#anti christmas scrooge

[hauntedhowlett]

it’s december 1

you know what that means?

time to bring down the holiday tropes from the attic

[whispsofwind]

I know they are jokes but I still utterly disagree with the people in the Dickens December tag going "Scrooge has a point/Scrooge is a mood" etc.

Because the problem with Ebenezer Scrooge is not that he dislikes Christmas and hates people forcing it on him, or that he refuses to give money to an unknown charity banging at his door.

The problem with Ebenezer Scrooge is that he is everything wrong with capitalism.

Scrooge doesn't refuse to participate in charity because he thinks it's a sketchy business and social problems should be addressed systematically at a higher level: he simply thinks any charity is a waste of money because to him, the problems are already taken care of. Poor people should be in prison or put to work, sick people should be in prison or in hospitals or even better, should be dead, and at the end of the day it's not his problem because he worked his whole life and he is perfectly fine and people die every day, so who cares.

And Scrooge doesn't shut down Christmas because Christmas is an over saturated, inescapable commercialised hell that he doesn't believe in. He hates Christmas because he dislikes anything even vaguely joyous, because joy doesn't bring money, or even worse, it requires money to be spent.

The only thing that counts to Scrooge when the reader meets him is to make money, and that drive shuts down any compassion in his heart. The more money he makes, the more miserable he becomes, and the more miserable he is, the more money he wants. Christmas is just a symbol of how utterly devoid of... Well, anything, Scrooge is.

Love is ridiculous, anything that makes anyone happy is useless because it distracts them from earning more money, and if you are poor it's your fault for not working hard enough.

And that's why the contrast with his nephew and employee in these first 3 entries work so well: because here's a man who married for love, and is as warm and ruddy as a candle in winter, and here's a man who would stop to play with the children in the street on his way home, just for the joy of it.

And then there's Scrooge.

[just-an-enby-lemon]

As a firm supporter of the ideia that not all stories need to be morality tales and not all main charachters need to be likeable and that we do have a lot of classics and myths proving it, I still find really funny how a small part of writingbr acts as if every modern story IS a morality tale and as if every classic wasn't.

For instance I saw someone using Dickens and specifically Scrooge to reinterate both points and what? A lot of Dickens stories (I have not read all his books so I'm not going to say all) were morality tales. But more importantly while Scrooge starts as an unlikeable main characther his whole characther exists to become better and learn a lesson, he is still made to be a characther the audiences empathise, root for and who learns lessons the audience should also learn. We should aspire to became the Scrooge of the end of the book.

I doubt very much that A Christmas Story would be a classic if instead Scrooge decided it was too late for him anyway and remained unchanged. In fact I can even prove it. Because BBC, being BBC, has an edgy dark adaptation of a Christmas Story where Scrooge doesn't change, the series doesn't end happily. And no one remembers it. Not only that but I never found anyone that liked it.

And fictional characther can and were awfull in classic stories but Scrooge is a bad example of that.

[quill-pen]

Me when I first watched 'Scrooge: A Christmas Carol' and Tom started TAP DANCING on Scrooge's coffin:

[daimonclub]

