Seasonal / John Harms / 24 December 2009 / Leave a comment Bet Now

John Harms reflects on all things Yule.

A proper gift is a brood mare, in foal to Encosta de Lago, and a six-month supply of oats

Christmas is upon us and it's Christmas at the in-laws this year for me, known affectionately among my brothers (who have the normal loves of footy, racing and the vital food groups-malt product, grape product, crumbs and chocolate) as an 'Away Christmas'.

Wonderful people, 'The Handicapper's' family, and they make terrific grandparents and aunties and uncles. However, when you're wearing the white shorts at their place, you're very unlikely to find what you'd really love under the Christmas tree.

For a start, they don't really get some of the stuff that some of us hold sacred.

They don't really get sport.

I remember the first time I went to their place with The Handicapper.

It was lunch. On a Saturday. At 1.30 pm. I hadn't even pinched both chicken wings, when the clock ticked past two and the footy started. Very different to my family, where all watches would be synchronised, and no matter where you were in the general vicinity, you'd be in front of the TV as they ran through the banner.

I actually had to ask for the TV to be turned on.

Don't get me wrong. They're kind and loving, and they try very hard to accommodate my alien interests, and to anticipate what a full-blown forty-something with various fascinations and serious addictions would crave.

So they give golf balls: those generic el-cheapo rocks of the Hot Dot and Top Flite variety, which jump off K-Mart counters at $14.99 a dozen. Oysters are more expensive than such orbs, and more likely to fly straighter. There is no point explaining things to them. To convince them of the range of quality of golf balls would mean introducing terminology like ballata and dimple physics and you'd be interrupted with, 'Does anyone want a cup of tea?' or 'Mrs. McIntyre might pop in later today.'

They are likely to give printed T-shirts (from the ABC Shop) or subscriptions to important journals (like Reader's Digest). Kate Cebrano is at the cutting-edge end of their musical taste, and hence is at the cutting edge of everyone's. But the musical spectrum doesn't have a so-naff-it's-bordering-on-brilliant end, which means you are very unlikely to receive a George Formby CD or the late Gary Ord reading the lyrics of Michael Jackson numbers as poetry. ('Because I'm bad. I'm bad. I'm really bad.') A Bunning's voucher is also highly likely, as is a membership to a gym.

Gifts, generally, are becoming strange things.

Token.

Within a price range.

In many ways, meaningless.

A proper gift should have been well thought out, and most importantly make the receiver shriek, 'Wow!', jump out of his chair and embrace everyone in the room.

Here are some examples of proper gifts.

A proper gift is a brood mare, in foal to Encosta de Lago, and a six-month supply of oats. If not that, at the very least an envelope saying 'We have organised a share in a racehorse to be trained by Bart Cummings. Just let us know the names of five other blokes from the pub and we'll get Dato to sort out the paperwork.'

A proper gift is a beautiful autumnal weekend staying at Barwon Heads Golf Club, with games on Friday afternoon and Sunday morning, and tickets to the Saturday afternoon match at Kardinia Park. Or if the giver was fair dinkum, golf with Max Rooke, Steve Johnson and Jimmy Bartel on the Sunday morning.

A proper gift is a weekend in Adelaide for the Geelong game, with lunch at Rockford Winery on Friday afternoon, a punt on the trots and the hounds at the Tanunda pub on Friday night, and a visit to a few wineries on Saturday, followed by the clash at Footy Park.

A proper gift is tickets (air and entry) to the British Open.

A proper gift is 1969 HT Monaro, pale lemon with a black speed stripe and four on the floor. And a note saying 'You've always wanted one of these.' Because I have, and I keep saying that I do want one. Not to forget that Derby Day when I got Rebel Raider's famous quaddie and was a chance to purchase a 69 Monaro, but we ended up getting dining chairs instead (the Clare Lindop dining chairs). Perhaps it could include a note of supplication.

A proper gift is dinner with Barry Humphries and Juliette Binoche (on consecutive nights).

A proper gift is a set of 52 pizza vouchers.

A proper gift is a second-hand pinball machine--preferably Centaur, one of the first-ever multi-ball pinball machines.

A proper gift is the full set of F-Troop videos and the double (vinyl) album 65 Television Themes. (Actually I have both of those, but it's the thought that counts.)

A proper gift is a proper gift is a proper gift.

So think of me when I'm unwrapping this Christmas.

In fact, pray for me. Pray that my giggle bubble remains deep in my chest, and that I will find the words conducive to matrimonial harmony like, 'Oh, a Jamie Oliver cook book. Fantastic. He's such a nice bloke. Didn't he save all the poor children of England?'