Day 5, Christmas Eve: Another day another musical, this time the Producers, which was a definite improvement over Les Misérables, although my enthusiasm for the play isn’t unbridled. Before seeing the Producers, I never realized just how zany Hitler was, and how downright lovable psychotic Nazi throwbacks who pledge continued undying allegiance to Der Fuhrer could be. Hitler ordered the systematic dehumanization and execution of 6 million people for being Jews and 5 million others for whatever else Hitler didn’t like about them. This all happened 60-odd years ago, within the lifetime of many people who are still alive today. These people do not include the Holocaust victims, though, because they are all dead, because Hitler killed them. And I guess I’m not ready for that to be funny. But you know, a lighthearted romp, otherwise. It being Christmas Eve and all, after the Producers my family goes to Christmas Eve Mass at St. Martin in the Fields Church in Trafalgar Square. This is an Anglican church. Now, if you’re not up on your religious history, the Anglican Church is a protestant church that denies the laughable assertion that God talks only to the Pope in Rome in favor of the laughable assertion that He only talks to the Archbishop of Canterbury, possibly to King Henry VIII. At Mass, we meet a very nice couple from Chicago who are in London on a theatre tour, taking in 2 or 3 shows a day. They are going to try to squeeze a Carol Sing in after our mass. I think they ended up leaving early. The mass-as-spectacle vibe is not only exhibited by us tourists, but shared by the pastor as well, who warms up the crowd before the play—I mean, service— by telling a few jokes and having us run through a few of the songs we will be singing to glorify God Incarnate, because it is to be recorded and broadcast the following day on the BBC, and you really don’t want to mess up then. These are the same people who put up all those licensing fee posters, after all. During the Homily, the pastor starts snapping his fingers slowly and asks who could forget those moving ads from this summer featuring numerous snapping celebrities bemoaning extreme poverty in Africa. Boy, who could forget those ads? Certainly not us, the immaculately-dressed congregation who bravely spends upwards of 1.5 minutes thinking about those poor dying Africans before getting on with O Come All Ye Faithful, which really comes together nicely and sounds great, probably owing to all our practice and to the acoustics of this beautiful church, the brilliantly gilded walls and ceilings of which have been specifically designed to catch our voices and throw them up to God, who will be so pleased by our music that He will give the Africans some food, I guess is the plan. After church, we went and stuffed ourselves silly at a Turkish restaurant. It was delicious, and I would recommend it to all the starving Africans, if they get a chance to swing by. Maybe Jesus will build them one in Africa, and that way they can have delightful ethnic cuisine close to home, like we do. I guess that’s my Christmas wish. That and an iPod. |
