Winter is coming

The air is thin as the nights draw in.
It’s coming… winter.
As sure as it’s written in scripture.
You can fight colds with a herbal tincture, it’s a breeze.
Or if you feel the need, why not OD on vitamin C?

You see, at some point September turns.
We remember the late summer sun,
but all of a sudden the cold air burns.
And then we just want to hibernate.
We want hot food, like pies that are baked.
All covered in gravy, the embodiment of winter’s heroin.
Served up by a buxom landlady, the body of winter’s heroine.
We pray to the gods then tuck in and begin.
Chowing down on a feast fit for kings.
Feeling the warmth revive us.
The fuel to face night terrors now burns inside of us.

It’s a funny one though.
Late in the year one week it’s sun the next it’s snow.
Something that seems to catch us off guard.
‘Oh no, what do we do?’, we cry.
Is it really that hard?
Trains fail and cars crash.
It’s like the whole nation has eczema, winter’s rash.
We scratch and we itch and we moan and bitch.
But to be honest, that’s just us being British.
Like troopers we soldier on.
As it gets colder we become bolder.
To the point where winter is long gone.

Now other nations probably laugh at us.
There we are, wrapped in fifty scarves, all trussed.
And it’s not even cold enough to freeze a mouse.
Not that we’d know as we don’t leave the house.
Or when we do it’s nearly always to drink.
For some reason we go mad for mulled wine.
Not had it? It’s fine, let me educate.
Spice a cheap red, heat to boiling,
and what you’re left with is a sorry state.
Yet Brits, we guzzle it down.
Then nuzzle the nearest stranger,
until one of us hits the ground.
Maybe it’s a ritual we’re performing to winter’s gods?
Something habitual we invented so we don’t feel robbed.
Mugged off by nature and the biting cold.
We gather in pubs reciting stories centuries old.
At least, that’s what we’re told.

And don’t get me started on mince pies.
By the first of October they’re on the shelves.
It’s enough to make me cry.
But they are tasty.
So if you want me to scream, try Christmas tunes.
Slade and Bing Crosby, the aged pop platoon.
And I’m stuck, marooned on this festive isle, trapped by Jack Frost.
It’s so depressing, I just feel vile and lost.

Not that I’m a scrooge.
But I do want something new.
Not the same old crap recycled each year.
We need to breach this loop,
we need to feel the fear.
Nature needs to fight back,
she must talk the talk.
As a rousing song I’ll go with The Pogues’ Fairytale of New York.
But this year I fear I’m destined to bitch again.
Stuck with Cliff Richard desperately trying to be my friend.

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