happy New Year!

Peace.

And no referee, either.

It’s Boxing Day.

Boxing Day. Wha–??

Boxing Day is a public or bank holiday that happens on December 26, or the first or second weekday after Christmas Day – depending on national or regional laws. It is observed in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, the United Kingdom, and several of the Commonwealth nations.

In the Netherlands, Lithuania, Austria, Germany, Scandinavia, and Poland, December 26 is observed as the Second Christmas Day. In South Africa, Boxing Day was renamed as the Day of Goodwill, in 1994.

The holiday is celebrated in the Republic of Ireland (Eire) as St. Stephen’s Day, or the Day of the Wren (La an Dreoilin).

You’ve heard the line from that Christmas carol: “Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen?”

This is the day, in question. It commemorates Saint Stephen, the first Christian martyr – who was killed for adhering to his religious beliefs. It is an official public holiday in Austria, the Balearic Islands, Catalonia, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Finland, Germany, Ireland, Italy, Montenegro, Norway, Romania, Serbia, Slovakia, Sweden, and Poland.

Elsewhere, why is December 26 called Boxing Day?

Because, traditionally, this was the day to open the Christmas Box, and to share its contents with the poor.

Gifts, In A Box

From the late Roman / early Christian times, there are records of a tradition where metal boxes placed outside churches were used to collect special offerings, tied to the Feast of Saint Stephen.

During the Age of Exploration – when ships set sail across the globe, to discover new lands – a Christmas Box was used as a good luck device. The box was a small clay or wooden container placed on each ship, while it was in port. Mind you, ‘box’ is a relative term, here. Those made from clay were often in the form of a hollow ball or gourd, with a slit cut into the top.

The Christmas Box was put in place and blessed by a priest. Those sailors who wanted to ensure a safe passage would drop money into the box. It was then sealed, and kept on board for the entire voyage.

If the crew returned safely, the box was handed over to the priest, in exchange for the saying of a Mass of thanks, for the success of the journey. The priest would keep the box sealed until Christmas, when it would be opened, and its contents given to the poor.

Even in non-seafaring regions, an Alms Box was placed in every church, on Christmas day. Worshippers would place in it gifts for the poor of the parish. The boxes were always opened on the day after Christmas.

In farming and industry, many poorly paid workers were required to work on Christmas Day, and allowed the following day off, to visit their families. As they prepared to leave, their employers would present them with Christmas Boxes.

During the late 18th century, wealthy landowners would “box up” their leftover food, together with occasional gifts, and distribute them to tenants who lived and worked on their lands, the day after Christmas.

Even today, it remains customary for householders to give small gifts or monetary tips to regular visiting tradespeople (such as mail carriers, or refuse collectors). In many work places, employees are given a Christmas bonus.

Which they often need, at this time, because…

Boxes, Bags, Shoes, Toys, Games…

In Britain, Canada, New Zealand, and some states of Australia, Boxing Day is a shopping holiday – much like the day after Thanksgiving, in the United States.

WIth huge bargains, special offers, and retailers looking to offload their end-of-season stock, it is not unusual to see masses of would-be shoppers camped outside department stores, overnight. And huge, jostling crowds inside the building, once the doors are opened.

Because of this, many retailers have adopted special safety procedures, to manage the large numbers. They may limit the accessible entrances, restrict the number of patrons allowed in at one time, or provide incentives to shop and go – such as giving tickets for “hot” items, to people at the front of the line.

The online version of this sales bonanza – known as Cyber Boxing Day – is just as busy. So, expect some slower-than-usual service, at a Shopping Cart, near you.

And Stuff On The Box

And on the terraces. Or at your local stadium.

In England, Scotland, and Northern Ireland, it is a Boxing Day tradition for the Premier League (EPL), Scottish Premier League, and Irish Premier League (plus the lower divisions, and the Rugby Football leagues) to hold a full program of sporting fixtures. With much television coverage, of course.

Games on Boxing Day were traditionally played between teams of local rivals (known as derby matches), to avoid the teams and their fans having to travel long distances, on the day after Christmas.

In horse racing, there is the King George VI Chase at Kempton Park Racecourse in Surrey. This is England’s second most prestigious chase, after the Cheltenham Gold Cup.

Australia hosts the first day of the Boxing Day Test in Melbourne, at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, and the start of the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race.

In North America, the National Hockey League (NHL) has close to a full schedule of games, after the break for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

In some African Commonwealth nations – notably Ghana, Uganda, Malawi, Zambia, and Tanzania – prize-fighting contests are held. This practice is also followed in Guyana and Italy.

