As it is the third Monday in January, it is officially and indisputably Blue Monday – the most depressing day of the year.

The rationale for attributing this label to an otherwise unassuming Monday was scientifically proven by a travel company in 2005, who, far from trying to sell more package holidays, were simply trying to raise awareness of this troubling day in the calendar and were altruistically offering package holidays at a reasonable price in order to alleviate the evils of this abhorrent 24 hours.

Amongst the defining criteria for Blue Monday is the fact that the preceding Friday is what is known to some (not me but definitely some) as Quitter’s Day because apparently the second Friday in January is when most of us finally give up on our New Year’s resolutions. Unfortunately I didn’t get that memo, and as I haven’t actually managed to start my New Year’s resolutions yet (reasoning that any attempt to improve my dietary habits would be more successful once all the residual Christmas food and drink has been consumed) I wasn’t able to meet the official deadline for resolution quitting. There is still plenty of beer and chocolate in Proclaims Towers so I’m still several weeks away from being able to commit to a healthier lifestyle if I want to be successful. Clearly I was an idiot for taking such a pragmatic and long-term view, because now I find myself not feeling anything like the requisite amount of depression to really make the most of Blue Monday. Plus I still have loads of chocolate and beer so I couldn’t possibly be depressed today.

Although it is Monday. And, as is true for many people, Monday is the start of my working week. So I’m not a huge fan of Mondays in general. But these days I live with two small children, so weekends are not exactly what they once were in terms of relaxation. They are still better than work but involve a lot more plastic unicorns than once they did.

But this Monday isn’t really any worse than any other Monday.

Probably.

I can’t really be certain how bad this Monday is because, as with most of my posts, I wrote this in the past.

Indeed it is still very much Sunday at the time of writing.

And I’m surrounded by plastic unicorns.

Recently I purchased a new pair of shoes. This is not, in itself, an inherently unusual thing for me to do. I probably do it every 6-7 months. That’s generally how long a pair of shoes lasts in my experience. I buy my shoes for the purposes of work, being more inclined to wear trainers in my free time. I’ve written about trainers on this blog before and the comments for that post were awash with queries from across the Atlantic as to what I meant by the word ‘trainers’. So for the benefit of those readers, ‘trainers’ is British for what you might refer to as ‘sneakers’. But this post is not about trainers or sneakers. It’s about shoes. And I think we’re all on the same page with regards the meaning of shoes. Although if there is any doubt, I’m referring to a more formal style of footwear than the aforementioned trainers. In this case I’m referring to a pair of black leather brogues.

I quite like a brogue, but I’ve been known to wear shoes of varying styles. I’m fairly sure I’ve dallied with a loafer or two (well almost certainly two by definition) in my time. But my latest shoes are brogues. And their predecessors were also brogues. This is not irrelevant. Well the fact that they are brogues is fairly irrelevant but the fact that my latest shoes and the pair they replaced were the same style is pertinent. Particularly as they were/are the same style from the same manufacturer.

Because, the thing about new shoes is that they often require ‘breaking in’. This is not true of all styles of footwear. Indeed whenever I buy a new pair of trainers, they are generally pretty comfortable straight out of the box. Shoes rarely are. I don’t know why this is. Surely in the modern world it must be possible to make shoes that are both smart and comfortable to wear straight out of the box. But I have purchased neither brogue, nor loafer nor, dare I say it, Oxford, without my feet getting ripped to shreds for the first few outings. And yet, time and again, I fail to learn the lesson that new shoes require a transition period. That you shouldn’t really part company with your old shoes until the new shoes are broken in.

But this time was going to be different. I purchased my new shoes prior to Christmas, and thus had the Christmas holiday to break them in before my return to work in January.

So I safely disposed of my old shoes, knowing that time was on my side.

And then promptly forgot all about my new shoes for the entire duration of the festive period.

But all was not lost. Because, as previously mentioned, my new shoes were exactly the same as my old shoes. And my old shoes had not actually required a great deal of breaking in. They were almost (not quite but very nearly) that exact definition of the shoe nirvana I’d spent my life looking for. A pair of shoes that both looked smart and didn’t hurt my feet on day one. As I recall, they had hurt a little bit, but the pain had been fleeting and the shoes had been broken in within a matter of hours.

So I assumed that my new shoes, being identical, would follow the same pattern.

I opened the box and the first warning that all was not well became apparent. My old shoes had been black leather brogues with black laces. My new shoes, though visibly identical in most respects, were black leather brogues with red laces.