On Christmas

An Essay on Christmas by G.K. Chesterton On Christmas an essay by G. K. Chesterton from All Things Considered, London 1908, plus some links to other posts about Christmas Festival, markets and stories What life and death may be to a turkey is not my business; but the soul of Scrooge and the body of Cratchit are my business. G.K. Chesterton Any one thinking of the Holy Child as born in December would mean by it exactly what we mean by it; that Christ is not merely a summer sun of the prosperous but a winter fire for the unfortunate. G.K. Chesterton The great majority of people will go on observing forms that cannot be explained; they will keep Christmas Day with Christmas gifts and Christmas benedictions; they will continue to do it; and some day suddenly wake up and discover why. G.K. Chesterton Christmas is built upon a beautiful and intentional paradox; that the birth of the homeless should be celebrated in every home. G. K. Chesterton There is no more dangerous or disgusting habit than that of celebrating Christmas before it comes, as I am doing in this article. It is the very essence of a festival that it breaks upon one brilliantly and abruptly, that at one moment the great day is not and the next moment the great day is. Up to a certain specific instant you are feeling ordinary and sad; for it is only Wednesday. At the next moment your heart leaps up and your soul and body dance together like lovers; for in one burst and blaze it has become Thursday. I am assuming (of course) that you are a worshipper of Thor, and that you celebrate his day once a week, possibly with human sacrifice. If, on the other hand, you are a modern Christian Englishman, you hail (of course) with the same explosion of gaiety the appearance of the English Sunday. But I say that whatever the day is that is to you festive or symbolic, it is essential that there should be a quite clear black line between it and the time going before. And all the old wholesome customs in connection with Christmas were to the effect that one should not touch or see or know or speak of something before the actual coming of Christmas Day. Thus, for instance, children were never given their presents until the actual coming of the appointed hour. The presents were kept tied up in brown-paper parcels, out of which an arm of a doll or the leg of a donkey sometimes accidentally stuck. I wish this principle were adopted in respect of modern Christmas ceremonies and publications. Especially it ought to be observed in connection with what are called the Christmas numbers of magazines. The editors of the magazines bring out their Christmas numbers so long before the time that the reader is more likely to be still lamenting for the turkey of last year than to have seriously settled down to a solid anticipation of the turkey which is to come. Christmas numbers of magazines ought to be tied up in brown paper and kept for Christmas Day. On consideration, I should favour the editors being tied up in brown paper. Whether the leg or arm of an editor should ever be allowed to protrude I leave to individual choice. Of course, all this secrecy about Christmas is merely sentimental and ceremonial; if you do not like what is sentimental and ceremonial, do not celebrate Christmas at all. You will not be punished if you don't; also, since we are no longer ruled by those sturdy Puritans who won for us civil and religious liberty, you will not even be punished if you do. But I cannot understand why any one should bother about a ceremonial except ceremonially. If a thing only exists in order to be graceful, do it gracefully or do not do it. If a thing only exists as something professing to be solemn, do it solemnly or do not do it. There is no sense in doing it slouchingly; nor is there even any liberty. I can understand the man who takes off his hat to a lady because it is the customary symbol. I can understand him, I say; in fact, I know him quite intimately. I can also understand the man who refuses to take off his hat to a lady, like the old Quakers, because he thinks that a symbol is superstition. But what point would there be in so performing an arbitrary form of respect that it was not a form of respect? We respect the gentleman who takes off his hat to the lady; we respect the fanatic who will not take off his hat to the lady. But what should we think of the man who kept his hands in his pockets and asked the lady to take his hat off for him because he felt tired? This is combining insolence and superstition; and the modern world is full of the strange combination. There is no mark of the immense weak-mindedness of modernity that is more striking than this general disposition to keep up old forms, but to keep them up informally and feebly. Why take something which was only meant to be respectful and preserve it disrespectfully? Why take something which you could easily abolish as a superstition and carefully perpetuate it as a bore? There have been many instances of this half-witted compromise. Was it not true, for instance, that the other day some mad American was trying to buy Glastonbury Abbey and transfer it stone by stone to America? Such things are not only illogical, but idiotic. There is no particular reason why a pushing American financier should pay respect to Glastonbury Abbey at all. But if he is to pay respect to Glastonbury Abbey, he must pay respect to Glastonbury. If it is a matter of sentiment, why should he spoil the scene? If it is not a matter of sentiment, why should he ever have visited the scene? To call this kind of thing Vandalism is a very inadequate and unfair description. The Vandals were very sensible people. They did not believe in a religion, and so they insulted it; they did not see any use for certain buildings, and so they knocked them down. But they were not such fools as to encumber their march with the fragments of the edifice they had themselves spoilt. They were at least superior to the modern American mode of reasoning. They did not desecrate the stones because they held them sacred.

