Christmas Specials

Generally speaking, I think the conversation goes something like this: “Ok, you’ve finished the new series and we’re really happy with it. Is there any chance – we can give you all day – that you can knock up a quick Christmas Special for us, you know the kind of thing: twice the length, half the jokes and a magical snowfall scene at the end? Oh yes, sorry I should have mentioned, twice the money…”

There are certain films without which Christmas would be incomplete: ‘Love Actually’, ‘Miracle on 34^th Street’, ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’, ‘The Muppets Christmas Carol’, ‘Home Alone’, ‘The Exorcist’… and a handful of TV specials that bear repeat, notably any one of many ‘Only Fools and Horses’ Christmas Specials, various ‘Vicar of Dibley’ and the King and Queen of them all ‘The Good Life’, but by and large the ghost has been given up: no-one wants to waste too much energy on it any more. Oh, and talking of ‘Ghosts’, that also gets a crack at Christmas Day with its last ever episode – so we can all be happy about that.

BBC Christmas Day will feature ‘Dr Who’ (because there’s a new Doctor and he’s really nothing like the old Doctor), ‘Eastenders’ (because you just can’t get enough depression), ‘Call the Midwife’ (because all of the Eastenders viewers are badly in need of uplift and you can’t beat a bit of nostalgia – even if it’s for a world that never really existed, twenty years before you were born) and ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ (because Grandma is in temporary control of the TV remote). There are also two seasonal special ‘Mrs Brown’s Boys’ – don’t shoot the messenger, it’s not my fault!

All in all, it’s not great and I wouldn’t blame you for reading blogs instead.

I really couldn’t get my head into Christmas Special mode this year and so, should you want something to read over the Christmas period, all I can do is to refer you to the following links to Christmas Past and some of my own Christmas favourites (all by me, of course, because my ego far surpasses my talent). I’ll be watching Death in Paradise whenever it’s on, and waiting for Mortimer and Whitehouse in the New Year…

Whatever you are doing, watching or reading, I hope you have a joyful, peaceful time.

T’was the Night Before Christmas
A Christmas Tale
A Boxing Day Tale
Christmas – A Frankie & Benny Christmas Special
Green Ink on the Back of a Pizza Delivery Receipt – A Dinah & Shaw Christmas Special
Searching for the Spirit of Christmas – A Dinah & Shaw Christmas Special
A Pre-Christmas Exchange – The Bearded Man
Supplementary Philosophy – The Men in the Pub for a Lockdown Christmas
I Believe in Father Christmas
Christmas Dinner
Festive Planning Principles
Christmas Conundrums
Christmas Traditions (1)
Christmas Traditions (2)

My very own Christmas Annual is available on the garden bonfire, if you’re very very quick*…

* Oh no it isn’t!

Stage

I don’t anticipate writing any specific ‘Christmas’ posts this year, but as I do tend to get wrapped up in the spirit of it all, I’ve no doubt that a small amount of pantomime is likely to creep in anyway. If you’re not into it at all, I can only apologise.

Here in the UK we had our first proper snowfall at the start of December – going by the previous few years, it might be first and only – and by now the kids are almost as excited as me. I watched ‘Nativity’ on the 3rd and it has taken a superhuman effort for me to put off ‘Love Actually’ and ‘Miracle on 34^th Street’ until now. I have not been quite so restrained with the port and mince pies.

Somehow December has a habit of being an incredibly busy month and a peek at the calendar shows that we don’t have a free day now until well into the New Year. One of my appointments – an Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm (AAA) scan – lies ahead of me as I write this, but will be behind me by the time I publish. It is, apparently, completely routine for men of my age and, should the result be ok, the test will not be required again. Should the result be less good, however, a world of worry lies ahead. And boy can I worry.