Red laces!

I am not the kind of maverick who buys shoes with red laces.

I checked the website from which I had purchased them (and indeed from which I had purchased my previous shoes) and the picture clearly showed a pair of black shoes with black laces. Now this is, admittedly, a website that specialises in heavily discounted goods. I am nothing if not thrifty and while I do like to look smart for work, I see no need to pay full price for my work shoes. Or I didn’t until I realised that lace colour was not a given when buying from discount websites.

There was, alas, no time to rectify the matter.

So I went to work in black shoes with red laces.

And everyone complimented me on my sartorial choice.

The shoes have been a big hit. I can’t move for someone praising my choice of footwear.

Alas, I can rarely move at all.

Because lace colour was not the only difference.

The relative ease in terms of breaking in my previous shoes was not transferred to these ones.

So I was in agony for my first week of wearing my shoes.

And visibly limping.

So alongside regular compliments about my fashionable foot attire, I have also had a lot of concerned people asking after my health.

I, think, on balance, I’d have taken comfort over the accolades.

Nonetheless, I’m not without a small amount of vanity. Lace colour will be a major factor in my next shoe purchase.

And I’ll no doubt forget to break that pair in too.

When the shoe is on the other foot
What happens to the shoe that was originally on the other foot?
Does that move to the foot that the first shoe was on?
And do these feet belong to the same person?
A person who is now wearing their shoes on the wrong feet?
Or have two people swapped a shoe each?
And are now wearing odd shoes?
Or is there only one shoe at play?
And has someone stolen a shoe?
But just a singular shoe?
And are they now hopping away from the scene of the crime?

I appreciate I’m overanalysing a phrase
That applies to a reversal of circumstance
I’m just not sure which, if any, of the above scenarios
Really serves as a suitable illustration
Of a reversal of circumstances

Perhaps if the shoe was on the other foot
I’d have a better understanding
Of the dynamics at play

Yesterday was the coronation of King Charles III. Which you probably already know. It was kind of a big deal. Such a big deal that it inspired me to briefly come out of my blog exile (an exile imposed largely by the fact that I have been in a perpetual state of exhaustion since the arrival of my second child in April 2022).

I don’t really know if this is the beginning of a comeback or a one-off ‘coronation special’. Time will tell.

But I was genuinely inspired by the events of yesterday. Mainly by the sycophantic coverage of an event dripping in pomp and ceremony that, to me as least, seemed at odds with the more general state of the nation, a nation in which many well-qualified hardworking professionals have been driven to strike action on the basis that they can’t currently afford to make ends meet.

Don’t get me wrong, while I’m no ardent royalist, I’m not especially against the royal family (or not all of them anyway) and if we have to have a king, it may as well be Charles. And clearly quite a lot of people enjoyed the day and I wouldn’t want to take that enjoyment away from them. But while watching some of the coverage (because it was quite hard to avoid watching at least some of the coverage in spite of my overall indifference) I couldn’t help but feel that some of the people who were belting out the national anthem in Westminster Abbey, might be more inspired by their own self-interest, rather than a genuine love of the king. So I thought I might rewrite some of the lyrics in honour of that self-interest.

There are five verses to ‘God Save the King’, but it’s generally customary to only sing the first and last verses at official occasions. Which has made my task a little easier. Because it’s much easier to parody two verses than five.

Anyway, without further ceremony (one hopes), here is my updated national anthem for the overprivileged sycophants:

God Save Our Bling!

God save our gravy train
Long live ill-gotten gains
God save our bling!
Our wealth is notorious,
Not meritorious,
We are vainglorious
God save our bling!

The choicest gifts in store,
On us be pleased to pour,
Long may we gain!
May he defend our stash,
And ever give us cash,
To spend with decadence
God save our bling!

The above picture has nothing to do with this post. Other than the fact that I used the word ‘renaissance’ in the title and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are all named after Renaissance artists. I know very little about art but I do know a fair bit about 80s cartoons.

Mrs Proclaims, however, is very much an aesthete.

Which is not necessarily evidenced by the fact that she married me.

She knows very little about 80s cartoons, but has managed to expose me to a few of the great works of art over the years. We used to enjoy a city-break in the early years of our marriage and, having taken in Rome, Amsterdam, Vienna, Madrid, Copenhagen and of course having originally met in Paris, I have been exposed to a fair few of the world’s more renowned art galleries. There are also some art galleries in the UK, believe it or not, and she’s dragged me around quite a few of those too.

