Their titles are innocuous and their covers only hint at what lies within. I
read them furtively and hope my husband doesn’t catch me. I swear to myself
that next time I won’t peek inside. But there are so many… Every time I hear
a thud on my doormat, there’s another beckoning. Welcome to the universe of
the Christmas catalogue – I Want One of Those, Presents Direct, the Original
Gift Company, Firebox, to name but four. You don’t have to don a spacesuit
(although if you did, the oxygen may be enhanced with an exotic hint of
papaya and it will come with a choice of “sparkle” or “hum” functions), but
you are entering an alien and artificial world.
It is a strange and compelling place, nominally based on our world. It is as
if the inhabitants found a buried time capsule but did a clumsy job of
unpacking it, and all the information about how we live got jumbled up, and
when they put it back together it went a bit wonky. But God love them,
they’ve tried. And so you have the Backwards Clock, Candelabra Candle (the
whole thing is wax) and Metal-Effect Watch – not gold, not silver but, yes,
metal. Duck-egg blue and wisteria are their colours for “nature”; greenery
can and should grow anywhere, including in a Teacup Plant Pot (a giant
spotty cup and saucer). Anything that doesn’t flash ticks the retro box.
There is also a touching tendency to miss the point – a four-leaf clover
that you buy rather than find, crayons that are, in fact, pens, wooden
postcards and high-heeled wellies. Then there are the objects that have
moved into another sphere: the talking Bottle Buddy (a “cheeky chappie”) or
the oxymoron(ic) Glamour Apron (it’s pink, it’s a tutu and it’s for a
bloke). But the ne plus ultra is the Wine Rack – my cups runneth over.
“Girls,” it implores, “if you must improve, do it with this stealth wine
dispenser. As well as letting you guzzle from your gazongas on the sly, the
Wine Rack increases your cup size by two full cups. Nice rack!” To translate
– it’s a bra fitted with pouches into which you pour wine that you drink
using the attached tube. I kid you not.
In this world, reality is based on noise, colour and exclamation marks.
Naturally, it has its own language. The first and most essential word in the
lexicon is “nifty”, followed by “cheeky”, “wacky” and “quirky”. If forced to
use a word from our world (or should I say ye olde worlde), double up and
hyphenate at all costs: vroom-vroom, jiggle-jiggle, goodie-goodie.
And are there gods in this universe? Yes. Two. Toys and boys. Didn’t you know?
All men are really just boys who dream of being James Bond crossed with Jim
Davidson. And what do these boys want? You’ve guessed it. Toys. First there
are real toys. Was there a toy you really wanted but didn’t get when you
were a child? That you should have got? Maybe there is still an Evil Knievel
Stunt Set-shaped hole that needs filling? Cheer up, now’s your chance. It’s
your money, so you can buy what you damn well like: My Own Morph, Action Man
Classic Edition, Mr Men Plush soft vinyl doll. And, of course, endless
variations on the gun theme, including the Condiment Gun (“You can’t dodge
this splodge – d’ya feel saucy? Well, do ya, Sausage?”) and the Ray Gun
Channel Changer (“Invasion of the channel blaster!”). And then you turn
everything else into a toy as well (“having a laugh” and “home leisure” – as
a term, it doesn’t bode well – complete the pantheon).
When their homeware and humour collide it’s to dazzling effect, usually
involving a ceramic animal’s bum, into which “smencils” (scented
pencils), Dr Who dishcloths and Star Wars ties can be inserted. “Mood
enhancers”, “executive playthings” (Finger Drums, a Desktop Warfare Kit,
Henry Desktop Vacuum Cleaner…) and “barbecue accessories” are big (brand
your steaks, then serve them with the Barbecue Sword). And you need to take
bathtime very seriously indeed: bubble-makers, foot massagers, bath drinks
holders, endless permutations on the shower cap (who knew!), myriad
“ambience creators”, and an honourable mention must go to the Mood Duck
Radio (a colour-changing light, rubber duck and radio all in one). The only
thing they don’t offer is how to make your poo smell of roses. Perhaps next
year…
But aren’t we missing someone from this 24-hour, fun-filled party? Yes, us
“gorgeous girls”. What do we want for Christmas? Hmm. Turn-me-on Underwear
(knickers with an in-built vibrator plus remote control) or a Pole Dancing
Aerobics Kit? Choices, choices. We then graduate to being “lovely ladies”.