My problem lies, of course, in writing this before I know the result. I am by nature a very optimistic pessimist, but going forward, I’m not at all certain how that will stand up to the possibility of finding out that I am one good fart away from a fatal heart attack. My outlook may not be so sunny then. Of course, it could be that all is well, but what is it they say about counting chickens? (Well, the only thing I would say is that they are a whole lot easier to count before they hatch than afterwards.) There is little in this life more galling than going to the doctors well, and leaving ill:
Dr. – How are you feeling today?
Me – I feel great.
Dr. – Well I’ll soon put a stop to that…
The entire appointment – according to the accompanying leaflet which, on balance, seems to assume bad news – will last less than twenty minutes and I will be given the results immediately. It feels a little like voluntarily sticking my neck into a guillotine. But if I don’t go? Well, my mind is not going to entertain the possibility of good news is it? In my mind, what I don’t know is almost certainly designed to kill me, so I will just have to suck it up and see what the doctor says.

It would help considerably to have a set of symptoms to be aware of, but apparently there are none: fine, fine, fine, dead is the way it goes. I will take the test and hope that I don’t need any treatment. If I do, then at least I’ll know it.

Now, I feel as if I should point out here that I am in absolutely no way special. Every man of my age is eligible for this scan. You are not invited to get the test, but simply contacted with a appointment and a letter telling you that you don’t have to go, but if you don’t it will be taken down and may be used against you. The problem is, if you are like me, you are completely unaware that the possibility is even there… until you get the letter, at which point it becomes impossible to think about anything else.

But think about other things I must. As I write this, the clear-up from the leak is in full swing, because all stains must be gone before Christmas. Give me a paint brush, a roller and a can of paint and pantomime season is always just around the corner. I am Panto Painter: one man, both Chuckle Brothers. I know from past experience that water stains are unfathomably difficult to cover up and the more coats that are needed, the greater the potential for disaster. Bizarrely, the harder I try, the more inept I become. My whole life is like an inverse apprenticeship. Lord help us all if I ever qualify.

“All the world,” said the Bard “is a stage” and mine, it would seem is always set up for panto.
“Whatever happened to the best years of my life?” I ask.
“They’re behind you,” scream the audience…

The Twelve Posts of Christmas

Don’t panic! I do not intend to put you through twelve Christmas posts in the run-up to the seasonal festivities. I merely wish to offer you the option…

My memory, on occasion, can be very short; particularly, it must be said, when it comes to my own eminently forgettable output. It takes a startlingly short time for me to forget what I have written and, on occasion, when I am forced to look back upon what I have done, I might be caught off guard by an old quip, a line I do not recognise as my own, and I might, fleetingly, smirk – because smirking is not laughing – at my own joke even though, for the life of me, I cannot remember making it.

I put a lot of effort into Christmas posts: I hone, if I might be so bold; I polish and buff. I check spellings, I check definitions, I check that I haven’t written exactly the same thing in the years before. I am always happy to have produced Christmas offerings, but I do find them time consuming: I start in mid-July most years.

So, here’s the nub: this year – it being already mid-November (at time of writing) – I begin to fear that I might not be able to adequately fill the bloggy stocking this year.

Loath as I am to admit it, I am an absolute sucker for Christmas. I love the entire over-sentimental, mawkish, looking-back-on-what-we-never-really-had-in-the-first-place faux nostalgic-ness of it all. I love mince pies, I love the over-emotional outbursts of over-lubricated adults and under-funded children, I love helping with the Lego, dressing up as a reindeer and mopping snowball out of the living room carpet. I love ‘Love Actually’.

For me, the best thing about this blessed season is that all of the naysayers, the Grinches, the ‘I hate Christmas’ers will, given a reasonable application of egg-nog, admit that it’s a nice time for the children and will try, at least, to show some good will to all. Who could resist the mantra ‘Happy Christmas’ and, at least for a limited time, not mean it? Father Christmas is a spirit and not an old man. So when I say, as I do, that I believe in Father Christmas, I mean that I believe in this spirit and I really do ‘wish it could be Christmas every day.’ Imagine people smiling benignly at the eccentricities of family members rather than screaming at their backs. Imagine siblings not tearing one another’s hair out. Imagine the children of the Ukraine being able to scan the skies in the search for Father Christmas rather than Cruise Missiles…