We haven’t been to any for a while because, back in August 2018, our first daughter, Little Proclaims, arrived and having children tends to alter how you spend your free time. Various well-documented political, economic and pandemic related issues may also have curtailed art-appreciation opportunities in recent years, but I still feel that parenthood has been the main limiting factor in the Proclaims household.

In April 2022 our second daughter arrived and since then the concept of free time has been extinguished from my world and there have been very few opportunities to explore art galleries and even fewer opportunities to watch 80s cartoons. Although I have reluctantly become an expert in Peppa Pig, Bluey and Cocomelon in that time.

Little Proclaims has featured a fair bit on this blog over the years and, insofar as I have readers, she has proven to be something of a hit. Her younger sister has not featured much at all. Mainly because I haven’t really blogged prolifically since her birth. This cannot entirely be blamed on my youngest daughter. Her addition to my life would best be described by a metaphor involving the dried yellow stems of crops and the vertebrae of a humped animal. If only such a metaphor existed. And is that one hump or two?

In her brief exposure to these pages, I have referred to my younger daughter as Littler Proclaims, which I thought was a clever way of differentiating her from her older sister. On reflection, it isn’t all that clever because, assuming that anyone does still read this blog, I fear that it would be all too easy to get confused between Little Proclaims and Littler Proclaims, were I to write a long missive featuring both of my offspring. And being honest, my life is now so devoid of anything other than my two children that it’s highly likely that both will feature quite heavily should I manage to return to something approximating regular blogging.

But a return to regular blogging is what I am hoping to achieve, as insanely ambitious as that may seem to be. On the off-chance I do succeed in that laudable goal, it may make things a little easier on both of my readers if I now refer to my youngest child as Mini Proclaims. So that is what I shall do.

And so the renaissance of James Proclaims begins.

And it will have very little to do with art or turtles.

It is not Halloween as I write this, but I expect this will be published on Halloween. Ideally Halloween 2023.

As I write this, I am enjoying the sound of the washing machine in the background, having also recently enjoyed the delights of washing up the dishes. I don’t normally enjoy either of these things, but thanks to a recent plumbing crisis, having a functioning washing machine and hot water coming out of the kitchen tap are luxuries not to be scoffed at.

The plumbing crisis was caused by a burst pipe in our neighbourhood a few days ago. The ensuing repair by Thames Water resulted in a lot of silt appearing in our water supply. Which is fairly unpleasant. Despite being a murky brown for much of the first few hours of this crisis, we did maintain a steady supply of cold water to the property but the silt managed to clog up both our combi boiler and our washing machine.

Cursing one utility company, I was forced to rely on another to repair the boiler. Unfortunately, despite waiting in all day for British Gas, when they did arrive it was a five minute visit, during which time the engineer announced he couldn’t repair the problem because he didn’t have the right part. We had to wait another two days for the return of hot water, which does seem like quite a long time to have to wait, particularly as it had taken them two days to tell us this information.

In the meantime silt continued to appear intermittently in our cold water, to the extent that Mrs Proclaims decided to contact Thames Water to see if this was something that was likely to be ongoing. Aside from the fact that it’s not especially nice to drink sandy water, we were also concerned that when British Gas eventually deigned to repair our boiler, it would only get clogged up again if the silt situation was likely to continue.

Thames Water were not inclined to offer a phone number on their website, but did offer a handy online chat facility, on which Mrs Proclaims spent two hours telling someone that she was concerned about silt in the water, and not, as the representative kept interpreting, a ‘split’ in the water. It was not two hours well spent.

Fortunately, as things stand, we appear to have neither silt nor a split in our water and the boiler has been repaired.

The washing machine was also clogged with the aforementioned silt. This turned out to be quite easy to fix, but for some reason, despite knowing that our washing machine fills with cold water, I had assumed that the reason it wasn’t working was linked to our boiler problems. So we went as long without a washing machine as we did without hot water and indeed it was only when the hot water had been restored and it appeared that the washing machine was still not working, that I consulted the oracle that is YouTube looking for a solution, YouTube, as it so often does, delivered a DIY solution that I could manage to follow and now the washing machine is tackling the substantial backlog of laundry.

Hygiene has been rather dubious in the Proclaims household in recent days. I have been showering at the gym, because I am currently on one of my, often short-lived, fitness kicks. Mrs Proclaims, who regards all physical exercise with suspicion, has been suffering cold showers. Our children have largely been disgusting. Mini Proclaims is 18 months old. Even with fully functioning plumbing she is quite spectacularly gross most of the time. Still, the levels she has sunk to in recent days have been impressive. Little Proclaims is now five. She is less inherently disgusting than her sister, but she still has her moments, and is not quite old enough to feel any kind of shame.

