by

Frank Wilson

As I write this, a short time before Christmas Day, most of us in London await the twenty-fifth with some disappointment and sorrow. For we have just been advised by the government that no social interaction beyond the household will be allowed. That all non-essential shops, all bars and restaurants must close and all travel, apart from the necessary, is banned. What should be a joyous festivity with the wider family and friends will be a much quieter affair, because of the currently worsening threat of the Coronavirus. Feelings of sadness are also tinged with a substantial dose of anger at the government, which, until two days ago, was ensuring everyone that Christmas would be its normal jolly affair. Now, many people have had to abandon plans and will be prevented from seeing parents, grandparents and grandchildren. A dismal end to a deadly year. My own family is dispersed and my wife and I will not be able to share the holiday with our children or relatives, although we recognise that we are privileged in remaining secure, healthy and employed.

These, of course, are exceptional times, but the unique lack of celebration this year makes me think back with nostalgia to some of the special Christmas days I spent in Hong Kong in years past, which were variously exotic, highly gregarious and simply riotous. The very first, way back in the late 1970s, was distinguished by its elegance. As a single, I was invited by a bachelor friend to join him and two other couples he knew to a Christmas lunch at the Repulse Bay Hotel Restaurant. This was before they pulled down the grand old hotel itself!! It was then one of the classiest restaurants in Hong Kong, but, being a newcomer to the city I had no idea of its status. Consequently, I turned up dressed smart casual, when all the other men had suits and ties on. Embarrassing start. However, I was lent a tie and jacket, to compensate for my jeans, and we proceeded to enjoy lunch on the veranda of that classic hotel, overlooking a spectacular Repulse Bay, which was bathed in golden sunshine. I remember well the temperature was a pleasant 16 degrees and the company and general atmosphere was so congenial I thought to myself that coming to Hong Kong was the best decision I could have made. This was the good life! I was living like a millionaire! However, when the bill arrived and my share was calculated I quickly returned to non-millionaire reality. In later years, while I remained a bachelor, Christmas celebrations were often less refined, but inevitably sociable, alcohol-fuelled and great fun. Often, they were celebrated, in typical expat style, in groups at one club or other – the Hong Kong Football Club, the Foreign Correspondents Club, even, one year, the Jockey Club.

But the craziest were the times when I had become a flat owner and could therefore host extravaganzas with up to 20 friends, mostly singles with assorted partners. I would proudly cook a huge turkey and mounds of vegetables for a late lunch and we would eat, drink and become increasingly merry, as the afternoon wore on. Setting the tone for these boisterous events was my drinking chum Tommy. One year he turned up two hours early – at eleven in the morning – looking ghastly or ghostly or both. He had celebrated all night, rushed home, showered and come straight to my place without sleeping. On turning up at my place, while I was still wearing my cooking apron, he demanded a drink to “get him going again.” Before I could respond he spied a bottle of Mekong Whisky, which had all the subtlety of lighter fuel. He swallowed half a tumbler full, exhaled with satisfaction and declared himself ready for action. I got him cutting the carrots, before he collapsed for a sleep. That particular year’s gathering was exceptionally successful. So successful I had to throw the guests out at three o’clock the following morning, despite the fact they still wanted to play more charades.

By the time I was married these Christmas events had become more civilised, but my wife and I continued to host large groups, mainly of waifs and strays who had no family there. I did still sneak away just before Christmas day to join a few male friends a couple of times. Half a dozen of us met at the exclusive Gaddi’s restaurant in the Peninsula Hotel, dressed in our finery of dinner jackets and bow ties, for a festive lunch. We generally behaved ourselves, but one year couldn’t resist a drinking game. This pitched one competitor drinking a half pint of beer from a glass with a teaspoon against the other who had to eat at least four cream crackers. The winner was the fastest. Childish? Yes, but what impressed most was the staff of that place. When we ordered the beer, teaspoon and cracker, it elicited not one lifted eyebrow from the head waiter, who impassively left, then returned with beer, crackers and spoon, elegantly presented on a silver tray, with cloth napkins. These memories may well be trivial, but they perhaps give a glimpse of the Hong Kong of those days. Rather spoilt, indulgent, but harmless partying against a social setting that ranged from the superbly elegant to the down-to-earth. They were happy, carefree times compared to today’s sombreness. But then a mid-winter celebration today is just as much a defiant gesture of human optimism against the gloom and cold of the season as it ever was, and we should look forward with hope to the spring and new beginnings.

(The writer lived in Hong Kong for more than twenty years, arriving soon after the death of Mao and leaving after the handover of the territory to China. He experienced the seismic transformation of Hong Kong on its journey from plastic flowers and T-shirts to global front runner in trade and high finance.)

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