So, what I have here, with something akin to unforgivable vanity, are links to my own favourite Christmas contributions and the suggestion that, if you can find the time, you might like to drop into the ‘comments’ section some links to your own festive outpourings. It is, after all, the season for giving…

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas
I believe in Father Christmas
Christmas Dinner
A Christmas Tale
A Boxing Day Tale
Festive Planning Principles
Green Ink on the Back of a Pizza Delivery Receipt
Searching for the Christmas Spirit
Supplementary Philosophy
A Pre-Christmas Exchange
Christmas Present (part 1)
Christmas Present (part 2)

P.S. Please do not take this as a guarantee that I will not attempt to post at least one Christmas Special this year – you have no grounds for legal action!

Christmas Present – A Beginners Guide to Christmas Traditions (part two)

…in which I continue to probe modern festive customs…

Dinner – The main Christmas Day meal is traditionally regarded as the centre-piece of the annual feast day and is, from the pigs in blankets to the brussel sprouts (via the chestnut stuffing and the ‘family recipe’ gravy), unquestionably the most stressful occasion on the festive calendar (unless it has ‘circumcision’ written on it in red pen). Every single element of this mammoth meal has the potential for disaster: over-cooked veg, under-cooked turkey, roast potatoes that fall under grandma’s deathly scrutiny, bread sauce that is to all intents and purposes merely bread, sage and onion stuffing that you can pour from a jug, gravy with lumps that could threaten safe passage along all major routes – for those with a nervous disposition, this part of the day is more threat than treat. [Please note: Christmas crackers are tiny tubes of cardboard stuffed with a gunpowder ‘snap’, a paper crown that will fit any head as long as it does not broaden out from the neck, a joke that has been lovingly translated from Serbo-Croat by a man with a Latvian to Classical Greek translator, and the kind of plastic ‘novelty’ item with which China intends to bring down the whole of Western Democracy – they are not what happens when granny warms the tinfoil-wrapped turkey in the microwave.]

Elf on the Shelf – Who could possibly tire of finding some novel misdemeanour for the knitted little scamp to perpetrate for each of the first twenty four days of Christmas? Ah yes, of course, everyone. Where did this tradition come from? I don’t recall it even existing ten years ago. When I was a boy, traipsing icing sugar across the kitchen floor, wrapping the Christmas tree in toilet roll and riding the cat up the curtains would merely have resulted in a clip around the ear and the possibility of having the tangerine removed from your stocking and the hammer detached from your toffee. Now, the appearance of the kapok stuffed scallywag heralds twenty five days of gift giving and the very definite likelihood of the Hoover giving up the ghost before the month is out. My tip: drop the gnome on the fire on the first of December and tell the kids he’s had an unfortunate little accident. Promise chocolate to whichever child can dig the deepest hole in which to bury him.

Film Night – Settle down and pull up the Bailey’s for a couple of hours bickering together in front of the TV. Miracle on 34^th Street, Love Actually, Home Alone, The Muppets’ Christmas Carol, It’s a Wonderful Life – now is the time to relish sentimentality and drown in marshmallow. Don’t fight it, this is the true spirit of Christmas: laughing together at jokes you’ve heard a thousand times and grinning again at an ending you’ve seen coming right from the very start.

Garden Centre – Do you remember a time when garden centres sold plants? Do you remember a time when you went there to buy the constituent parts of a hanging basket? Do you remember a time when you could find a hybrid tea without having first to join the queue for a cream one? All greenery is now banished from the garden centre on the first day of September and replaced by acres of tinsel, bauble and gnome; the pesticides are usurped for the season by Santa’s Grotto and every person of pensionable age in the county is drawn to the queue for the Christmas Carvery. This is the world of the super-sized, the battery-powered, the twinkling and the singing; the land of everything you had no idea you ever wanted and the source of everything you will never need. It is impossible to enter these dream factories in the search for a potted poinsettia without exiting, some flustered hours later, on the outside of a festive three course (including mince pie and coffee) and clutching a boxful of something that will, with the introduction of a thirteen amp fuse, inflate into a rooftop sleigh at little more than the cost of a new roof. The enthusiastic gardener need not be down-hearted: as soon as Christmas is over, the space will be refilled with everything that has withered away during the last three months.