It is not uncommon nowadays for the insane extremes in reality to meet. G.K. Chesterton Another instance of the same illogicality I observed the other day at some kind of "At Home." I saw what appeared to be a human being dressed in a black evening-coat, black dress-waistcoat, and black dress-trousers, but with a shirt-front made of Jaegar wool. What can be the sense of this sort of thing? If a man thinks hygiene more important than convention (a selfish and heathen view, for the beasts that perish are more hygienic than man, and man is only above them because he is more conventional), if, I say, a man thinks that hygiene is more important than convention, what on earth is there to oblige him to wear a shirt-front at all? But to take a costume of which the only conceivable cause or advantage is that it is a sort of uniform, and then not wear it in the uniform way—this is to be neither a Bohemian nor a gentleman. It is a foolish affectation, I think, in an English officer of the Life Guards never to wear his uniform if he can help it. But it would be more foolish still if he showed himself about town in a scarlet coat and a Jaeger breast-plate. It is the custom nowadays to have Ritual Commissions and Ritual Reports to make rather unmeaning compromises in the ceremonial of the Church of England. So perhaps we shall have an ecclesiastical compromise by which all the Bishops shall wear Jaeger copes and Jaeger mitres. Similarly the King might insist on having a Jaeger crown. But I do not think he will, for he understands the logic of the matter better than that. The modern monarch, like a reasonable fellow, wears his crown as seldom as he can; but if he does it at all, then the only point of a crown is that it is a crown. So let me assure the unknown gentleman in the woollen vesture that the only point of a white shirt-front is that it is a white shirt-front. Stiffness may be its impossible defect; but it is certainly its only possible merit. Let us be consistent, therefore, about Christmas, and either keep customs or not keep them. If you do not like sentiment and symbolism, you do not like Christmas; go away and celebrate something else; I should suggest the birthday of Mr. M'Cabe. No doubt you could have a sort of scientific Christmas with a hygienic pudding and highly instructive presents stuffed into a Jaeger stocking; go and have it then. If you like those things, doubtless you are a good sort of fellow, and your intentions are excellent. I have no doubt that you are really interested in humanity; but I cannot think that humanity will ever be much interested in you. Humanity is unhygienic from its very nature and beginning. It is so much an exception in Nature that the laws of Nature really mean nothing to it. Now Christmas is attacked also on the humanitarian ground. Ouida called it a feast of slaughter and gluttony. Mr. Shaw suggested that it was invented by poulterers. That should be considered before it becomes more considerable. I do not know whether an animal killed at Christmas has had a better or a worse time than it would have had if there had been no Christmas or no Christmas dinners. But I do know that the fighting and suffering brotherhood to which I belong and owe everything, Mankind, would have a much worse time if there were no such thing as Christmas or Christmas dinners. Whether the turkey which Scrooge gave to Bob Cratchit had experienced a lovelier or more melancholy career than that of less attractive turkeys is a subject upon which I cannot even conjecture. But that Scrooge was better for giving the turkey and Cratchit happier for getting it I know as two facts, as I know that I have two feet. What life and death may be to a turkey is not my business; but the soul of Scrooge and the body of Cratchit are my business. Nothing shall induce me to darken human homes, to destroy human festivities, to insult human gifts and human benefactions for the sake of some hypothetical knowledge which Nature curtained from our eyes. We men and women are all in the same boat, upon a stormy sea. We owe to each other a terrible and tragic loyalty. If we catch sharks for food, let them be killed most mercifully; let any one who likes love the sharks, and pet the sharks, and tie ribbons round their necks and give them sugar and teach them to dance. But if once a man suggests that a shark is to be valued against a sailor, or that the poor shark might be permitted to bite off a nigger's leg occasionally; then I would court-martial the man—he is a traitor to the ship. And while I take this view of humanitarianism of the anti-Christmas kind, it is cogent to say that I am a strong anti-vivisectionist. That is, if there is any vivisection, I am against it. I am against the cutting-up of conscious dogs for the same reason that I am in favour of the eating of dead turkeys. The connection may not be obvious; but that is because of the strangely unhealthy condition of modern thought. I am against cruel vivisection as I am against a cruel anti-Christmas asceticism, because they both involve the upsetting of existing fellowships and the shocking of normal good feelings for the sake of something that is intellectual, fanciful, and remote. It is not a human thing, it is not a humane thing, when you see a poor woman staring hungrily at a bloater, to think, not of the obvious feelings of the woman, but of the unimaginable feelings of the deceased bloater. Similarly, it is not human, it is not humane, when you look at a dog to think about what theoretic discoveries you might possibly make if you were allowed to bore a hole in his head. Both the humanitarians' fancy about the feelings concealed inside the bloater, and the vivisectionists' fancy about the knowledge concealed inside the dog, are unhealthy fancies, because they upset a human sanity that is certain for the sake of something that is of necessity uncertain. The vivisectionist, for the sake of doing something that may or may not be useful, does something that certainly is horrible. The anti-Christmas humanitarian, in seeking to have a sympathy with a turkey which no man can have with a turkey, loses the sympathy he has already with the happiness of millions of the poor. It is not uncommon nowadays for the insane extremes in reality to meet. Thus I have always felt that brutal Imperialism and Tolstoian non-resistance were not only not opposite, but were the same thing. They are the same contemptible thought that conquest cannot be resisted, looked at from the two standpoints of the conqueror and the conquered. Thus again teetotalism and the really degraded gin-selling and dram-drinking have exactly the same moral philosophy. They are both based on the idea that fermented liquor is not a drink, but a drug. But I am specially certain that the extreme of vegetarian humanity is, as I have said, akin to the extreme of scientific cruelty—they both permit a dubious speculation to interfere with their ordinary charity. The sound moral rule in such matters as vivisection always presents itself to me in this way. There is no ethical necessity more essential and vital than this: that casuistical exceptions, though admitted, should be admitted as exceptions. And it follows from this, I think, that, though we may do a horrid thing in a horrid situation, we must be quite certain that we actually and already are in that situation. Thus, all sane moralists admit that one may sometimes tell a lie; but no sane moralist would approve of telling a little boy to practise telling lies, in case he might one day have to tell a justifiable one. Thus, morality has often justified shooting a robber or a burglar. But it would not justify going into the village Sunday school and shooting all the little boys who looked as if they might grow up into burglars. The need may arise; but the need must have arisen. It seems to me quite clear that if you step across this limit you step off a precipice.