Actual boxing. Wow.

I’m going to get my skates (not my gloves) on, now. Because it’s time to go.

See you, for the final.

Peace.

Just keeps flowing.

Drink. That’s what we’ll discuss, today.

Mull, Of…

Mulled wine – several variations of which occur, in Europe – is wine (usually red) mixed with spices, and typically served warm. It is a traditional drink for winter, especially at Christmas and Halloween.

Glogg, glogg, glogg

Gluhwein is the traditional beverage drunk during the Christmas holidays in German-speaking countries, and the Alsace region of France. It is usually made from red wine, heated and spiced with cinnamon sticks, vanilla pods, cloves, citrus (orange, lemon etc.), and sugar. Fruit wines, like blueberry or cherry wine are occasionally used instead of grape wine, in Germany.

Gluhwein is drunk as is, or “mit Schuss” – with a shot of rum, or some other liqueur.

The French vin chaud (“warm wine”) usually consists of cheap red wine mixed with sugar, and flavored with cinnamon and lemon.

Bulgaria’s greyano vino (“heated wine”) consists of red wine, honey, and peppercorn. Occasionally, apples, lemon, or oranges can be added.

In Croatia, Montenegro, Slovenia, and Serbia kuhano vino or kuvano vino (“cooked wine”) is made from red wine and various combinations of nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon, sugar, and orange zest (flavoring orange peel). It is often served with slices of fresh orange or lemon.

Glogg is the term used for mulled wine in Sweden, Iceland, Norway, and Denmark. Its classic ingredients include red wine, sugar, spices such as cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, cloves, and bitter orange. Stronger spirits like vodka, akvavit, or brandy may be added.

Throughout Scandinavia, glogg spice extract and ready-made mixed spices can be bought, in grocery stores. In Sweden, ready-made wine glogg (It has to be boiled for at least an hour, if made from scratch) is also sold in shops, ready to heat and serve.

Non-alcoholic glogg can be bought ready-made, or prepared fresh, using fruit juices instead of wine.

Mulled wines are often served with sweets, such as raisins and ginger bread.

Wine, Not

Mulled Cider

Similar in flavor to some variants of mulled wine, is mulled cider. Here’s how you can make some:

Ingredients:
* 2 quarts of (apple) cider
* 6 cups of cranberry juice
* Quarter cup of brown sugar
* 4 cinnamon sticks
* One and a half teaspoons of whole cloves
* 1 lemon, thinly sliced

Directions:
In a large pot, mix the cider, cranberry juice, brown sugar, cinnamon sticks, cloves, and lemon slices.
Heat, and bring to a boil
Reduce the heat, and simmer for 15 to 20 minutes.
Remove the cinnamon residue, cloves, and lemon slices with a spoon.
Serve hot.

Sweet!

Rich and / or creamy dessert drinks are typical of the British heritage.

In England, posset was a hot drink in which the white and yolk of eggs were whipped with ale (beer), cider, or wine.

Syllabub is a classic dish of whipped cream, flavored with wine.

In the U.S., Americans adapted English recipes to produce a variety of milk-based drinks combining rum, brandy, or whiskey with cream.

The first written reference to eggnog was an account of a February 1796 breakfast, at the CIty Tavern in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. As of 1839, American cookbooks featured recipes for cold eggnogs of cream, sugar, and eggs mixed with brandy, bourbon, or sherry, and sprinkled with nutmeg.

Here’s One, For You

Ingredients:
* 4 egg yolks
* 1 can of sweetened condensed milk
* 1 tablespoon of white sugar
* 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
* Four and a half cups of (fresh) milk
* 4 egg whites
* 1 fluid ounce of rum
* One quarter teaspoon of nutmeg

Directions:
In a large mixing bowl, beat the egg yolks until they are thick and light.
Gradually stir in the condensed milk, sugar, vanilla, and milk.
Beat the egg whites until they are stiff, then add them to the milk mixture.
Stir the rum into the mixture, and garnish with nutmeg.

And, that’s your eggnog.

For The Starbucks Crowd…

We have an eggnog latte.

Ingredients:
* One third of a cup of milk
* Two thirds of a cup of eggnog
* 1 shot of brewed espresso
* 1 pinch of ground nutmeg

Directions:
Pour the milk and eggnog into a heating jug, and heat it to between 145 degrees Fahrenheit and 165 degrees F (65 to 70 degrees C).
Add the shot of espresso to an empty mug.
Pour the steamed milk and eggnog in, using a spoon to hold back the foam.
Spoon the foam over the top.
Sprinkle nutmeg on top of the foam.

