Anyone who knows me personally will quickly confirm for you what I’m about to confess.
I despise Christmas. I am the Grinch, Ebeneezer Scrooge and anyone else anti-Christmas rolled into one.
I don’t watch Christmas movies, don’t listen to Christmas songs.
There will be no tree or decorations in my house, no Christmas jumper in my wardrobe and no frantic shopping for presents.
My sole concession to the festive time of year is a day on my own, eating my bodyweight in dinner and assorted snacks.
I’ve got a lot of reasons for not liking Christmas, some of which are deeply personal and that I’m not going to go into here.
But they all revolve around one thing; the pressure to celebrate.
We all know about the expense involved to buy all the decorations, all the food, all the trimmings for this now bloated festive season.
The stress in going into town through traffic jams or delayed trains, fighting through hoards of shoppers to get those things we’re sure we’re going to need.
It’s a tough time of year, where it gets dark early and the weather is cold and wet. It’s an easy time to fall into depression when deprived of sunshine, vitamin D.
As someone who can’t really deal with social situations, it’s a stress I do not like.
However, it hasn’t always been like this for me.
As a kid I remember the joy of opening presents on Christmas morning. I remember the excitement to see what Father Christmas had bought for me and my sister.
I can remember as clear as day the year my mom and dad hid the BMX they bought me in the bathroom, convinced that their scruffy eight-year-old son wouldn’t find it until made to wash up ready for dinner; a trick that failed due to giving my sister something that needed to be filled with water to work.
I’ve seen the photos from when I was a young child in times before I can remember. I’ve seen the look of joy and pleasure on my face as I get to see the huge pile of gifts under the tree.
Back then, growing up in Thatcher’s 80s was not easy, especially in working class Chelmsley Wood.
Jobs were non-existent; I’ve heard the story of my old man going to the job centre only to see the same things listed on the boards that didn’t really exist. I remember watching the miner’s strike on TV and being jealous that the miner’s kids had been gifted a trip to Disneyland by some kind benefactor.
And I have no doubt that Christmas was a tough time for my parents. Despite everything that they were going through, they did everything they could to ensure that my sister and I had the best Christmas possible.
I was lucky. Having been through those times, I’ve grown up hating the thought of kids going without.
We’re now nearly forty years further forward from those days.
Technology has advanced in ways we could never have imagined and there are all manner of new sectors of industry.
Eating out is nothing special and everybody seems to happily carry around a mobile phone worth up to a grand in their pockets like it’s nothing.
And yet, despite all this modern wealth there are still so many children in Birmingham who will go without this Christmas.
It’s for that reason despite my aversion to the cold and to the festive season, I’m going to be part of the sleep out at St Andrew’s. Last year the fans who braved the cold raised an incredible amount of money, ensuring a huge number of underprivileged kids did not go without a present.
This year, we’re hoping to do much more than give presents. There’s a lot more people signed up and a lot more planned.
I’m never one to ask people to donate money to charity, especially at a time of year where money seems to just disappear into a black hole.
However, I hope that people can forego one pint, one bauble on the Christmas tree, one naff Christmas jumper or even just one mince pie to donate to this cause.
You can donate at this link.