Mistletoe – Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it, that the symbol of Christmas romance should be a poisonous parasite. Little compares to the horror of seeing an elderly relative stationed under the mistletoe with the facial expression that says they are either puckering up for a kiss or sucking the chocolate off a brazil nut. Pray that it is the nut…

Posadas Pinatas – Other than Mexican Food (also known as edible origami) this is probably the most popular thing ever to come out of that country. Tie up a container full of sweets, blindfold the kids and let them knock seven bells out of one another in the attempt to release the goodies. Once the children are all safely blindfolded, the piñata can be taken away and the kids allowed to thrash around until exhaustion kicks in, whilst the adults eat the sweets and chuckle as their offspring walk into walls.

Present Giving/Receiving – Do not believe what they tell you, receiving is much better than giving. However much joy you might get from giving away something really nice, you can double it by receiving it. Presents require choosing, buying and wrapping. Even worse, some of them require making! Giving them away is a betrayal of all that you hold most dear – you. Tell everyone that you are not giving presents this year but are, instead, giving the money to charity – they may believe you, you have some really stupid friends – but don’t try to persuade them to do the same or you may end up having to buy your own Walnut Whips this year. If anyone asks what you would like, quietly murmur ‘World peace, an end to poverty… and a nice bottle of malt wouldn’t go amiss…’

Walk – The bracing Christmas day walk is a highlight for everyone who can’t wait to get away from the kids in the afternoon. Wrap up warm (or, in alternative climes, deck the thongs) and attempt to get around the block without somebody moaning that they’re cold, tired, hungry or sure they’ve just trodden in something brown and malodorous. The best thing about fresh air is that it makes you desperate to get out of it. Pour the sherry before you leave in order to save time upon your return – and make sure that everyone leaves their shoes outside.

Yule Goat – Okay, I admit, I had no idea what this was until I saw it in a list of the best Christmas traditions and I haven’t had the chance to look it up yet. Whatever it is, it is already my favourite…

Whatever your own Christmas traditions, I hope that you have a happy and peaceful few days.

Christmas Present – A Beginners Guide to Christmas Traditions (part one)

You may believe that Christmas is all about eating and drinking, but for many, the traditions of the season are equally important (as long as they feature eating and drinking). My Christmas offering this year – which will be concluded on Friday 24^th December – is a simple guide to the customs we all hold most dear – as long as somebody has filled our glass first…

Advent Calendars – may be traditional in the run-up to Christmas, but as a child I can never remember even seeing one. It could be that they didn’t exist – that they had not yet become ‘traditional’ – it could be that my parents could not afford them, or it could be that they knew full well that if they had bought me one, I would have wrenched all of the little paper doors off on the first of December and eaten all of the chocolate before the first of the Christmas lights had fused. Whatever the reason, I was totally unaware of them until I had children of my own. Back then they were all Postman Pat branded cardboard, with twenty-four numbered paper hatches, each containing an unidentifiable gobbet of something sweet and brown. Today they may be finely stitched fabric, perfectly pierced and crafted treen or intricately illustrated seasonal panoramas: the twenty five little doors concealing gins of the world; handmade candles; the various component parts of something you have never wanted, but now feel obliged to construct whilst everybody else is watching ‘Call the Midwife’ on Christmas day; hand embroidered mottos, or canapés of the world. What I really need are twenty four little cavities containing suggestions for acceptableChristmas presents for my wife and a twenty fifth containing a comprehensive list of suitable excuses for buying her a foot spa again.