Christmas decorations Now, whether torturing an animal is or is not an immoral thing, it is, at least, a dreadful thing. It belongs to the order of exceptional and even desperate acts. Except for some extraordinary reason I would not grievously hurt an animal; with an extraordinary reason I would grievously hurt him. If (for example) a mad elephant were pursuing me and my family, and I could only shoot him so that he would die in agony, he would have to die in agony. But the elephant would be there. I would not do it to a hypothetical elephant. Now, it always seems to me that this is the weak point in the ordinary vivisectionist argument, "Suppose your wife were dying." Vivisection is not done by a man whose wife is dying. If it were it might be lifted to the level of the moment, as would be lying or stealing bread, or any other ugly action. But this ugly action is done in cold blood, at leisure, by men who are not sure that it will be of any use to anybody—men of whom the most that can be said is that they may conceivably make the beginnings of some discovery which may perhaps save the life of some one else's wife in some remote future. That is too cold and distant to rob an act of its immediate horror. That is like training the child to tell lies for the sake of some great dilemma that may never come to him. You are doing a cruel thing, but not with enough passion to make it a kindly one. So much for why I am an anti-vivisectionist; and I should like to say, in conclusion, that all other anti-vivisectionists of my acquaintance weaken their case infinitely by forming this attack on a scientific speciality in which the human heart is commonly on their side, with attacks upon universal human customs in which the human heart is not at all on their side. I have heard humanitarians, for instance, speak of vivisection and field sports as if they were the same kind of thing. The difference seems to me simple and enormous. In sport a man goes into a wood and mixes with the existing life of that wood; becomes a destroyer only in the simple and healthy sense in which all the creatures are destroyers; becomes for one moment to them what they are to him - another animal. In vivisection a man takes a simpler creature and subjects it to subtleties which no one but man could inflict on him, and for which man is therefore gravely and terribly responsible. Meanwhile, it remains true that I shall eat a great deal of turkey this Christmas; and it is not in the least true (as the vegetarians say) that I shall do it because I do not realise what I am doing, or because I do what I know is wrong, or that I do it with shame or doubt or a fundamental unrest of conscience. In one sense I know quite well what I am doing; in another sense I know quite well that I know not what I do. Scrooge and the Cratchits and I are, as I have said, all in one boat; the turkey and I are, to say the most of it, ships that pass in the night, and greet each other in passing. I wish him well; but it is really practically impossible to discover whether I treat him well. I can avoid, and I do avoid with horror, all special and artificial tormenting of him, sticking pins in him for fun or sticking knives in him for scientific investigation. But whether by feeding him slowly and killing him quickly for the needs of my brethren, I have improved in his own solemn eyes his own strange and separate destiny, whether I have made him in the sight of God a slave or a martyr, or one whom the gods love and who die young—that is far more removed from my possibilities of knowledge than the most abstruse intricacies of mysticism or theology. A turkey is more occult and awful than all the angels and archangels In so far as God has partly revealed to us an angelic world, he has partly told us what an angel means. But God has never told us what a turkey means. And if you go and stare at a live turkey for an hour or two, you will find by the end of it that the enigma has rather increased than diminished. "Christmas" from All Things Considered. G.K. Chesterton. London: Methuen & Co., 1908. Read also: Christmas quotes ; 60 great Christmas quotes ; Christmas markets in England ; Christmas markets in America ; Christmas Read the full article

[unshackled-instinct]

Iori doesn't particularly care for the holidays, and he would absolutely despise being dragged to Christmas parties. He'd rather hole himself up in his apartment and practice his bass (or work on some new music), or train.

However, he'll sometimes indulge in some KFC for the holidays.

[thesleepyfable]

~ SWTD: Still Here AU Part 19: ~

No One to Dance With?:

Originally, I was going to have Trots reveal he didn't have any living relatives, so no one would come to see him. But, then we learned about Simon's deleted existence. Hopefully, I do him justice.

TW: One mention of Anti-LGBT and underage drinking.

Chapter 20:

5 years ago.

The Golden Eagle Pub was lively. Filled with its final patrons before Christmas. Singles and couples left it at standing room only. Music blared in the background of the smoke-filled building. Some couples danced in an open space. Teenagers, who were clearly underage, purchased their first beer. The Barmen didn't care. As long as they were getting money in the till. And nestled in the corner was Trots.

His tired eyes watched the couples, and he felt a sense of loneliness. Gibbo didn't come this evening because Jack was sick, and O'Connor went home with Mary last week. He looked away when his eyes locked with a woman and accepted that this was going to be another empty Christmas. Now, he stared at the half-empty glass of beer, unable to find the energy to drink it.

Yep. Another empty Christmas.

'Maybe I should have stayed on the rig?'

No one gave Trots any thought, but he felt unwelcome. Everyone in high spirits, he was the ominous cloud. The Ebenezer Scrooge. With a small sigh, he got up to leave. Then he heard a glass of beer being placed on the table.

'Thinkin' too much?' Trots didn't reply. He was too surprised by the stranger's handsome appearance, his eye widening and his jaw going slack. The man raised a brow. They both knew. 'Mind if I sit here?'

'Oh!' Trots said a little too loud for comfort. He recoiled, forcing his eyes to look away. Thankfully, the music and noise from the other patrons drowned out his voice. He coughed as a way to compose himself. 'Not at all.' The man didn't hesitate to sit down, but he kept a small distance. You had to. Unless you wanted the world to know your 'sinful secret.'

'So, you didn't answer my question.'

'Well, I guess I am,' Trots said with a shrug, his finger absent-mindedly tapping the glass. 'Christmas isn't the best time of year for me.'

