« Blood, Death, Murder | Main | That time of the year again »

25 December 2015

Comments

Robin Carmody

My own Christmas, I regret to say, was this year so bleak that the writer with the darkest, most malevolent imagination in the world (Evelyn Waugh? I should imagine he despised the whole thing) could not have dreamt it up. As you might sense from my own most recent blogpiece, my whole mental processes have been on varying levels of bleak in recent months.

Slade and Prince Albert make an odd mix, really; both represent Roads Not Taken (the former the absolute strength of the working class, inspiring the fear which led to Thatcherism, the latter Britain's true special relationship which the tragic mistake of 1914 destroyed).

RosieBell

Sorry to hear that.

I can't recall any dark Christmases in Waugh's oeuvre. He no doubt would have gone to Mass and let his wife organise the whole thing.

The comments to this entry are closed.

Profile

  • Rosie Bell

    Some song writing, some verse writing and too much blogging about culture, politics, cycling and gardening.

    My Profile on Normblog