Board Games – are what Christmas is all about: pouting children, over-competitive adults and assorted threats of violence. Modern board games can be super-complicated, even when you are not struggling to digest the fourteen sprouts which are bobbing, uncomfortably, on the crest of half a dozen gins, two glasses of prosecco and a triple Drambuie, and are seldom suitable for family gatherings in which the only reason that Great Aunty Valerie has not yet punctured Uncle Derek with a size ten crochet hook is the fact that, after one too many egg-nogs, she is currently attempting to knot the fast unravelling fireside rug with a soup ladle. Stick to the simple and traditional: Snakes and Ladders, Ludo or Monopoly and accept that no game is ever going to finish without tears, recriminations and somebody ending up with a secondhand sprout in the breast pocket of their favourite silk shirt. Never get drawn into Twister: nobody needs that pushed into their face at three o’clock in the afternoon. There is little worse than heading towards the New Year with an embittered spouse and a hip that clunks every time you attempt to pick up your spilled cheese balls.

CD’s – specifically the CD’s that only see the light of day on Christmas morn: ‘Val Doonican sings Albanian Sea Shanties’; forty seven failed auditionees for Britain’s Got Talent all sing the same Slade anthem in a range of styles and keys unknown to all but the most dedicated of amateur cat spayers; Aled Jones ‘After the Snowman’, you know the kind of thing… The best thing that can happen to these discs is that they remain where they lay for the other 364 days of the year, in the box with Barry Manilow sings the songs of Marilyn Manson and the Original Cast recording of Lionel Bart’s ‘Twang’. Fans of traditional vinyl will be keen, of course, to listen instead to the true crackle of Christmas – “It is very important that you can appreciate the full dynamic register of Bony M’s ‘When a Child is Born’” – and will need little encouragement to chastise any child that inadvertently causes vibration near the yuletide pickup. Those of more tender years will, of course, hook up to Spotify and not spare a single thought for all the writers of Christmas classics, dying in penury as a consequence.

Carol Singing – Wrap up warm (UK and all points north) light the candles and head out into the dark armed with a fourteen page lyric sheet and a battery operated cassette player loaded with the wrong cassette. This is a rare seasonal opportunity to meet up with several dozen like-minded souls (the only other chance being the bi-annual bus trip to the Blake’s Seven appreciation society convention and candlelit supper in Llandrindod Wells) and annoy the hell out of the neighbours. If you know anybody who is in the very early stages of learning how to play the trumpet, encourage them to join in and persuade them that it always sounds much better when they play it loud. If householders refuse to give you money for your efforts, remind them that it is all for charity (never say which one) and refuse to move from under their window until Eastenders has finished and the kids have gone to bed with an ipad and a family pack of Tuc Sandwich crackers.

Clothes – ‘Tis the season of the Christmas jumper and the tinsel bedecked shirt, of bow ties and reindeer braces, of Santa hats and inappropriate underwear. Embrace the satin waistcoat. Celebrate the on-sock bell. Honour the pom-pom. Enjoy the fact that, for one day at least, you are not always the worst-dressed person in the room. True Christmas spirit will lead you to consider having a limb transplant in order to fit the pullover a great-aunt has just knitted for you. Whatever you wear on Christmas Day, wear it proudly – before putting it in a bag in the attic and ensuring that it spends a minimum of 364 days up there before it comes down again as multi-coloured mulch.

Coinage – placing good luck tokens – most often silver coins – into the Christmas Pudding has always been considered a sign of good fortune, especially if you happen to be a dentist. Remember that silver 3d coins are almost exactly child oesophagus-sized and carry more harmful germs than a Wuhan laboratory. The most fortuitous addition to such an augmented Christmas pudding is actually a fully comprehensive insurance policy.

