Singing carols among the local community at Christmas is the sort of pastime that exists in Hague and Blair fantasies of the perfect suburban voter lifestyle. However, far from being a gentle, well-behaved event, the carol service I normally attend is rife with the sort of bad language, beer consumption and yobbish high spirits that politicians seem to believe exist only in Peckham.

David, a well-respected conductor with a major orchestra in the UK, has the onerous task of organising his group's Christmas carol concert in our suburb. The band, as he calls them, are in fact classically trained musicians who play with the London Symphony Orchestra. For one evening a year, these generous souls donate their talents in return for as much beer as they can drink - all so that the nobs of NW11 can sing "Silent Night" accompanied by the best in the business. The venue for this extravaganza used to be a grand church at the green heart of the suburb, but in recent years the event has moved (by popular demand) out of God's house and into the public house.

The last time I attended, the pub was already heaving with booze-inspired goodwill at 6.30pm. I took a seat among friends at the back and observed the chaos of colour. Some of the musicians were wearing bow ties that looked rather tired, but most were casually dressed. Between them and us were 50 or so "locals", clutching printed hymn sheets in one hand and doubles or beers in the other. The cry went up from David: "Landlord, it seems the lads need more beer to get them going." The eager, godless crowd groaned as more beer was bought for the thirsty artistes. One lady in particular could be heard, above the other voices, to shout: "For fuck's sake, Dave, get a move on." It was good old Judy, plastered from head to toe in bits of tree decoration. David was already looking tense. This year, we locals were being joined in our celebrations by local grandees. Lady "Starchycollar" (a generous benefactor to local museums) and her friend Edith, a very elderly artist, looked on stiffly from their pews at the largest, least sticky table in the remotest corner of the bar. With them were two tightly dressed couples and several silent children aged under 11. "Christ," Dave whispered to me, as the local weed dealer jostled us to one side, "just let this lot behave tonight in front of the posh crowd or I'm doomed." He had rashly promised the nobs a lovely night full of innocent carols and gentle music among the good, honest, local people of NW11.

Finally, the rowdy, drunken "orchestra" were ready to begin. They kicked off with "Away in a Manger" and, aside from the alcoholic contingent singing louder than anyone else and ending each line with a wailed "yaaaaaaaaaaaaaa", all was going well. By 9.30pm, the atmosphere began to change. David had handed his baton to Judy, who by now resembled Waynetta Slob from Harry Enfield's show. Hair clung wetly to her throat and her T-shirt was an array of unmentionable stains. The "naice" families looked on nervously as the musicians laughingly followed her manic waving, the tunes racing and crawling a la Les Dawson. When the band eventually became bored and too drunk to play seriously, Judy yelled: "Carry on playing and I'll show you me tits!" She wobbled over to the trombonist, sat in his lap and began gyrating: "You'll all get some of this if you get your instruments out."

The grandees covered their children's faces and, with a withering look at the mortified conductor, rushed home.

Post your comment

Please note: you will need to login or register before you can comment on the website