'That's a shame.' The man took a swig of his beer. 'Christmas should be the best time of year for everyone.'

'Well, if I'm not here, I'm in the middle of the North Sea.'

'And, why would you go there?'

'For my job. Oil rigs need someone to keep them from tipping over.'

'And that's where you come in? Sounds like Hell on Earth.'

'Aye, and you're not wrong there.' This was a nice change of pace. 'What about you?'

'I drive a bus, so not nearly as exciting as you.'

'At least you stay on land.' The pair shared a chuckle. Trots still couldn't bring himself to finish his now flat beer. He was too enamoured by the man, but his eyes lingered back to the dance floor when another song began to play, making the locals dance and cheer again.

'No one to dance with?'

'No one to dance with.'

'Same. I mean. If we could, we should.' Trots was taken aback by the stranger's forwardness, despite himself being so quick to mention his work. He was stunned. Good thing they were huddled in the corner. It was especially good for him because Trots felt his face go completely red. He ran a hand over his face and mouth, but he couldn't stop himself from looking at the man, who was clearly finding it amusing. 'What's your name, handsome?'

'J-Johnathan.' Trots hadn't noticed the man had moved closer to him until he touched and played with his ear. Why did that make him feel good?

'Well, Johnny. How about we go and find somewhere we can dance?'

'Okay,' Trots replied, his voice breathless. The edges of his mouth formed a tiny smile. 'But what's your name?'

'...Simon...'

After what felt like an eternity, the pair broke eye contact. Simon's eyes lingered down to where The Shape had taken Trots. The look of shock turned to one of sadness. Maybe guilt. Guilt for not being there. His eyes were transfixed on the veins that pulsated through the discoloured flesh and small bubbled pockets of fat that appeared between the creases. He didn't know what to think. Trots began to understand how Muir felt last night.

'I know how this looks.' Trots stuttered through his words. In his panic, he thought he saw Simon take a step back, causing him to let go of the shovel and fall into the snow. In reality, Simon only shifted his weight because he wasn't correctly dressed for the snow. 'Fuck,' he muttered. What a sad state. He quickly reached for the shovel and pulled himself up whilst he adjusted his glasses. He could use his tendrils, but he didn't want to scare Simon off. The man didn't like surprises, and he certainly got one already. 'Look. I-I know I'm disgusting to look at, but-'

Simon approached and pulled Trots up by wrapping his arm under Trots' armpit. It certainly silenced the Health and Safety manager. He didn't think Simon would touch him, but he was so relieved he did. Simon wrapped his other arm around his chest, touching his exposed ribs. He didn't recoil though, just moved his hand further up when he noticed Trots shiver. 'Did you lose weight?' That broke the tension. Trots' look of surprise slowly vanished to relief. A smile graced his lips. He held back a laugh.

'No. Simon. I'm serious.' His smile didn't weaver though, and Simon picked up on that, who leaned his head against him before sneaking in a kiss on the cheek. Trots felt his heart melt.

Together, they made their way back to the porch. Trots sat in the rocking chair whilst Simon leaned against a beam. Seeing Trots struggle to do something as simple as getting into a chair stung. A knife to the heart.

'What the fuck did you get yourself into this time?'

'Well, it's not like I did this on purpose.'

'Then what happened?'

'I needed a new way to get the Union going.' A terrible joke with a forced smile. But Simon didn't smile back. Nor did he laugh. He kept his arms crossed and waited. The time for jokes was currently on pause. Trots' smile dropped, and he shuffled in his chair. 'I...I don't really know.' Simon listened to Trots tell his story from his perspective. From how the drill had hit something, to him hiding in the crew lounge, then finally his infection. How The Shape took his wrist when he went to see what was wrong at the window, moving up his arm as parts of it dug under his fingernails. The rest entered his mouth, turning him into a puppet before everything went black for several minutes. He had no idea why The Shape gave him a slug-like body and not something akin to Rennick or Addair. The only thing Trots could be thankful for, was that it gave him his upper body back.

Throughout it all, Simon's face turned into horror. How? How could something like that happen? And, why Trots? What did he do to deserve this?

'Eventually, Caz found me and then I saw myself. What I'd become. I want to be sick. The smell was awful. P-Probably still is.' It wasn't. 'I was just angry at everything. My mind was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.' A whimper escaped his mouth and Trots' hands began to shake as he recounted his memories. It was an eerie blur. Moments of clarity quickly came as they went, and it scared him. The Shape knew he was frustrated with the working condition and how messy the crew were, but Trots knew looking back that wasn't him. Somehow, it had twisted him into something he couldn't recognise. 'I wanted to hurt people, Simon.'

Simon quickly moved and knelt besides his lover, who by now, was fighting tears. The look of horror became a mix of pain and sympathy. Like telling a child their parent had passed away. Trots' glasses began to fog. Simon removed them, only to now get a good look at the glossed and grey hues that replaced the deep blue. 'I called out for you, but you didn't answer.' Now, the tears began to flow. 'You weren't there.'