Fortunately all has been restored to normality.

So our Halloween might well be less horror-filled than the days which have led up to it.

As I write this, Little Proclaims is in the process of ‘being put to bed’ by Mrs Proclaims. My eldest daughter was never a great sleeper, but has improved over the years, and now, incentivised by her new ‘rewards chart’ is beginning to turn in at a time of day which is quite reasonable. The rewards chart has been specifically designed to help Little Proclaims make positive choices. Because good behaviour can be purchased and I’m not above bribery.

However her younger sister comfortably fills the evening void she has left. Mini Proclaims is far more amenable to bedtime than her older sibling, but the Proclaims girls currently share a room. Mainly because we live in a house which only has two bedrooms.There is the potential to improve our abode via a loft conversion or similar, but finances are less than optimal at the moment due to the fact that I am the only member of my household in gainful employment. This is mainly down to my wife’s endeavours to obtain her PhD. Which she has been doing forever, because she elected to complete her doctoral studies alongside our venture into parenting. Two bouts of maternity leave can really eke out a PhD as it turns out.

Also, someone called Liz Truss claimed she would be a good Prime Minister last year, and it turns out she was overshooting and she broke the economy. So the mortgage is quite expensive at the moment. As is everything else.

So as things stand our daughters have to share a room. Which is mainly fine and something they are both happy about. But sometimes they are a little too happy about it and were we to try and send them to bed at the same time, we might as well remove all the bedroom furniture and install a bouncy castle.

There is, therefore a routine of sorts. Little Proclaims goes down first, and Mini Proclaims gets to enjoy an hour or so of ‘daddy-time’. I say enjoy. That may be overstating things. Little Proclaims has always been a ‘daddy’s girl’. Mini Proclaims is quite open about how much she prefers her mother. She doesn’t dislike me, but she is quite clear that I should not get ideas above my station.

Indeed, the current arrangement of Mrs Proclaims putting the older child to bed, while I occupy myself with the younger one, is specifically designed to convince our children that we’re both competent and they don’t need to have a favourite parent.

Any more that we would have a favourite child.

And I don’t have a favourite child. I love them both.

But as I watch Mini Proclaims filling my shoes with Rice Crispies, it’s hard not to take that a little personally. Little Proclaims has never put any food in my shoes.

I suspect Mini Proclaims is addicted to Rice Crispies. As well as occasionally putting them in my shoes, or decorating the carpet with them, she does seem to genuinely enjoy eating them. Almost at the expense of anything else.

Generally when I, or Mrs Proclaims are in the kitchen, it’s not unusual to discover our youngest daughter, who is still very much below knee height (on me at least, Mrs Proclaims is considerably shorter so perhaps knee height has been achieved there – I’m not sure it matters really but I’m happy to check and update any interested readers) gripping firmly onto a parental leg with one arm and emphatically gesturing with the Rice Crispies box with her other arm. She is a child of few words (unlike her older sister who was fairly quick on the uptake with the spoken word from an early age and hasn’t stopped talking since) but very good at making herself understood in spite of this.

I have no problem with her love of rice-based cereal, and she’s generally quite happy when we eschew the Kellogg’s variety in favour of the supermarket own brand equivalent, so it’s quite a cost effective meal. But she used to be a good eater, insofar as she would eat a fairly broad and balanced diet. Little Proclaims has also always been a fairly good eater in this respect. As parents we are often the subject of envy from other parents, in terms of just how broad a palate our little ones have. I’m not sure I can take too much credit here genetically – as much I am very much the sort of adult who will consume anything and everything, I was, as a small child, quite picky with my food and and my parents were very much akin to the aforementioned envious parents.

As I tend to be the main meal maker in the house, perhaps my daughters’ enjoyment of food stems from my culinary skills. Although I suspect not, as Little Proclaims, while fairly adventurous in her dietary habits, will often describe the meals that I make for Mrs Proclaims and me as ‘disgusting’.

To be fair, she describes a lot of things as ‘disgusting’. It’s one of her favourite words. And, as previously mentioned, she knows a lot of words, so it is possibly of some concern that ‘disgusting’ finds itself in such regular use.

Mini Proclaims knows far fewer words so would never describe any food as disgusting. She prefers to communicate her disgust by throwing the food on the floor. On balance, I do prefer my older daughter’s method of communication in this respect.

