Permission

Breathe easier. It turns out “Fairytale of New York” is not only the Best Christmas Song Ever (as objectively measured, of course), it’s also “the Christmas song it’s OK to like.” Hear that? It’s OK! You have permission from the guardians of the culture to enjoy something.

I don’t know about you, but when I want to celebrate the holidays, I’d love to do it with a couple bickering with each other in the drunk tank on Christmas Eve, lamenting what might have been and how their dreams are dripping into the gutter. “Merry Christmas, my arse,” she sings jauntily. “I pray God it’s our last.”

It’s a yuletide classic!

The song is also a way for people to do some kind of artistic version of virtue signaling. If you say the only Christmas song you like is about these miserable SOBs, you’re saying your tastes are just a cut above all these other dimwits singing along to the Christmas songs that are not about disillusionment and sleeping off a bender. “Look at all those idiots smiling to pabulum like ‘White Christmas’ and ‘The Christmas Song.’ I’ll be folding my arms and listening to Shane McGowan warble shakily and hoarsely, as I stand scowling in the corner and satisfied with my good taste.”

Ooh, look at you. Everyone can see your good taste. Strike a pose; everyone’s watching.

Every year, I’ll read some article or internet commenters saying some variation of “‘Fairytale of New York’ is the one Christmas song it’s OK to like.” If you like this song, fine, but it’s odd for people to say they need permission to participate in something that brings a lot of people joy. If you like the Chipmunks Christmas song or “Wonderful Christmastime,” just enjoy it. Sing along with it off key at the top of your lungs. It’s Christmas. If people think you have bad taste, to hell with them.