When I was a raw art student, I learned that there is no such thing as black and white. They are the extremes of the colour spectrum and therefore can only exist when influenced by another colour.

Over the past few months I have witnessed much argument as to who is black and who is white. We have had black sheep, white lies, supposed white supremacy and black-fuelled racism. We have had black victimisation and a ray of hope in Barack Obama, now officially the world’s first Black man, who is about as black as I am white.

So let’s forget about these simple generalities and let ourselves be known for what we truly are.

Taking my Pantone Color Selector swatch and placing it against my arm I see that I am Pantone 720U and that is how I’d like to be known in future discussions on race and colour. “Hi, I’d like you meet G, he’s a 720U, but he’s cool”.  Of course, being a 720U could change after the first days of summer vacation to a 709U and after a week settle down to the acceptable poolside 722U. If the hotel food is giving me gyp I’d probably be approaching 5945U. Barack I judge to be a healthy 724U, Victoria Beckham a Tango’d 1495U, Sarah Palin and embarrassed 032U and poor old John McCain, totally transparent.

Eggnog brings back memories of Christmas with Mum and Dad. 
 On Christmas Day, Dad, who always invited the neighbours round for a Christmas lunchtime drink, would set up his bar in the corner of the living room. The eggnog would be there as every year along with the bottles of cherry brandy, Pimm’s, Angostura bitters, Babycham, ouzo, Kailua, Madera wine, Cointreau etc. their faded labels witness to years spent on the shelf at the back of the garage.  Nobody ever drank the stuff, but it fleshed out his bar extravaganza. A barrel of beer would be set up on the coal bunker by the kitchen door for the men who bought their own pewter tankards and the ladies would be served G&T’s.  He’d put out ashtrays and coasters, some without advertising,

That year, I started off the proceedings just after breakfast. I unwrapped my largest present, obviously a football from the shape so there was no surprise, I bounced it once on the floor and kicked it straight through the living room window – from the inside. Being the season of goodwill to all men, I had to wait until mid-January to get walloped. Which was about the time the glazier turned up.

Then, oh the relief, at least for me, the window incident was soon forgotten. Dad was a man who never made mistakes, but that day he dropped the bottle of eggnog on the kitchen floor. Glass everywhere. Amazingly, the eggnog stayed in a bottle shaped rubbery yellow lump wobbling on the tiled floor.

But I suppose Christmas is a time for forgiving especially as it is also the time when things go horribly wrong. I have just received a jolly 2009 calendar from my village authorities. My village is called Founex, the front page bears the title Versoix 2009 (Versoix is about 5k’s from here and in a different county) and the photographs illustrating Founex were taken in the neighbouring village of Coppet. Oh well, you know how it is, list minute rush at the printers, boozy lunches, printer’s devil groping junior secretary in the stockroom. The calendar also carries advertising for local firms and their wishes for a Happy New Year. My favourite is the little ad for www.EasyDivorce.ch

The writing was on the wall over 60 years ago, and London’s Selfridges department store saw it. While other stores invited children to visit S****’s Grotto or to play in the Father C*****mas Workshop, Selfridges invented a character named Uncle Holly and thus, made sure that visiting nabobs could double-park the Rolls Royce, spend a fortune and not be offended by the management cow-towing to a great white God.

Today, Muslim check-out girls in Sainsbury’s supermarkets may scan the bar codes on the crackers, pud and turkey, but not the pork sausage meat stuffing, humourous festive condoms or booze. Small villages see their traditional “Christmas Fayre” re-named “Winter Fair”. UNICEF get all in a tizzy about which greetings cards can be shown in the December catalogue, infant school nativity plays command smaller, segregated audiences and the naming of teddy bears must await UN approval.

As the world’s current “politically correct” climate and certain religious sensitivities discourage the use of the “C*****mas” word, and me wishing to avoid a fatwa, although I wouldn’t mind a thinwa, this year I shall be celebrating Saturnalia and my non-denominational tree is decorated with marzipan genitalia which, I hope, will offend no-one.

Merry Saturnalia to you all and best wishes for a more intelligent and enlightened New Year.

Switzerland is a very small country. A population of 7.4 million enjoy an area of 41,284 sq. km. Mostly mountains, lakes and unspoilt countryside. The national languages are German, French, Italian and Romansch, none of which appear on its stamps. I’ll leave idle banter about cheese and chocolate to others, I’m more interested in language.

The four major languages can be broken down into literally thousands of dialects each of which is almost incomprehensible to people in the next valley.

In some areas patois is still written, in others, it has disappeared from the written language and remains only as a spoken language used for folkloric story telling and song as is that of the North American Indian, Inuit and Australian Aboriginal.

These days, because I change allegiance with ease, my favourite dialect is from Fribourg and the Gruyere region. An area known as “Le Pays d’Enhaut”. It simply means “The Highlands”, but sounds much more magical and fairy tale-like don’t you agree? The largest group of inhabitants are contented cattle. Content because of the lush green pastures. Armailli (herdsmen) look after the cattle and are as much a treasured Swiss icon as the bears of Bern and the Gnomes of Zurich. Every twenty five years, La Fête des Vignerons is held in Vevey and the show stopper, “Le Ranz des Vaches,” affectionately known as the “Lyoba,” is always sung by an authentic Armailli and never fails to bring a tear to the eye of those who love this country. This version is sung by the late Bernard Romanens who died tragically aged 39 shortly after this recording.

That’s our little travelogue over, so let’s get back to the reason why I started banging out this page. Le Patois Fribourgeois, and because it is nearly the season to be jolly, l’Hymne Fribourgeois as a Christmas mix - and rather rude it is too, if you understand le patois. C’est Tchintchon chez les Dzodzets!

Joyeux Noël, Frohe Weihnachten and Merry Christmas to you all.  

Ghinch