Foaming at the mouth of Christmas

Even those with lugs allergic to the grapevine will have heard of the festive lights fiasco by now. That is to say, so conversation-conquering has the council’s 2022 Christmas calamity been that even our most uninquiring townspeople have been unable to keep their noses out of this one.

But I am not here to cast my own two pence upon the already coin-scarred face of Fermanagh and Omagh District Council.

No. Instead I want to look back upon the years when, armed with two cans of shaving foam and the insolence of adolescence, I, along with a band of (un)merry men – and the odd crazy cuddy – was the scourge of the Christmas lights.

However, as anyone who has ever spent a weekend at a wedding understands, before the good bit, must come the boring bit.

So, without any ado at all, here is a quick question-and-answer analysis of the council’s choice to take up the role of this year’s Christmas panto villains…

Do I think that scrimping on extravagance in times of hardship is generally a prudent policy? Yes.

Do I believe that moments of community connection and celebration are important? Yes.

Did the decision that confronted the council – namely, whether to hold a Christmas-lights-switch-on or not – represent a zero-sum contest between community connection and financial frugality? Not necessarily.

From chatting to people, it seemed apparent to most that a middle ground could have been sought. A cheap and cheerful compromise. Many reckoned that, leaving the bells and whistles in the attic until next year, there was the opportunity to do something that did not cost a pile of money, but still got everyone together for the special moment that our modest skyline came to luminous life.

As one fella from work put it, the basic ingredients of a Chrismas-lights-switch-on are easily obtained.

“All you need,” he rightly reasoned, “is a bit of music, a Santa, and a switch.”

Surely, had the council been so inclined, they could have appealed to the indomitable Christmas spirit of Omagh town and found a few local musicians who would have played for nothing. That would have taken care of the music.

Then, on the Santa front, after identifying a suitably rotund councillor and threatening them with dismissal in the event of non-compliance, they could have wrapped the big fella in red velour and tinsel, and had him ho-ho-hoing outside the courthouse until the last straggler went home.

That would have been your Santa sorted.

Finally, all that would have been left was switch – which could have been picked up for about two pound from any decent electrical wholesalers.

But here, maybe there is more to it. Maybe I haven’t a clue. And sure who am I to be making save-the-lights suggestions, anyway? Sure, wasn’t it only a lock of years ago that I was one of the despised foamers; one of those dirty juvenile delinquents who use the cloak of Christmas merriment to exact mayhem upon the town.

For those of you who have not attended the switch-on of Omagh’s Christmas lights in the last 20 years, you’ll need some context.

You see, alongside the annual festival of fluorescent light and festive fun, there lurks a strange, subversive, anti-Christmas sub-culture.

Each year, on the night that the lights come alive, it is tradition among the teenage boys of the town to run amok through the streets, covering each other – and sometimes innocent bystanders – in cheap, eyeball-burning shaving foam. Weird, but true.

I mind one year, bouncing towards the town with the boys, dressed like I was ready to rob a Vaxhaul Astra, the waistband of my tracksuit bottoms – weighed down by pocketful of shrapnel I had salvaged from down the back of the sofa – hanging low around my knees,

About 14 strong, we made our lairy entrance through the automatic doors of ASDA, and went straight to the men’s grooming section. Before us, in glistening cans, stood a cornucopia of all the products required for the night of anti-social-behaviour we had planned.

But disaster struck when we got to the till to find that a council edict had been dispensed to all major retailers, forbidding the sale of shaving foam to any hairless teen who may come looking it.

Being, as we were, a group prepubescent boys, this meant no foam for us.

However, dejected, but not bate, we left the superstore, cursing the multi-national and vowing never cross the threshold of this capitalist hellhole again.

We took ourselves to a smaller, more human, less unscrupulous shop, where, albeit for about four times the price, we got exactly what we needed,.

Armed to the teeth with two canisters of high-powered Gillette, we wreaked havoc. The hours that followed will forever twinkle in my mind like December stars in the night sky.

Small children were tossed. Enraged parents roared, “Grow up or go home!”

Feeling protected by an unspoken seasonal immunity from being punched in the face, boys rubbed shaving foam in each other’s faces – and eyes – with an almost sadistic vigour.

I remember, however, to my shock and dismay, somebody found a loophole in the festive law and hit me an open-handed slap across the mouth that left my cheek rudolph-red for the remainder of the night.

I rubbed more foam in his eyes.

We have not spoke since.

Jesus, we were hated. Jesus, we loved it.

I miss the Christmas lights.