We didn’t really do anything for Halloween this year. That’s mainly because we don’t really do anything for Halloween any year. In my head, it’s not that big a thing in the UK. At least it never was when I was a child and my entire world view is generally shaped by how things were in the 80s and the 90s rather than how they are now. In fact my world view is shaped by my rose-tinted recollections of those decades rather than any true understanding of how things really were back then. Which is why I don’t really understand anything about anything for the most part.

As I recall though, Guy Fawkes night was always a thing when I was a kid. Although we didn’t call it Guy Fawkes night. It was generally known as ‘Bonfire Night’, but in some circles it was also known as ‘Fireworks Night’. There may have been a class distinction in terms of which nomenclature one chose. I wouldn’t know which class would associate most with which name though. But whatever name you used, it was always a fairly big thing.

Halloween was less of a thing. I do remember dressing up as a vampire once or twice, but I don’t remember it being something that always happened, whereas November the 5th (or the nearest weekend to it) was pretty much enshrined in the annual list of things to get excited about.

I am notionally aware that Halloween has always been a significant date in other parts of the world and it does appear, if my supermarket is to be believed, to have taken on more significance on these shores of late. Certainly Little Proclaims seemed to be quite excited about it, but in the end was placated by a Halloween-themed head-band picked up in the aforementioned supermarket, for a very reasonable price. She did ask if we might take her ‘trick or treating’, a suggestion which I immediately vetoed, on the basis that harassing my neighbours to encourage obesity in my five-year-old daughter does not seem like a path I wish to follow. Plus the neighbours have generally left us alone on that score since we moved in a decade ago, so I feel it’s only fair to reciprocate.

Little Proclaims was upset at my rejection of her plans, so I found a compromise, which entailed delivering ‘The Tin’ to Mrs Proclaims, who was working on her PhD in what we laughingly refer to as an office and then allowing Little Proclaims to ‘trick or treat’ her mother for her post-dinner dessert. All parties seemed happy with this arrangement, though I imagine this will not be a solution that stands the test of time.

‘The Tin’ is the container in which we keep all the chocolate-based snacks that we occasionally use to bribe Little Proclaims into eating her main meal. On this score it works quite well. However the existence of ‘The Tin’ has proven a little problematic for Little Proclaims’ parents and if we’re brutally honest, most of the time it needs replenishing because of us rather than our offspring.

Anyway, that was it. Halloween was done and dusted. Except that it apparently wasn’t, for Little Proclaims is due to attend her first ever school disco this evening. And it is Halloween-themed. A costume is not obligatory, but on the other hand, if she’s the only one without a costume then what would that say about us as parents? It’s not a question I want an answer to.

As fate would have it, although I work in a school, my half-term holiday is not entirely lined up with Little Proclaims, so although she has been in school all day, I have been off. So Mini Proclaims and I set out on a mission to obtain suitable attire so that Little Proclaims can go to the ball without Mrs Proclaims and I being subject to the judgment of other parents. Because other parents can be quite judgmental. I imagine. Certainly if they’re anything like Mrs Proclaims and I, then they are incredibly judgmental.

Mini Proclaims was not entirely invested in the mission, but she always likes an outing. Even if that outing is to nowhere more interesting than a supermarket. And she’s pretty good company for the most part. She does tend to sing loudly when we’re out in public, but she’s at an age where most people seem to consider it ‘cute’ rather than ‘antisocial’.

As it happens, there were still some Halloween-themed dresses in the store, and now, because the ‘big day’ has passed, they were reduced in price and I picked up what I thought was an absolute bargain of a dress, which has pictures of Minnie Mouse, dressed as a witch and holding a pumpkin. But when I got to the till, it turned out that it was even cheaper than advertised, and I picked up a brand new dress for Little Proclaims for a single, solitary pound.

Given the cost of living crisis, I am now wondering if it is appropriate to use the strategy of only buying ‘holiday-themed’ outfits for my children, immediately after said holiday has passed.

And I’m feeling pretty good about adopting that strategy.