'But, I'm here now, Johnny.'

Simon pulled him in for a hug. Trots clung to his coat. He didn't want to let go. If he did, would he vanish? They stayed like that for at least thirty seconds before Simon broke the hug, moving his hands to rest on Trots' shoulders. His soft smile returned. He reached and played with Trots' ear to help the man calm down. It worked, and that feeling of Trots' heart melting, whilst his face went red, returned. Trots held Simon's wrist. His head leaned into his hand, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

'I'll never go back. I promise.'

'Good. I missed you.'

'No one to dance with?'

'No one to dance with.'

A sense of calm wrapped the pair up like a warm blanket. All their worries disappeared. Neither of the men thought of what might happen in the future. Trots will never live a normal life again. They both knew that. But, right now, who cares? The warmth brought them close and in for a kiss.

Trots cupped Simon's face in his hands. Simon wrapped his arms around Trots' chest, and just for a minute, reality vanished around them.

[racefortheironthrone]

Would you say that “A Christmas Carol” was the anti capitalist story many see it as today? Or is it better thought of as a lament for the decline of noblesse oblige in favour of early stage capitalism and a call for the capitalists to be more like the (imagined) nobles of old?

I'm not as much a Dickens-head as some other folks on Tumblr, but my interpretation is that "A Christmas Carol" is a critique of miserly capitalism. Rather than living a life of plutocratic excess, Scrooge just accumulates for the sake of accumulation rather than using his money to enjoy life and to help others enjoy their lives - which in turn would enrich his own.

So yes, I think "noblesse oblige" comes close to what Dickens was going for. Dickens was the furthest thing from a radical, and what he ultimately wanted was for rich people to be charitable and generous to the poor.

I think the term we're actually looking for here is a phrase that EP Thompson coined: "moral economy." As fully elaborated in a classic article, "The Moral Economy of the English Crowd in the Eighteenth Century," moral economy is an ideology of the socially and culturally appropriate uses of money and economic power (and vice versa the inappropriate misues of the same) - one that doesn't quite rise to the level of full Marxist revolutionary socialism, but inspires mass action against members of the elite who violate custom and tradition.

[princesssarisa]

Let's celebrate a little Christmas in June and vote for the most annoying takes on A Christmas Carol.

**Not to let Dickens off the hook for the actual antisemitism found in Oliver Twist. And it is valid to argue that Scrooge can be read as a subtextually Jewish-coded character who undergoes a symbolic Christian conversion. But that doesn't mean he's actually Jewish or that the story is innately antisemitic.

@justice-for-jacob-marley

[saywhatjessie]

We're Marley and Marley

Day eleven of the Advent calendar! Using this list. Day 11: Sitting by the Fire Fandom: Ted Lasso - Pairing: RoyJamie 1.2k[Ao3]

They were watching The Muppet Christmas Carol, to begin with.

They didn’t really have an excuse for it: Phoebe wasn’t there and Roy didn’t even celebrate Christmas besides. Only, they’d been outvoted for the last team movie night and Roy had seemed genuinely disappointed so after their last training for the night, Jamie had manhandled Roy onto his own couch, thrown a blanket over them both, and turned it on.

Roy had grumbled and swore but let Jamie cosset him, giving his secret Jamie smile when Jamie pulled over the footrest and got his leg situated with the least amount of stress on his knee. He still huffed grumpily as Jamie curled into his side but he draped his arm around Jamie’s shoulders and pulled him in tight, his fingers stroking the skin at the end of Jamie’s sleeve

“It’s just a really good film,” Roy said, as if he still had to convince Jamie to watch it with him, even while it was playing. “Michael Kane approaches his role with such conviction and gravitas, even while the rest of the cast are fucking muppets.”

“Muppets are people, too,” Jamie said with a grin.

Roy rolled his eyes and jostled him, but gently enough that he wasn’t dislodged from Roy’s side.

Jamie turned back to watch the movie, only gently ribbing Roy as he mouthed the words to all the songs. He was sure he’d seen it before but he didn’t really remember it. And Roy seemed to really care about it and Jamie liked Roy enough to want to know why.

When Statler and Waldorf showed up as the ghosts of Marley and Marley, Jamie was immediately distracted.

“Hang on, is this Scrooge bloke about to be haunted because he’s too rich?”

Roy grunted. “You told me you’d seen this.”

“I have!” Jamie said, his eyebrows furrowed. “But like a long time ago I think. I thought Scrooge was just kind of a dick.”

“He is,” Roy said. “He’s just a specific kind. He’s a rich dick. A miser.”

Jamie turned to look at Roy, his pulse picking up. “But we're rich dicks.”

Roy laughed. “Not like that, you fuck . We’re dicks. And we’re also rich.” He shrugged, making Jamie’s whole body move. “It’s different.”

“But, Roy, you don’t do Christmas! Like Scrooge!”

