A New Christmas Tradition — Burning Down the Gävle Goat
2020 finally gave us something to look forward to
The holidays are upon us. Soon, depending on your beliefs regarding how viruses are transmitted, you’ll be watching children rip open presents and then give cold half-hugs to whomever gifted them the pointless toy before they go about pillaging the Christmas tree again for their next conquest. Not me though, because this year, this terrible, terrible year, I learned about a new holiday tradition.
Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the Gävle Goat! I know, it doesn’t quite fit, but hear me out and soon you’ll be singing the praises of this annual, glorious, slightly twisted Swedish tradition of trying to burn down the world’s largest Goat made of straw.
Yes, that’s right. Burn. It. Down.
There I was, face plastered to my pillow, one eye open, 7:15 am, reading a text from Bryce (name changed for privacy’s sake), that said something super original like, “Check this out!” It was a link to a Wikipedia page that Bryce said he’d spent the last thirty minutes reading. Okay, Bryce. Calm down with the early texts. Not everybody has two kids under three and didn’t drink half a bottle of gin the night before.
I clicked. I watched. And my life has forever been changed. Melodramatic? Maybe. But there I was, approximately 5,421 miles away from a tiny Swedish town called Gävle, watching a choppy webcam update every few seconds. I felt like a thirteen-year-old again, sitting at my Tandy computer, waiting for the dial-up internet to load pictures of … things. The webcam in Gävle is focused on the form of a Goat built out of straw, adorned with lights and red ribbons. A webcam I have check repeatedly since that text. And when I say repeatedly, I mean I’m burning through data limits on my dad’s family plan and I’m worried about a sternly worded text regarding overcharges.
The year was 1966, and an advertising man had a dream. His name was Stig Gavlén, the Swedish Don Draper of straw goats, and his dream was to construct an enormous version of the traditional Swedish Yule Goat (like a Yule log, but, more goat-y I guess?) and placing the Goat in the town square for all to behold. Because, duh? Why not? And, as you can read here (if you dare tumble down this rabbit hole), it was promptly burned to the ground on December 31st of the Goat’s inaugural year. A roaring fire that brought the Goat’s maiden voyage to an end. The culprit was caught, jailed, flogged (not really), and forced to pay a fine. The ad man, good ol’ Stig, had an insurance policy on the Goat so he got paid (suspicious much?), and everyone looked forward to the following year’s Yule Goat.
The Yule Goat has since been constructed by one or another groups every holiday season. There’s even a smaller goat that’s constructed each year, as well. Because if one Yule Goat is fun, two is obviously funner.
Here’s the kicker: the burning of that very first Yule Goat was far from an aberration. It has been burned down (and knocked down by an automobile once), 37 times since 1966. That’s 37 times out of its 53 years of its annual existence, not counting this year, that the Goat has sent burning embers into the Swedish heavens. A cool 69.81% success rate.
The stories of both successful and unsuccessful attempts run the proverbial goat-burning gamut. From the simple use of gasoline to flaming arrows shot by two men dressed as Santa and the Gingerbread Man. I mean, come on? If that doesn’t say holiday spirit to you, you’re probably dead inside. It being 2020 and all, there’s a good chance you’re actually dying inside and you just don’t know it yet. Go get a swab up your nose, please. Hurry. The fate of the Goat depends on it.
So, I watch the webcam and wait. With bated breath, you ask? Sure, it’s the holidays! I keep a separate browser window open on my computer at all times dedicated to the Gävle Goat webcam. It’s become a ritual. Maybe even the beginnings of an addiction. But that’s what AA’s for, isn’t it? Hi, my name is Kevin Thomas, and I need to see the world’s largest straw goat burn.
As one can imagine, the Goat’s security has been ramped up with each passing decade. From iron gates, to fire retardant material (which the residents lost their minds about because it changed the traditional color of the goat [which should make you love this whole Yule Goat thing even more]), to a security guard, to a webcam, to finally a DOUBLE FENCE and TWO Security Guards patrolling the goat 24 hours a day.
My parents divorced before I could remember them being married (I know, this dramatically swift dive into personal history has you thinking, Wait, what the hell? Where’s this going? Stick with me.), which was obviously a terrible, family-imploding event. When I was young there was one benefit to their divorce: multiple Christmases. And no, I wasn’t pumped about this because we got to sing “Happy Birthday” to Jesus multiple times, but because it meant more gifts, which equaled more chances at a present my greedy little self wanted. That’s what Christmas meant to me. Gifts in the form of teenage mutant Ninja Turtles.
As the years wore on and my sisters got married and had kids and I became “Uncle Kevin” eight times over, the true meaning of Christmas slowly mutated from Ninja Turtles into me actually caring about the time spent with family. Last year, as my partner and I sat and watched little kids rip open presents and exclaim “Nope, not interested. Next!” I first laughed, because it was amazing and painfully honest, and then I sighed. Is this what Christmas has become? What it’s always been? Adults sitting in a circle, trying to feign interest and good will as kids tear open gifts and then immediately lose their shit? There’s not enough gin-soaked eggnog in the world to get me through that.
Don’t worry, I’m not making a half-assed plea for a re-centering of Holiday values around wholesome, non-material things. Not even 2020 can take that from us. Far from it! I am here to say that capitalism has won, there’s no turning back, so why not instead devote all our 2020 holiday energies to gathering around the warmth of the Gävle Goat webcam to wait for the real Christmas miracle to happen: the Gävle Goat burning to the ground.
If, like my partner and I, you have no plans of ushering small humans into the world and throwing boxes wrapped in colorful paper at them for the next 18 years of your life, then I’ll see you in Gävle, Sweden in 2026 for the Yule Goat’s 60th birthday — flamethrower in hand.
