What Ales Us: Ogden on the Festive Spirit

Bewdley is a town in Worcestershire that I have spent much of my life in, first as a visitor, then to see my grandparents when they took up residence there, and finally as a resident myself for five years. A small, touristic town, it is famous for its abundance of pubs, the small steam railway that runs for twenty miles up and down the Severn Valley, and its Georgian buildings (Georgian in this sense referring to 18th century English architecture). It is a pretty place, and a visitor could be forgiven for thinking that this town represents all that is best about England.

That might have been true once, but no longer. Alongside the pubs there are late-night bars, populated by people from neighbouring (and dare I say more vulgar) towns who eschew English ale for cheap lager, and over the years the kindly grandparental folk have turned into angry old men and fearful old women, who glower and scowl at anyone they deem to be a ‘youth’. The youths themselves have abandoned the traditions of the English countryside townsfolk in favor of what they deem to be more glamorous pastimes, such as football violence and teenage pregnancies.

I still like going back once every year or so, for the pubs and the pints of ale, but eventually a stark reminder of what the place has become brings me back to reality; an old man aggressively insisting to my brother that a Vauxhall car and a Corsa are not the same thing, or a man with long fingernails reminiscing when he served in the Army as a Royal Marine (despite the Marines belonging to the Navy), or a twelve year-old child trying to start a fight with me and my friend. At this, the ale no longer tastes so sweet, and the cozy atmosphere becomes cloying.

In short, it represents everything that is wrong with England (the pub, you understand, is the distilled essence of our culture, if you’ll pardon the pun). In no way, however, is this better represented than the ceremony of the turning on of the Christmas lights.

This is still taken as seriously in the town as the election of a new Pope, but these days the Christmas lights are just a string of colored bulbs tied between lampposts…and even then, only those in the middle of the town, which cover a distance of roughly 50 meters. Even when I was a young lad, I remember they put rather more effort into it, but as with everything else in England, the ceremony (?) of the lights has frayed, decayed and faded over time.

Perhaps Londoners put more effort into their Christmas decorations than Georgians, though I doubt it. Christmas is my favorite time to be in Georgia, which is understandably bewildering to other foreigners, but I’ve always been fond of Christmas, and Tbilisi never looks better than when the decorations have been put up.

My fellow ex-pats are confused as to why I like being here for the Christmas period simply because Georgians do not celebrate December 25th; in fact, they hardly seem to care about their own Christmas of January 7th, with New Year being celebrated instead. I admit that the apathy towards both the 25th and the 7th does not compare with gathering the family together (although apathy leads to fewer arguments and less blood up the walls) and giving gifts that range between the lavish and the last-minute-buy-it-from-the-garage-forecourt, but Tbilisi looks lovely throughout December and most of January.

It is, I repeat, because Georgians care about their country in a way in which the British (at least) do not seem to anymore. Georgian society might be becoming increasingly divided as modernity creeps in, but the country is losing none of its passion, and that is what I love about this place the most. In truth, my occasional criticisms of Georgia on these pages are intended to help rather than wound, since I believe that Georgia has the chance to grow and develop, in contrast to England, which is dying a slow death. Whether it be the LGBT rights activist or the mad old man screaming about the glory of Stalin, nobody could ever accuse Georgians of not caring…although naturally I hope that the number of Georgians who believe in equality increases while the nationalists dwindle.

There. Something positive for a change; my Christmas gift to you, reader. Next time, however, I’ll probably be back onto Syria or something equally cheery, but until that time, Merry Christmas. Anyone who says ‘humbug’ should be immediately deported.

Illustration by Brian Patrick Grady

Tim Ogden