As December rolls around again, thus begins my annual homage to movies, which are not exactly Christmas movies, but which nonetheless have some Christmas(ish) elements. This is my seventh consecutive year of doing this and if it was ever worth doing (which is wasn’t) then any merit ceased to be obvious by the end of year 3. And yet as long as I am able to compile a list of movies with references to Christmas in them, I will no doubt carry on doing this in perpetuity in spite of it, statistically, being the least popular thing I do on my blog. The fact that I have managed to post little else this year makes this annual endeavour even more bizarre, but the reality is that the vast majority of my advent calendars from 2020 (until around 2026) were completed during the increase in spare time afforded me by the pandemic years and so, however productive I may or may not be on these pages the rest of the year round, 24 pointless posts about Christmas(ish) movies will continue to appear on this blog for the foreseeable future. In the unlikely event you are interested in which movies made the cut between 2017 and 2022, the full list can be found by clicking here.

But now we must proceed with Door 1 of the 2023 edition:

Over the years the odd rom-com has made it into my festive countdown, though it is not a category of cinema that I willingly frequent often. However, if I discover one with Christmas(ish) credentials I do feel obliged to watch it in the name of research.

And so it was that I finally got around to watching Sleepless in Seattle, which is a movie I had hitherto avoided given my absolute certainty that I would not enjoy it in the slightest.

As is often the case with the classic rom-coms of the 90s though, I found myself rather liking this 1993 staple of the genre.

Objectively the whole thing is largely nonsensical and in many ways the plot, when summarised, makes more sense as a horror movie or a thriller than a rom-com. Essentially Meg Ryan plays a journalist who abuses her role to relentlessly stalk a bereaved father as played by Tom Hanks. It is definitely credit to the the two leads that a fairly shoddy premise actually ends up being quite a charming 100 or so minutes of cinema.

Score for Christmasishness

Aside from the initial few scenes, almost the entirety of the first third of the movie is set over the Christmas period and visibly so. Indeed, some quite pivotal moments in the exposition of the story take place on Christmas Eve. Ultimately the film concludes on February 14th, which, given the overall theme, might make this more of a Valentine’s Day film, but I think enough of the narrative takes place over Christmas to make this a reasonably Christmas(ish) movie.

2010’s Little Fockers is the third and (to date) final installment in the Meet the Parents series. Like many such movie franchises, Meet the Parents appears to be one of diminishing returns. I quite liked the 2000 original and even if the 2004 sequel was a shameless cash-in predominantly made up of recycled jokes from the first movie, I didn’t hate it.

Like its predecessors, Little Fockers has a great cast.

And that is the only positive thing I can say about it.

I can only assume the assorted star names got paid a lot of money for this abomination.

Score for Christmasishness

I only watched this movie because I thought it was set at Christmas time. But it isn’t. So that’s 115 minutes of my life that I won’t be getting back anytime soon. The very final scene does, however, depict a Christmas gathering, so it just about makes the cut for my festive countdown. But that is scant consolation for having had to sit through such a dreadful film.

Kingsman: The Secret Service is not a movie that is meant to be take too seriously, and is at least partially intended to be a spoof of the spy movie genre. But while it is most definitely tongue-in-cheek, it is actually a pretty good action movie in its own right.

Like so many of the movies it appears to be sending up, Kingsman is best enjoyed if you switch your brain off at the outset. Hardly anything makes sense and the violence is nothing less than gratuitous throughout. But if you enjoy that kind of thing, and I very much do, then it all makes for a pretty entertaining couple of hours.

Score for Christmasishness

As with so many of the films I include in these pointless countdowns, this is not remotely Christmassy for the most part. But there is the slightest hint of Christmas right at the beginning, albeit in a scene when the news of a minor character’s death is being reported to his family. I’ve included movies for more spurious reasons than this, so Kingsman: The Secret Service makes the cut by the narrowest of margins.

2011’s adaptation of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo initially seemed to me to be a pointless endeavour. There was already a pretty good 2009 screen-version of the novel, and indeed of the whole of Steig Larsson’s Millenium Trilogy, so this seemed like a redundant attempt at making an English-language version of the movie for people who can’t read subtitles.

But actually David Fincher’s version is pretty good. The purported sequels never got made, but from what I recall of reading the novels and watching the 2009 adaptations, the first one was the best anyway so it’s perhaps serendipitous that the 2011 movie is a stand-alone affair.

The cast are all excellent as befits their collective reputations but, perhaps not surprisingly, it’s Rooney Mara who stands out as the eponymous anti-hero Lisbeth Salander.

Score for Christmasishness

I re-watched this in the belief that Christmas played quite a significant role in the narrative, but it doesn’t. At least not in this version. Perhaps it is more significant in the novel and in the 2009 Swedish-language adaptation, or maybe I just imagined it. Nonetheless Christmas does feature a little bit. The movie opens around the New Year and there are occasionally Christmas decorations in sight and the film rather more explicitly ends at Christmas time, with a Christmas gift symbolically bringing the narrative to a close though not in the cheeriest of ways. Added to that, there is a fair amount of snow throughout the film, which is largely irrelevant, but certainly gives the movie a wintery feel.

