Christmas looms, which means the Salvation Army is about to mobilise its annual campaign. Most charities settle for a quiet leaflet or the odd social media plea. Not these chaps. They field a full military orchestra, complete with brass artillery and percussion capable of levelling a small parish.
First on the streets is the Reconnaissance Corps, otherwise known as the Carol Detection Unit. These are the ones who materialise outside supermarkets at dawn, polished instruments gleaming, ready to ambush the unsuspecting shopper with a surprise rendition of O Come All Ye Faithful. They do not negotiate. They do not retreat. You will hear the tune whether you planned to or not.
Next comes the Logistics Regiment, a highly trained unit specialising in the deployment of collecting tins. These operatives can position a donation bucket under your elbow faster than you can say turkey crown. Their stealth skills are legendary. Many a civilian has discovered, on returning home, that a tenner has vanished from their wallet without any recollection of having donated. That is the precision of the SA’s fundraising machine.
Then we have the Heavy Brass Division. These are the big guns. Tubas the size of water butts, trombones capable of taking an eye out, and cornets calibrated to a frequency specifically designed to cut through December gales. This is the shock and awe phase of the campaign. By the time they finish a round of Hark the Herald, even the sturdiest cynic finds himself fumbling for change, partly out of goodwill and partly out of self-preservation.
Lurking behind them is the Psychological Operations Brigade. This lot specialise in sentimental manipulation. They wait until you have a mince pie in hand and then strike with Silent Night played at a tempo that suggests you really ought to think more fondly of your fellow man. Perfectly harmless until you realise you’ve just agreed to buy a bag of brussels sprouts for the food bank.
And of course, Christmas Eve is reserved for the Elite Yuletide Commando Band. These are the veterans, the ones who can play Little Donkey from memory in minus three while wearing gloves. They appear from nowhere, usually just as you’ve reached the point in your shopping where you’d cheerfully fight a reindeer for the last parking space. Yet the moment they strike up their final chorus, peace descends, wallets open, and small children look on in awe at this display of humanitarian firepower.
Say what you like about the Salvation Army. When the festive season begins, they run the most effective, least lethal military operation in Britain. And unlike the real armed forces, they never complain about equipment shortages. Their trumpets always work, their regiments never go on strike, and their only known act of aggression is the ability to lodge a carol so firmly in your brain that you’re still humming it in March.
If every public service ran with the same efficiency as the Salvation Army’s Christmas manoeuvres, we’d have nothing to complain about. But then what would we do during the long winter? Probably listen to the band.
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