Who killed King Wenceslas?

The language fanatic in me wanted to explain why they’re called carols, but it seems no one really knows. All we do know is that they have been called that since the 1500s, and they’re not exclusively about Christmas, so perhaps one should put the relentless quest for knowledge away for the season and just enjoy the familiar tunes and stories.

But while we’re on the subject of mysteries, how exactly did ‘Good’ King Wenceslas become associated with the festive season? In a piece of pure fiction, an English carol writer imagined him (Wenceslas the First, Duke of Bohemia, which was roughly where the Czech Republic is now) on St Stephen’s Day (26 or 27 December, depending on where you live) determined to help the poor people of the area, one of whom he finds wandering about in the snow, collecting firewood.

Despite being such a nice guy, Wenceslas was, supposedly, murdered by his own brother, Boleslav the Cruel. It is not known if Boleslav acquired his nickname before or after he had committed fratricide, but what is for sure is that he doesn’t feature in this or any other carol. If he did, it would have to be set to some minor-key, bombastic tune by Mahler or Black Sabbath, perhaps with a reggae version in which it is hard to tell whether the singer is on his side or not. Reggae cover versions can, after all, take grave liberties with their source material, and there isn’t a Christmas song in the world that hasn’t been given the twinkle-toed, bass-heavy treatment.

Calypso might, to the shivering northerner, seem an unlikely partner to the smooth but rigid approach of Bing and his fellow crooners, but there is no doubt that, for example, The Mighty Sparrow’s treatment of “Chestnuts roasting etc.” gives it a rum-flavoured lift. It is surely what Father Christmas will be playing at his post-delivery party when he’s had a few.

Writing and recording Christmas songs has long been a sort of pension scheme for pop and rock artistes who either never had any credibility or decided to abandon it for the sake of buying slippers and tea bags in later life.

They may fade from the public consciousness after a few years, but their festive hit will, if they’re lucky, come back to haunt us all every 12 months. My personal least-favourite is the Slade one that descends into raucous rabble-rousing with the words, “So here it is, merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun”, and yes, lads, I may well have been having a good time until you showed up.

That’s uncharitable, I know, but shouldn’t those guys have got their retirement fund sorted out by now?

An oddity amongst festive songs is the “Waitresses’ Christmas Wrapping,” which tells the very un-Bethlehem tale of a girl and a boy who have been dying to get their hands on each other all year, only to be thwarted by circumstances. And then, dang it all, they both realise at the same moment that they forgot the cranberry sauce for the turkey, and go to the same supermarket to get some.

Again, we labour here under a lack of information, ie did they both find a jar, was there none left, or was there only one and they decided to share it?

Or did they suddenly realise that cranberry sauce wasn’t the real issue, but merely a metaphor for their loneliness and that they could create their own condiments free of charge, to be consumed without turkey or indeed any animal flesh apart from the raw, human variety?

If wisdom is to be found in popular songs (and the older you get, the less likely that seems) all the aching souls of these islands should forget about getting deafened in clubs or taking a chance on dating websites. Just head on down to Pennysavers or Payless and the love of your life is probably there too, looking for a box of chocolates for their Grandma, just like you are.

And on that hopeful note, it’s Merry Christmas to you from a columnist preparing for his annual display of culinary “skills”, as the designated bird-roaster (chancer and cowboy are other, perhaps more accurate, titles). Have a great one.