Decorations – Hanging the decorations is often seen as the second task of Christmas. Getting the bloody things down from the attic is the first. Christmas decorations are traditionally carefully stored away on the Twelfth Day of Christmas so that they can be safely disposed of on the first day of December the following year. What can be broken, taffled, knotted or torn will inevitably become so after eleven unmolested months in the roofspace. How this occurs is one of life’s great mysteries, like why women are so drawn to shoes they cannot walk in or why men’s eyes so seldom work above breast-level. If you feel that you must string 32 mega-watts worth of electric bulbage across the front of your house, accompanied by a thirty foot tall inflatable snowman and an animatronic crib on the front lawn, then there is probably no more suitable time to do so – unless, of course, next-door’s budgie has just died…

End of part one – don’t miss part two, released Friday 24^th December: get the lowdown on Elf on the Shelf, Mistletoe, Posadas Pinatas, the Yule Goat and much, much more…

A Little Fiction – A Christmas Tale – The Three Wise Men Who Came From the East

three kings figurines — Photo by Jonathan Meyer on Pexels.com

‘…And you are absolutely certain,’ said Melchior, ‘that this is the right place? I mean, I know that it is under the star, but then, truth be told, so is the rest of this village. So is the rest of this country, I shouldn’t wonder. High up, stars, shine all over the place they do. Must be some margin of error there, star-wise, that’s all I’m saying. Maybe we should check out the five star places first.’Balthazar sighed – again. ‘None of the five star places have angels hovering over them,’ he said. ‘Nor,’ he continued, ‘are they packed with shepherds watching their flocks, donkeys and assorted beasts of the fields.’
‘Or giraffes,’ said Gaspar.
Balthazar nodded his agreement. ‘Or gira… Did you say giraffe?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s a giraffe?’
‘It’s a bit like a tall cow,’ said Gaspar, ‘with a long neck. My cousin brought one back from his travels. Dead, mind. Same as the big tusky, grey thing. Don’t travel well, apparently.’
Balthazar stared. ‘Do you see any of these tall cows around here?’
‘No,’ said Gaspar.
‘Then in what way, pray, are they relevant?’
‘I’m not sure,’ answered Gaspar. ‘I just have a feeling that someone will find that there’s only the giraffe left to play, in the future…’
Balthazar stared manically at Gaspar, his fists tightened and his jaw clenched. A small vein squirmed like a lug-worm below the skin of his forehead.
‘Shall we go and look inside,’ suggested Melchior, summoning the slaves to help them down from their mounts.
‘And where did you come by these things?’ asked Gaspar. ‘I’ve never sat on anything so uncomfortable in my life. They smell like the inside of an old sock and they spit. What’s wrong with a horse?’
‘These beasts are our traditional mode of transport,’ answered Melchior. ‘A man’s wealth is measured by them.’
‘I,’ said Balthazar, ‘have thousands.’
‘Sooner have gold,’ said Gaspar, gripping the gift-wrapped parcel he had borne with him from Arabia. ‘Think I’d rather travel on one of them long-necked cows, if I’m honest. At least they don’t have lumpy backs. And also,’ he continued as he was helped down from the musky beast, ‘how come yours has got two lumps and mine has only got one? Know exactly where to sit with two lumps. Never sure with one: either slide off its back end or wind up dangling from its neck…’
‘Rank,’ blurted Balthazar, suddenly aware that he had brought myrrh for the baby and nobody else even knew what it was. ‘The higher your rank, the more lumps you get on your camel.’
Gaspar gave Balthazar one of his stares. ‘So,’ he said, ‘where’s his then?’
‘His?’
‘His lumpy thing. Surely you’ve brought one for him if they’re so valuable; King of Kings and all that. Must be worth at least three lumps.’
‘They’re called camels,’ said Melchior, breaking the uneasy silence. ‘And they only come in one and two humped varieties.’
‘Bit of a design flaw there then, isn’t it? I’d be inclined to have a bit of a word.’
‘A word?’
‘With Himself, you know, when we get in to worship him, have a quick word in his ear. See if he can get it sorted.’
‘He’s a baby!’
‘Got connections, though,’ said Gaspar.
The three wise men had, by now, all been brought down from their camels and were straightening their robes in preparation for their big moment. Melchior was checking his frankincense. ‘You can never go wrong with perfume,’ he thought. Gaspar was scraping camel doings from his satin slipper. Balthazar, meanwhile, was chastising his Chief of Staff. ‘‘Take him myrrh,’ you said. ‘Everyone likes a bit of a rub down now and then,’ you said. Nobody else has even heard of it. Have we got nothing else we can give Him? Maybe jewels, or something?’’
The Chief of Staff looked crestfallen. ‘We left in a bit of a hurry,’ he said, ‘if you remember. Didn’t really have much time to shop around and myrrh always goes down really well in my family.’
‘Your family the myrrh merchants, you mean?’
‘Come on,’ said Gaspar, who had by now got the worst of it off with a stick. ‘Let’s go in.’
The three wise men entered the stable and fell to their knees at the side of the manger.
‘Gawd,’ said Gaspar, peering in. ‘He’s an ugly little bleeder, isn’t he?’
‘That’s a pig, you fool,’ snapped Balthazar.
‘Really?’ sneered Gaspar. ‘One humped or two?’
‘I think, gentlemen,’ said Melchior, rising to his feet. ‘That we may be in the wrong place.’
Balthazar and Gaspar also rose, brushing the crud of the stable floor from their robes as they prepared to leave.
‘So what now?’ asked Gaspar. ‘This had to be the place. What about that star?’
‘It appears to have moved on,’ answered Melchior. ‘They have a habit of doing that, apparently.’
‘And the Heavenly hosts?’
‘They appear to have found themselves rooms at the Travel Lodge. Perhaps we should join them. Try again in the morning…’
‘But how long is it going to take us to find him?’ asked Gaspar. ‘How long do we have to keep looking?’
‘Who knows,’ answered Melchior. ‘Could be days. Could be weeks, years…’
‘Could be,’ said Balthazar, ‘millennia…’