“Oi!” Roy reached up and cuffed him on the head. It didn’t hurt but his hair was probably fucked now. “That’s anti semitic.” but he still just looked amused.

Jamie pulled away enough to cross his arms and scowl at Roy. Roy let him but put a hand on his leg to make sure he didn’t get too far. Jamie wouldn’t let his scowl soften at that.

“I’m serious, Roy. I can’t deal with no more fucking ghosts.”

“We’re not gonna get any ghosts!” Roy told him. “A miser’s different from us. They like hoard their wealth and shit. Exploit workers and spit on the poor. Like Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos.” We waved off Jamie’s protest. “Look, can we just watch the movie? If you’re still worried about us getting ghosts by the end, we can deal with them, yeah?”

Jamie huffed but let himself be pulled back into Roy’s arms and they continued to watch the film.

By the end of it, (and yes Jamie did tear up when it looked like Tiny Tim had died.) Jamie agreed with Roy that it was a great film and he also knew how to fix the ghost problem.

“We should just give loads of money away, right?” Jamie asked. “That’s what Rebecca does, doesn’t she? Every Christmas she buys loads of toys for children.”

Roy sighed. “Philanthropy will certainly keep you from becoming miserly enough for ghosts. But the main takeaway is that you’re not a greedy fucking landlord to begin with.”

Jamie hummed. “Should we also do another curse fire?”

“What the fuck? No! We don’t have any ghosts!”

“But we still could! Scrooge had a lot of money but he didn’t buy himself any fancy shit or nothing. We do buy fancy shit! I feel like that makes us worse for–” Jamie frowned as he searched for the word. “flouncing our wealth or whatever.”

“Flaunting,” Roy corrected him, gently. “So, what, you want to burn some of your expensive shit? I feel like donating it would be better for your philanthropy.”

Jamie grimaced. He had a lot of totally lush shit he did not want to burn, but he didn’t know if donating used silk briefs would work either. Not sanitary, was it?

“I could donate some things,” he hedged. “I got some mint fucking trainers young poor lads would love. I’d have loved my shoes when I was a young poor lad.”

Roy hummed, kissing Jamie’s hairline like a ‘good job’.

Jamie preened. “We should still burn something, though. Ghosts love when you burn shit. Symbolic, like.”

“I wish you didn’t have a hard on for arson,” Roy grumbled.

“Hey! It’s not arson if you’re just burning your own shit, is it?”

“Well, go on, what are you burning?”

Jamie pursed his lips thinking.

“What do you think?”

“You’re stupid fucking face cream.” Roy answered immediately.”

Jamie was scandalized. “My what? But it’s got minerals! And it’s from Finland!”

“It’s bougie trash that has impure metals and makes my lips feel weird when I kiss you,” Roy said. “You can’t donate it because that’s probably not fucking hygenic and I hate it so much and it was so expensive and there are absolutely ghosts in your face cream.”

“You can’t say there are ghosts in it just because you want me to burn it, Roy, this is serious!” Jamie argued. “And you have to burn something, too! What if I told you to burn your new leather jacket that looks exactly like the other three you have?”

“This jacket has burgundy stitching and you know that.” Jamie rolled his eyes. “And I buy way less expensive shit than you. The only expensive shit I buy is for you and Phoebe. You want me to ask Phoebe if I can have her new ice skates back to burn?”

“You’re not burning those skates – she’s gonna be the next Evgenia Medvedeva!”

Roy frowned. “Bit of a random choice.”

“Nah, she’s a little weirdo like Phoebe.” Jamie grinned before remembering they were arguing and then frowned again. “Stop distracting me. What about your fancy tea subscription?”

Roy rolled his eyes. “Fine. I will burn one box of tea. And you can burn your fucking face cream. And tomorrow we’ll donate a shit ton of money to a youth shelter or something. Will this make you feel better?”

Jamie grinned, leaning in to kiss Roy, before vaulting to his feet to collect his face cream from Roy’s bathroom. 

It wasn’t long before they were sitting next to Roy’s fireplace, watching the glass of the bottle of Jamie’s cream break and breathing in the tea smelling smoke.

Jamie stared into it, letting his head nuzzle against the underside of Roy’s chin. “You think Marley and Marley were gay for each other?”

Roy sighed, sadly. “I just wanted to watch some fucking muppets.”

[princess-of-the-corner]

In response to swapauanon's comment on Modern Scrooge being Ultra Materialistic, I recently watched/listened to a video by Tale Foundry about an extremely similar character type.

Dubbed "the Anti-Grinch," they're characters who crank the Christmas Spirit lever way too far in the other direction, missing the spirit for the trappings. The main examples of this being Jack Skellington's attempt at a Halloween/Christmas fusion, and Discworld's Death during Hogfather, where he tries to apply his Ultimate Fairness and Reality to Hogswatch (Discworld's premier winter holiday, a fusion of Christmas and New Years), which results in him looking at the standard tropes of such times, like the Little Match Girl and Good King Wenceslsas (or however that's spelled) and criticizing the heck out of them.

oh yeah absolutely like

Those are also so fascinating!