Women don’t figure; they are scary. Unlike, say, Terry Turtle (“a
potty-mouthed, motion-sensitive reptile who needs to wash his mouth out.
Ideal for insulting passers-by. Terry is pre-loaded with over 25 highly,
erm, original expletives…”). This is a world where, if you do have the bad
luck to be female, you can be a little bit saucy, but it’s best to be mostly
placid, neat and busy. It’s all about making life a little more “cosy-wosy”
and “snugly-wuggly”, and filling your house with pretty things: a Butterfly
Jewellery Board, Gemstone Bra Straps, a Lipstick Clock, Ballet Dress
Jewellery Tree, wine glasses that glow in the dark, a box of chocolate
umbrellas, Glamour Dishwashing Gloves, a Mini Coin Handbag and Rainbow
Cleaning Tools. And everything, but everything, should have your name on it.
It must be jolly exhausting being in this world: showers keep changing colour,
mugs shout out that your tea is hot, motion-detector toys insult you
whenever you move. And there is no way out; the world of the Christmas
catalogue is hermetically sealed. You are trapped by a tsunami of junk. This
is a place where you don’t need to reinvent the wheel; you just turn it into
a remote-controlled triangle.
I know, I am not entering into the spirit of things. Isn’t it just a bit of
fun in a gloomy world? Much of the stuff is cheap (but by no means all);
cheap enough that you might once have thought it didn’t matter because, as
it’s less than £10, it didn’t count. Well, now, of course, all that’s
changed. Am I being a snob? Perhaps. I am certainly being a bad sport, but
only because what these catalogues sell and the way they sell it is
ultimately depressing. It’s infantilising; it rehearses that, deep down, we
are just cute little kids and it will all be better if we are given a Smurf.
But they were horrid when we were children and now, bathed in the soft,
golden sunlight of nostalgia… yup, just as horrid. Despite being chock-full
of wackiness, everything is conformist and conventional. It might be all
about playing but, actually, there is nothing playful or imaginative
offered; rather it is about reassurance – stuff that lets you know you are
fine and dandy the way you are. It’s hollow humour, but if you don’t find it
funny, you’re the prissy one. There is no laughter, just sniggering – at the
Maggie Nut Cracker (you put nuts up the skirt of a china Margaret Thatcher):
“This lady is not for turning, she’s for cracking nuts! Entrusting your nuts
to the Iron Lady might seem foolhardy but in the case of this amusing
cracker it makes perfect sense.” Ha, ha, ha.
All the same, the catalogues may have a function. What do you give people who
not only have everything but, worse, buy anything they want? Any present you
give them is something they don’t need and probably don’t want; the best you
can hope for is to create a moment between you. Clinical psychologist Oliver
James, author of Affluenza, elaborates: “The spurious, fragile sense of fun
or humour clothes the fact that this is a non-present. The gifts are from
someone who feels nothing personal or intimate for the recipient, the
‘wacky’, ‘amusing’ components conceal that this is just a case of going
through the motions – as is so much Christmas present-giving, if not most.
It is people giving each other commodities that neither much likes and
neither needs.”
And who is buying all this? It would be reassuring to think not us; that it’s
all those “city adventurers” and “new urban colonists” (to adopt the
catalogue companies’ jargon), but it’s not. I wish I could claim to have
never given a pointless present, but it is you and me buying this, although
hopefully we will be doing less of it this year.
It’s a cutback you won’t notice because you would never miss anything that
these catalogues sell. There is something both sad and decadent about them.
It’s the nightmare side of Christmas: bleak and soulless and none of it real
– except for the people it’s making rich. Festive catalogues are big
business. Last year, www.firebox.com, one of the many companies specialising
in this market, turned over £11 million. The company has sold more than
10,000 Borat Mankinis. The joke is on us. As the purveyors of the Easter
Island Tissue Box might put it: “It’s snot funny.”
