Christmas is coming

They're playing Fairytale of New York in the supermarket, which either displays wonderful irony or a complete lack of comprehension. It's hard to say which, as this is the same shop that's flogging gingerbread men for 65 dollars a pop, and they're not man-sized gingerbread men, and nor do they appear to justify that price in any other way. Maybe if they danced or played the banjo or offered lifestyle advice then I'd pay that much, but for a merely man-shaped piece of biscuit, I think not.

My fiancee is Canadian, and has never heard of Kirsty MacColl or him from the Pogues with no teeth.

Sorry, Shane McGowan, momentary forgetfulness in the dairy aisle there.¹

And if that wasn't bad enough, she's never seen Last Action Hero or Showgirls. How can I marry a woman so destitute of culture? I'm going to partially rectify this tonight by making her watch Showgirls, after which our marriage plans may be irrevocably altered. Probably after the point she realises I've made her watch Kyle McLachlan's flabby arse descend into a swimming pool.

Come to think of it, a film which just displayed that might be somewhat avant-garde; it's when the arse is still attached to Agent Cooper that people take a different view of this.

Showgirls is cultural rubbish of the highest order, which makes it appropriate for Christmas television. Unfortunately it's also a film where Paul Verhoeven destroyed Elisabeth Berkeley's film career before it had really started, via a scandalous amount of nudity. Unless Granny has particularly liberated views, she could be choking on an overboiled Brussels sprout if Showgirls were to be put on the telly.

Not that anybody should have been surprised that Showgirls was soft-porn filth; it was made by a Dutchman, and if there's one thing we know about the Dutch, it's that they love their porn.

And windmills, obviously.

And tulips.

And fearsomely strong marijuana.

And Hoegaarden.

And deep fried sausages.

And Delft crockery.

And chips with mayonnaise on them. (Hang on, that might actually be the Belgians.)

And Rotterdam techno/gabba/nosebleed.

And bicycles.

But mostly their porn, those crazy, obsessively-masturbating Netherlanders.

I think the Dutch are unique. It's not like any other country has become synonymous with porn. It's not as if the Swedes, say, had a reputation for movies of blonde birds in saunas without any clothes. Or, er, Californians (and by extension all Americans).

I mean, Hugh Hefner is Dutch, right? He looks Dutch. Or at least he's probably been to Holland once in his life, or seen a Van Gogh, which is pretty much the same thing. And Bob Guccione had a suspiciously Dutch sounding surname. ("Penthouse" is an Old Dutch word meaning "place for storing pancake cooking paraphernalia and Vaseline", but I'm sure you all knew that already.)

Anyway, enough of this. It's clear I was wrong to say Granny might choke on a Brussel sprout if Showgirls was on the telly, because you'd only put the television on after Christmas dinner, not during. I mean, we're not cultureless savages, are we?² Unless Granny has no respect for the Queen's Speech, in which case if she's chowing down on sprouts while Her Majesty is royally pontificating televisually, then she deserves to have a vegetable-based oesophagus mishap.³

I was going to discuss the possible horrors of Amish-produced pornography, but I'm now incredibly worn out and in need of a lie-down. Some other day, perhaps.

¹ Although come to think of it, the true soundtrack of Christmas for me is a loop of Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas (Is You)", playing forever. Take your boot and human face and shove it, George Orwell.
² It is clear that the whole world must eat Christmas Dinner and listen to the Queen's Speech. Being Jehovah's Witnesses/atheists/not British subjects is no excuse. Come on, really.
³ Or legumes, perhaps. I never remember quite what a sprout counts as.