Postman Pat was a childhood favourite of mine, so it was with some trepidation that I sat down to watch his 2014 cinematic debut. Obviously I didn’t watch Postman Pat: The Movie in an actual cinema, nor did I watch it in 2014. I discovered it in more recent years when it was available on one of the streaming services that I subscribe to on a day that I wanted Little Proclaims to sit quietly for an hour or so.

In silencing my daughter it was not without success so it deserves some credit because she (not I) was it’s target audience. She wasn’t completely sold on it but she definitely didn’t hate it.

I didn’t hate it either. I suspected it would either be a desecration of beloved memories from my infancy or possibly a charming reimagining of a classic that appealed to young and old alike. It was neither. I didn’t find it offensive at all, and it was mildly entertaining in parts but it all felt a little bit lazy. It certainly could have been a lot worse, but with a bit more effort it might actually have been pretty good.

Score for Christmasishness

It’s not a Christmas film at all, although an animated film about a postman will never seem entirely out of place in a festive viewing schedule. There is a recurring theme about a letter to Father Christmas which is not essential to the plot but which is referenced a few times throughout the running time with the payoff that Father Christmas does make a brief cameo at the end. You could remove all of the aforementioned scenes and no-one would notice, but they are there, which means that Postman Pat: The Movie has as many Christmas(ish) credentials as a large percentage of the movies that make up my annual festive countdowns.

1995’s Toy Story was a game-changing movie in many respects. The first feature length computer-animated movie, the first feature length release from Pixar, and of course the first movie in a franchise which has, to date, spawned three sequels and a spin-off on the silver screen, as well as a number of animated shorts and TV specials. But, despite the high bar that Pixar has established for the majority of its output and the critical acclaim attributed to all of the Toy Story movies, it would still be a brave person to suggest that there is anything in Pixar’s output that is better than their debut.

Indeed, although the computer animation was the element that many fixated on back in 1995, when no-one had seen anything like it before, it would be fair to say that Toy Story would have been a good movie had it been produced using more traditional forms of animation, which is possibly why it still holds up in spite of the animation perhaps looking a little dated in comparison with many of today’s offerings.

To be fair it does still look pretty good even today, and the voice cast is nothing short of stellar, but it’s the writing that lifts this head and shoulders above most movies (animated or not)

Score for Christmasishness

There is only one reference to Christmas, which happens right at the end of the movie, after the denouement of the main story. It’s more explicit than many a movie that has made the cut for my Christmas countdown, and, lest we forget, this is a movie about anthropomorphic toys, which is already pretty Christmassy by anyone’s standards.

End of Days is a perplexingly bad movie that fails to work on almost every level. Even as a mindless action vehicle for Arnold Schwarzenegger it doesn’t really work. My recollection of action movies from the eighties and nineties was that if Arnie was playing the lead, it was predominantly so he could beat up the bad guys in increasingly violent ways. But in this he mainly seems to be the person getting beaten up. Which presumably means he was cast in this to act. I’d be the last person to ever criticise Schwarzenegger’s acting, I always felt that he knew his limitations and took on parts that played to his strengths. But it would have taken an actor of peerless genius to make the material on offer in End of Days seem anything less than abysmal. Alas Arnie quite possibly makes the whole mess even worse. Although that may actually be giving him too much credit.

Still, if you set your expectations low enough and consume a few glasses of your favourite tipple beforehand, you may well find that End of Days falls happily into the category of ‘so bad it’s good’. That’s certainly how I consumed it.

Score for Christmasishness

As the plot, insofar as there was a plot, seemed to be about the attempted conception of the antichrist, then you might almost call this an anti-Christmas movie. But that would be giving the narrative far too much credit and I judge the Christmasishness of a film on far more simplistic terms. This film is set during the week between Christmas and New Year (specifically Christmas 1999, which apparently has some spurious bearing on the plot) which means there are a lot of Christmas trees etc. on screen for most of the running time. So, in spite of the subject matter, it does all look quite Christmas(ish).

I used to have a house mate, back in the late nineties, who described Oliver Stone’s Platoon as his favourite movie. Given that we agreed on pretty much everything related to cinema, you’d have thought I’d have watched it straight away, but for some reason I waited over two decades. As pointless as this annual countdown might be, and as many awful movies as I may have watched, it has meant I’ve righted some of these wrongs.