And try not to breathe too hard on your supervisor, should he / she stand over you, while you’re drinking it.

Cheers!

Don’t drink anything I wouldn’t drink. Which leaves your options pretty much wide open.

Peace.

So, let’s talk reindeer.

What Are They?

A male reindeer

The reindeer (Rangifer tarandus) is a type of deer, originating in the Arctic, and the Sub-Arctic regions bordering the North Pole. In North America, the reindeer is also known as the caribou.

Reindeer vary considerably in color and size. Generally, both male and female of the species grow antlers – the branched horns, characteristic of deer. In a few populations, however, the females do not grow antlers, at all. The antlers of the male reindeer are typically larger. And in many species, the males lose their antlers in winter, the horns growing back during the warmer seasons of the year.

Interaction With Humans

Humans started hunting reindeer in the Mesolithic and Neolithic periods. Norway and Greenland have unbroken traditions of hunting wild reindeer, dating from the Ice Age to the present day.

Wild caribou are still hunted in North America and Greenland. In the traditional lifestyle of the Inuit people, the Northern First Nations people, Alaska Natives, and the Kalaallit of Greenland, the caribou is an important source of food, clothing, shelter, and tools.

Wild reindeer hunting and the herding of semi-domesticated reindeer (for meat, hides, antlers, milk, and transportation) remains a key activity of several Arctic and Sub-Arctic peoples – including the Sami and the Nenets. Herded reindeer are not considered fully domesticated, as they generally roam free, on pasture ground.

Tradition has it that the blood of the caribou was mixed with alcohol, and drunk by hunters and loggers in colonial Quebec, Canada, to counter the cold. The drink is still enjoyed today (without the blood) as a wine and whiskey beverage called Caribou.

The United States Revenue Cutter Service introduced the reindeer to Alaska in the late 19th century, as a means of livelihood for Native peoples, there. The reindeer were herded as semi-domesticated livestock. A regular mail run in Wales, Alaska, used a sleigh drawn by reindeer.

Speaking of which…

Connection To Christmas

Remember that old legend (“12 Daze of Christmas, 3: Men, Bearing Gifts”) with Thor’s dad, Odin, riding an eight-legged horse over the rooftops, at Yule time?

Some argue that this gave rise to the idea of Santa Claus riding a sleigh pulled by eight flying reindeer (initially; pre-Rudolph).

Santa’s reindeer were first named as Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Dunder, and Blixem in the 1823 poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” (a.k.a. “The Night Before Christmas”). In time, Dunder was changed to Donder then, ultimately, Donner – which means “thunder”, in German. Blixem became Bliksem, then Blitzen (German for “lightning”).

Then, There Were Nine

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is a fictional reindeer character with a glowing red nose. Popularly known as “Santa’s 9th Reindeer”, he is usually depicted as the lead reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh, on Christmas Eve (Dec. 24). The light from Rudolph’s nose guides the team’s way, in the harsh winter weather.

Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Robert L. May created Rudolph in 1939, as an assignment for the department store, Montgomery Ward. The shops had been buying and giving away children’s coloring books for Christmas every year, and felt it would be more economical to produce their own.

May originally considered naming his creation Rolo, or Reginald, before settling on the name Rudolph.

2.4 million copies of the booklet were distributed by Montgomery Ward, in its first year of publication. Rudolph’s story is still being sold, today.

Robert May’s brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, was a radio producer, and author of several popular Christmas songs. Marks adapted the story of Rudolph into a song, which was first sung commercially by the crooner Harry Brannon, on New York City radio in early November 1949.

“Singing Cowboy” Gene Autry released his own version on November 25, 1949 – and reached the number-one position in the singles chart of Christmas 1949. The record sold 2.5 million copies that first year. It eventually sold 25 million, and remained the best-selling single of all time, until the 1980s.

The reindeer games continue. And the money train rolls on.

We’re taking a halt at this point, however.

See you soon.

Peace.

Christmas Birds

Food historians tell us that the practice of serving large, stuffed fowl as the center-piece of a Christmas meal was borrowed from earlier cultural traditions. Roast swan, pheasant, peacock, or goose was often used.

The larger the bird, the more festive the occasion.

Big Bird

The domesticated turkey is a large poultry bird. It is descended from the wild turkey (Meleagris gallopavo), found in the area bounded by the present-day Mexican states of Jalisco, Guerrero, and Vera Cruz.