[thericeballofcamelot]

Incredible! Everything This Woman Has Accomplished Was to Spite That One Bitch From 9th Grade

I Found My 8th Grade Diary And I Was A Huge Bitch

DUDE CORNER: Please Ask Me if I Think a Hot Dog is a Sandwich, I Have a Whole Thing Ready

Mother Accidentally Gives Good Advice While Being Sarcastic

Nice! Woman Has Parasocial Relationship With Own Father

Let’s See How They Like It! This Woman Listens in on the CIA

REPORT: The Hospital Makes You Take the Baby Home and Then You Have to Take Care of It

Aw! This Woman Wants Her Friends’ Lives to be Perfect So She Can Complain the Most

QUIZ: Do You Hate Christmas in an Anti-Capitalist Way or in a Scrooge Way?

[mylifeiscomics]

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A post shared by Christopher Eccleston (@christophereccleston)

The anti-Scrooge not letting it pass this Christmas Eve. Be nice, CE’s is watching.

Happy Christmas everyone!

[banana-with-a-bow-tie]

Every generation has its abundance of Scrooges. The church is full of them. We hear endless complaints of commercialism. We are constantly told to put Christ back into Christmas. We hear that the tradition of Santa Claus is a sacrilege. We listen to those acquainted with history murmur that Christmas isn’t biblical. The Church invented Christmas to compete with the ancient Roman festival honoring the bull-god Mithras, the nay-sayers complain. Christmas? A mere capitulation to paganism.

And so we rain on Jesus’ parade and assume an Olympian detachment from the joyous holiday. All this carping is but a modern dose of Scroogeism, our own sanctimonious profanation of the holy.

We celebrate Christmas because we cannot eradicate from our consciousness our profound awareness of the difference between the sacred and the profane.

[lumiereandcogsworth]

And the scrooge movie, of course <3

EEEEEE!!!!!!!!!💖💖💖💖💖💖

my favorite female character: PRUDENCE!!!!!!! THE BESTEST GORL!!!!!! LOOK AT HER!!!!!!!!

my favorite male character: i mean. THE GUY. ebenezer scrooge >:( but also i love his nephew harry. what an absolute golden retriever that man is. he’s so :D

my favorite book/season/etc: well. UH! i’ll say that my favorite version of this story is jim carrey’s a christmas carol from 2009 !! it’s been my all-time favorite christmas movie for a long time, and this hyperfixation shan’t change that haha

my favorite episode: i’m changing this to favorite song and my answer is tell me. IT’S SO GOOD. AND THE VISUALS AS JACOB MARLEY APPEARS ARE EPIC AS FUCK. anyway, luke evans really DID put his whole lukussy into that song. his whole performance is amazing but!!! that song is insane (honorific)

my favorite cast member: LUKE EVANS!!!!!! MY GASTON!!!!!!!❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ literally the only two reasons i decided to watch this is because the story is one i already love, and that’s actor blorbo from my movie!!! and now i am utterly enchanted. insane. if i had a nickel… lol

my favorite ship: i don’t know. harry & hela are cute, bob & ethel are so good, and ebenezer & isabel are!!! well!!!!!!! they could have been something!!!!! but. greed and emotional abandonment will always bite ye in the ass. but their young scenes before the last one are insanely cute. when he’s all nervous as she fixes his tie and touches his arm. SO true so good.

a character i’d die defending: i don’t know, i feel like the story is pretty self-explanatory. if someone doesn’t think scrooge deserves redemption that’s on them not me haha

a character i just can’t sympathize with: i have no idea. i mean i don’t sympathize with scrooge BEFORE all the stuff happens. so? yeah idk

a character i grew to love: probably harry. i never paid much attention to him in other versions but they gave him so much heart and character in this one that i’m like 🥹💖 he’s so golden retriever. i wanna spend a day with him i think we’d have so much fun doing Literally anything

my anti-otp: reader x scrooge HAHA. people can do whatever they want i’m just not into him like that. i’m sorry i have such a specific character type but attraction is not always a factor for me. it is Sometimes, i admit, but not always and not with this manz <3

[redhatmeg]

At 2 am I’ve got a dumb idea to write a Despicable Me Christmas Carol.

Of course, Gru would be a Scrooge but now when I think about it, I don’t think it should be about him not celebrating Christmas or being unkind and anti-social (because he already went through character development and now he would probably enjoy Christmas with people he loves). Just in this moment I’ve realized that the best take would be Spirits of Villainy who want him to come back on the path of evil.

It will be like this:

Jacob Marley - Wild Knuckles (as a ghost of Gru’s former partner in crime)

Ghost of Christmas Past - Balthazar Bratt (as he’s stuck in the past)

Ghost of Christmas Present - El Macho (as he’s still doing villainy)

Ghost of Christmas Yet-To-Come - Vector (as he’s all about the future and being new)

I’m juast throwing this idea out there for someone. I don’t think I will be able to write it.