All The Right Words But Not Necessarily In The Right Order

I've just realised when Christmas died for me.

It wasn't on Christmas morning 1968 when, as I slept and dreamt of Father Christmas making his big entrance, my granny made her big exit by slipping into a coma and dying at our house (I seem to recall we let her win pass the parcel that year and I had to have her brussel sprouts).
It wasn't even two years later when, as a 10-year-old, my brother thoughtfully told me that Father Christmas didn't actually exist.
It could have been when I became a teenager and, as all teenagers are, I was obsessed with myself and what was in "it" for me - but it wasn't.
It wasn't even when I came home from college in December 1981 for my first Christmas as a student, only to find that my entire family had upped sticks and moved to Devon and so I spent Christmas Day and Boxing Day sleeping in the back of a friend's Lada.

No, I've just watched a documentary on the fantastic double act which was Morecambe and Wise and it's made me realise that Christmas truly died for me on May 28, 1984 - when Eric died.
The greatest comedy double act EVER was, sadly, almost unknown outside Britain and the Commonwealth and so I apologise here and now to readers from elsewhere who have never heard of John Eric Bartholomew and Ernest Wiseman.
I had almost forgotten how much a part of Christmas Eric and Ernie were to all of us in Britain. Their Christmas show was THE highlight of the festivities - and it never failed to live up to expectations. Their final show attracted 28 million viewers - yes, HALF THE ENTIRE POPULATION - and that is a mark which will NEVER be even approached, let alone matched.

I loathe, despise and detest the celebrity culture which underlies Britain in the 21st Century. People just want to be famous and they don't care how they do it. The people who promote them don't care either. Talent is not even a consideration. Often, it is a drawback. Thanks to shite television and unimaginably shite newspapers, people who would otherwise just be ignored for their complete and utter lack of value to society are actually lauded and treated like gods for being famous for.......being famous. Metaphorically speaking, I treat them like dogs treat lampposts.
Having said that, I idolised Morecambe and Wise. In truth, I "loved" them. I didn't feel the need to stalk them. I didn't insist my hair was cut like theirs. I didn't pester my mother to buy me the latest outfits they had been seen wearing. I didn't demand Eric and Ernie endorsed goods - there weren't any, thank God. All the same, I loved them and they were REAL celebrities to me because they were something I knew I could never be - immensely, outrageously, brilliantly talented.
They made me laugh hard. They made me smile the moment I laid eyes on them. There was something enormously comforting about the pair of them. All was well with the world as long as they were around. They were very, very important to me and Christmas just wasn't Christmas without them.........then Eric went and died.
We all knew there could not and would not be any more Morecambe and Wise shows. One massive heart seizure had killed off the Morecambe and Wise Christmas special. Christmas was officially over - for ever!! Although Ernie lived on until 1999, he seemed to the rest of us like the loneliest man on earth and there was nothing he could do to bring back the laughter to us.
To think, the critics hailed their TV debut with the savage words "The definition of television - the box in which they buried Morecambe and Wise!" Wankers!! Those who can, do. Those who can't become critics.

I don't go big on nostalgia (insert "it's not what it used to be" gag here) but watching Eric and Ern today brought all the happy times back to me. Here's to the pair of them. I don't know where they are. All I do know is they are not in Grantham.