Ancient Mesoamericans used the meat and eggs as major sources of protein, and the feathers for decorative purposes. The Aztecs associated the turkey with their trickster deity, Tezcatlipoca – possibly due to its unique appearance and mannerisms.

Funny-looking critters, aren't they?

Most domesticated turkeys are bred to have white feathers, because their pin feathers are less visible, when the carcass is dressed. Brown or bronze-feathered varieties are also raised.

The fleshy bump on top of the bird’s beak is called a snood, while the flesh underhanging its beak is the wattle.

The female bird is referred to as a hen, and the chick as a poult. In the United States, a male turkey is called a tom, while in Europe, it is known as a stag. The average lifespan of a domesticated turkey is ten years.

To Europe, And Beyond

The 16th-century English navigator William Strickland is believed to have acquired six turkey birds from Native American traders, during his travels. Strickland brought them to England in 1526. He also adopted a family coat of arms showing a turkey cock as the family crest – one of the earliest known pictures of a turkey.

The birds were farmed, and began to increase in popularity. English farmer Thomas Tusser notes the turkey being among foods eaten at Christmas, in 1573. A document written in 1584 lists “turkies, male and female” among supplies to be shipped to future British colonies in the New World.

Domestic turkeys were taken to mainland Europe by the Spanish. Many breeds were developed in Europe, like the Spanish Black Royal Palm.

For many years, though, turkey only graced the kitchens and tables of the rich – in England, at least. The goose still held pride of place at Christmas, well into the 19th century.

Today, the majority of families in Britain will enjoy a turkey, with their Christmas meal. And turkeys are traditionally eaten as the main course of Christmas feasts, in much of the world.

Eaten, How?

The basic technique is to wash the bird, then stuff its internal body cavity with a savory mix that may include spices, herbs, nuts, ground or processed meats (like sausage), and fruit. The turkey is then roasted in an oven for several hours, until its skin turns golden brown.

Once cooked, the bird is served with a selection of vegetables, sauces, and other adornments.

Sounds dry and technical, right? The meat, too, probably.

Okay. How about these variants?

In Wales, leek and onion sauce may accompany the turkey. Leeks (a plant related to the onion), onion, cloves, breadcrumbs, milk, nutmeg, and bay leaves are blended to create a thick and creamy sauce.

From Scotland come rich tatties and neeps – a traditional dish made with mashed potatoes, Swede (a kind of turnip), carrots, onion, and butter, garnished with cloves and black pepper.

Ireland offers us turkey with a whiskey glaze. Whiskey and honey are blended with a dash of orange juice to give a tasty sauce that you can spoon or brush all over the skin of the bird.

Christmas turkey, British-style

Hungry, now? Good; so am I.

I’ll see you, in a few.

But, Rudolph’s on his way. So, keep it here.

Peace.

Santa's Little Helper: Michelle Monaghan, in Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang (2005)

Tinsel and glitter, as brought to you, by Tinseltown.

Here are four of my favorites – thumping good feature films that actually feature Christmas, prominently, in them.

Plus one that shouldn’t have. Really.

First, The Good

The Long Kiss Goodnight (1996)

Neo-noir with a quirky edge is writer / director Shane Black’s stock in trade.

This one centers on amnesiac schoolteacher Samantha Caine (Geena Davis), who hires down-at-heel private eye Mitch Hennessy (played by Samuel L. Jackson) to help reveal her true identity.

Turns out Samantha is actually Charlene “Charlie” Baltimore, a kick-ass government hitperson capable of singlehandedly wiping out an entire contingent of her fellow CIA operatives. And making Bond and Bourne look like a couple of cringing amateurs.

Breathtaking stuff, in the best action movie tradition.

Die Hard (1988)

Director John McTiernan’s 1988 thriller was the seminal confined-space actioner.

This had everything: An ultra-cool hero, in Bruce Willis’ cop, John MacLane. An ultra-cool villain, in Alan Rickman’s mastermind, Hans Gruber. Designer terrorists, huge-budget pyrotechnics, and a relentless series of white-knuckle escapes, in the aforementioned confined spaces.

The film “inspired” a slew of imitators, in subsequent years – none of which came close to matching it. The original, and best.

Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang (2005)

Another from the Shane Black stable. Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang features aspiring actress Harmony Faith Lane (played by Michelle Monaghan), petty thief turned wannabe actor turned amateur detective Harry Lockhart (Robert Downey, Jr.), and gay private eye turned studio consultant Gay Perry (Val Kilmer), in a convoluted tale of murder, mayhem, mismatched goons, and severed fingers.