Because Platoon is an excellent movie. Not a particularly joyful one admittedly but compelling from start to finish.

It’s often credited with giving a realistic portrayal of the Vietnam war. I can’t comment on that because I didn’t fight in Vietnam what with not having been born. I’m also the wrong nationality, but I think the not being born thing probably trumps that. But if it is realistic then war really doesn’t look like much fun at all, so I’m glad I wasn’t there.

Score for Christmasishness

It’s not very Christmassy really, but a significant part of the narrative does take place on New Year’s Day. There are scenes that precede that which may therefore be set around Christmas time and certainly it looks like there might be some Christmas decorations up in the scenes at base camp. But it’s not really clear when those scenes are supposed to be taking place, so the New Year’s Day element is the only proof we have that Platoon, in its own harrowing way, is a bit Christmas(ish).

There were 12 years between the release of the second and third instalments of the Bridget Jones franchise but the extended break appears to have had no ill effects. 2016’s Bridget Jones Baby is no less charming than its predecessors and, if not quite as good as the 2001 original, which would be a tall order, is arguably a big improvement on the first sequel.

Renée Zellweger and Colin Firth both reprise their roles, as do many of the original cast, though Hugh Grant’s roguish Daniel Cleaver is notably missing. Whether that character would work within the narrative is perhaps a point for debate, but Patrick Dempsey, while doing nothing inherently wrong, does feel like a somewhat underwhelming replacement.

The Bridget Jones movies have always been about Zellweger’s performance though, and having had her own hiatus from the silver screen she proves here that she’s as gifted a performer as ever, switching from physical comedy to more poignant moments with apparent ease.

Score for Christmasishness

Not as Christmassy as the original and indeed not really Christmassy at all for the most part. The third instalment doesn’t follow the January-December diary format of the first two movies so is not bookended by Christmases, but Christmas does feature in the later stages of the story. It’s not significant to the narrative but it is visibly Christmas on screen for long enough to make Bridget Jones’ Baby a bit Christmas(ish)

Michael Bay’s 2001 movie about the bombing of Pearl Harbor is exactly the kind of movie we’ve come to expect from Michael Bay. Spectacular special effects, but rather light on anything resembling narrative, acting and credible dialogue. Throw in an abundance of clichés and an excessively long running time and you have formula that has served him well over the years. In the case of Pearl Harbor though, Bay managed to add historical inaccuracies to his already impressive arsenal.

It was deservedly critically panned and the cast, though undoubtably stellar, do very little to redeem the clunky dialogue. Nonetheless, I think if you go in expecting to see a Michael Bay movie, rather than a faithful adaptation of real life events, then it is hard to be too disappointed. It’s objectively quite a bad movie, but if you switch your brain to a suitably low setting, then it can still be entertaining.

Score for Christmasishness

The real life attack on Pearl Harbor happened on the 7th December, and in this point (if in not much else) the movie is quite faithful. It’s not overtly Christmassy, what with all the explosions and carnage, but there if you squint hard enough, you will see some signs that the season is upon us. So it’s a little bit Christmas(ish), and if watching Pearl Harbor as a Christmas movie is largely missing the point, then it’s no more missing the point than Michael Bay was when he made the movie in the first place.

Despite claiming to not be a fan of the genre, it has become apparent that rom-coms have featured multiple times in my annual Christmas countdowns and, more often than not, I’ve actually enjoyed watching them. That said, I probably wouldn’t have watched many of them if I weren’t so committed to compiling this pointless annual list.

And that sentiment is definitely true of You’ve Got Mail which is a movie I had managed to intentionally avoid for many a year but whose Christmas(ish) credentials ultimately forced me to succumb to its charms. Reuniting writer/director Nora Ephron with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks who helped her to render Sleepless in Seattle delightfully diverting, lightening proves it can strike twice (or arguably thrice given that Ryan also starred in the the masterpiece that is When Harry Met Sally, which Ephron also wrote) as the combination is just as winning this time around.

It’s formulaic and entirely improbable fare for the most part, but if you are prepared to suspend your disbelief, it is entirely charming throughout.

Score for Christmasishness

Although not all of the movie is set during the ‘season’, quite a large part of the narrative does take place around Christmas and it does seem to be fairly pertinent to the plot for the most part. And when it is Christmas on screen, it’s really Christmassy, so this would be a more than appropriate movie to add to any festive film schedule.