I fear the approach of Christmas. It’s a great line to open a chapter with, as Declan Lynch does in The Rooms.
Neil, the central character in what is indisputably one of the outstanding Irish novels of the year, is an alcoholic one time rock star, who has been through the mill and back and survived – just about. He has fallen in love with the gorgeous Jamaica and what’s more they have got it on with impressive gusto. Thus is he embarking on an affair that, in different ways, that will push him to the brink.
A fashion designer by trade, she is much in demand on the social scene. Neil, however, is not one for hitting the likes of Renards or Lillie’s Bordello and dallying there into the wee small hours. Too much in the way of temptation. But there is lots of that larging it up going on, as November threatens to turn into December – and he can hardly ask Jamaica, her star in the ascendant in the world of fashion, to ditch the parties and the schmoozing. And so he is faced with a terrible dilemma. Leave her to hit the town on her own, in which case she will become at least partially intoxicated prey to every horny bastard in the city with a slick pad to invite her back to – or brave the drinking dens himself and take the risk that the desire for the hootch will prove too beautifully powerful to resist.
Among other things, The Rooms is about the havoc that the booze plays with one man’s heart. But the focus on Christmas is particularly poignant right now. Neil has a son by another woman – and dealing afresh with his separation from the boy to whom he is father is also part of the torture that the festive season inflicts. The book captures both the desolation and the love involved brilliantly. Reading it, we are made aware of the fact that behind the bonhomie and the jollity of Christmas, there is often a sea of loneliness and confusion.
It isn’t just an excessive devotion to the demon drink that isolates people. Anyone who is part of a minority, or who suffers from any form of social exclusion, is inclined to feel it all the more intensely at this time of year. In Diary Of A Man, Dermod Moore writes with great insight about the gay tribe – and the deep feelings of anxiety that have been such a central part of his experience as a single gay man in the maddening, sex-propelled whirl of London life over the past decade and more. The emptiness that he describes takes on an even more far reaching aspect at this time of year – far reaching, that is, in terms of just how deep it goes and how achingly we feel it.
On the surface, for sure it’s all good. Yes, yes, yes. Bring it on! But Christmas is a time of extremes. There is a lot of love about, and plenty of generosity. But in taking people away from the everyday staples of work and routine and putting the emphasis on spending power, on buying and being bought presents, and on playing our part in a family or a community, it can make some people all the more painfully aware of precisely what is lacking in their lives.
For many, it exaggerates a sense of not belonging. And in doing so, it can trigger feelings of depression, desperation and despair. This is true of people who are vulnerable psychatrically. It is true of elderly people whose families have evaporated from around them. It is true of individuals, men and women, who are separated from their partners and their children. It is true of immigrants who are caught far from home, in an unfamiliar and sometimes alien place. It is true of so many of us.
We have tried to be mindful of this in preparing our special bumper Christmas issue of hotpress – as well, of course, as the fun and the frolics, the parties and the good times, the clubs, the music, the sex and all the rest, as we start to gear up for the big splurge.
“Personally, I’m not going to make any effort this Christmas,” Neil promises in The Rooms. “No turkey, no ham, no effort. This is a selfish programme and that suits me fine…I get lonely up there on my own, but I can get lonelier with another person around who might want to crack open a beer and have a chat when I just want to… to… crack open a beer.”
Here come the good times. See you all in January.