I’m a sucker for neo-noir, in any form, Michelle Monaghan is goofy hotness personified, and I do like this film.

Doctor Who: The Christmas Invasion (2005)

This 2005 seasonal special introduced the plucky Rose Tyler (played by singer / actress Billie Piper) to the manic genius of David Tennant’s portrayal of the time-traveling Doctor’s 12th incarnation.

Alien spacecraft over London, a homicidal Christmas tree, sword-fighting, and the regeneration of a severed limb. Magic. Pure and simple.

“Six words. Six.”

Now, The Unfortunate

Santa Claus: The Movie (1985)

Hard on the heels of Superman: The Movie and its runaway success, producers Alexander and Ilya Salkind and director Jeannot Szwarc tried to keep the money train rolling, by reinterpreting another legend.

Bad idea. Terrible.

Not even comedy-icon-of-the-moment Dudley Moore could save this turkey – which should have been roasted, at birth. Twice.

Turkey, indeed.

Hmm.

That’s what we’ll talk about next, I think. That, and reindeer.

Till then.

Peace.

Whoever SHE is.

Which begs the question:

Carol Who?

Or rather: “What?”

The medieval words ‘carol’ and ‘carole’ (from the French and Anglo-Norman) may refer to a popular dance-song with pagan associations, a courtly dance or dance-song, a song of popular religious devotion, a multi-part (polyphonic) song in a certain style, or a popular religious procession.

A carol is now broadly taken to be a song associated with a given season – especially Christmas – expressing religious joy.

The carol is public music, and different carols may have different social functions.

First Instances

The first specifically Christmas hymns (or songs of praise to God) that we know of, appeared in 4th-century Rome. “Corde natus ex Parentis” (“Of the Father’s love begotten”), for example, was written by the Spanish poet Prudentius (who died in 413 AD) – and is still sung in some churches, today.

During the 9th and 10th centuries, the Christmas “Sequence” or “Prose” was introduced, in Northern European monasteries. The songs developed, under Bernard of Clairvaux, into a sequence of rhymed stanzas, or verses.

In the 12th century, the French monk, Adam of St. Victor, began to derive music from popular songs – introducing something closer to the traditional Christmas carol, as we know it.

Through The Ages

By the 13th century, a strong tradition of popular Christmas songs had emerged, in native languages – notably in Italy, Germany, and France. This was greatly influenced by the Italian saint, Francis of Assisi.

The carol seems to have crystallized, in the early 14th century, as a popular religious song. Most referred to the Virgin Mary (mother of Jesus), the Christ child (Jesus, himself), or to saints whose feast days follow Christmas. Many are macaronic, mixing two languages – usually Latin and English.

What you might call the Golden Age of the Christmas carol ran from about the years 1350 to 1550.

Christmas carols in English first appeared in a 1426 work by John Awdlay, of Shropshire. He listed twenty-five “Caroles of Cristemas”, probably sung by groups of wassailers (merrymaking performers), who went from house to house.

Old Favorites

Carols are often based on medieval chord patterns – which give them their unique musical sound. Some carols – such as “Good King Wenceslas” and “The Holly and the Ivy” – can be traced directly back to the Middle Ages. “Adeste Fidelis” (“O Come All Ye Faithful”) appeared in its current form, in the mid-18th century – but the words may have originated in the 13th century.

The 18th-century English reformer Charles Wesley wrote texts for at least three Christmas carols. His best-known and loved is “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” – which was originally called “Hark! How All the Welkin Rings.” Whatever a welkin was.

In Austria, Mohr and Gruber composed “Silent Night”, in 1818, for the St. Nicholas Church, Obendorf.

William B. Sandys’ “Christmas Carols Ancient and Modern” of 1833 was the first collection in print of many classic English carols. It contributed in no small part to the mid-Victorian revival of the Christmas festival.

Modern Ones, Too

Completely secular (non-religious) songs for the Christmas season emerged, from the late 18th century. “Deck The Halls” dates from 1784, and “Jingle Bells” was copyrighted in 1857.

An increasing number of Christmas holiday songs were commercially produced in the 20th century, including rock, jazz, and blues variations. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”, for instance, was written in 1934, and performed for the first time on Eddie Cantor’s radio show, in the USA. Like many others, the song has since spawned numerous cover versions – which range from the sublime, to the ridiculous.

Of course, you’ll know about the ridiculous if you’ve read my instalment on Christmas pop music (“12 Daze of Christmas, 5: Christmas Rocks!”).

That’s all for now, though.

May your hearts be light.

Peace.