Christmas Dinner

xmas dinner — Photo by Amelie & Niklas Ohlrogge on Unsplash

The highlight of Christmas Day in the UK (after the seasonal TV ‘special’ Stars In Their Eyes, featuring pets of the rich and famous, and Susan Boyle singing a novelty version of ‘We Three Kings’ especially written for her by Richard Stilgoe) is the Great British Christmas Dinner, and it is this repast upon which this piece will focus as, to be brutally honest, I simply do not know what is eaten elsewhere in the world, although I would be delighted to hear, should anyone wish to fill me in.

The traditional Christmas Dinner contains sufficient calories to see the average Blue Whale through the winter, but it does not usually begin with any form of appetizer as most celebrants are already stuffed to the gills with candied fruit, chocolate covered nuts, mince pies, sausage rolls, buck’s fizz, cream sherry, glacé cherries and eggnog by the time they sit to eat. It is entirely normal for over-imbibed members of the family to have to be woken in order to be brought to the table, whereupon they immediately fall asleep in the chestnut stuffing and dribble gently into the gravy.

At this early stage, instead of eating, the Christmas crackers are usually pulled. The ‘crack’ associated with these sparkly seasonal tubes will inevitably make the babies scream and the elderly momentarily lose control of their bladders. Disagreements over the ‘prizes’ in the crackers, and whose flew where, may persist well into the New Year. The wise host will have a carrier bag full of crap with which to pacify the disaffected. The contents of the cracker usually consists of a paper crown which splits into two as soon as you attempt to put it on your head; a plastic novelty that flies across the room, ricochets from head and ornament before settling somewhere unseen, where it remains lost until a week later when it is sucked up with 3cwt of pine-needles and a half-eaten coffee-cream which jams the Hoover, having smeared itself over a six foot strip of mushroom shagpile. Finally, there is a joke, written, I believe, by a robot in Taiwan, which proves beyond doubt that there will never be an AI comedian. Never-the-less, it is not considered good manners to begin the meal until everybody has had the opportunity to read out their joke – even if a packing malfunction at the factory has resulted in everybody having the same one.

The traditional ‘bird’ of Christmas Dinner is, I think the goose, but this has now been firmly superseded by the turkey, due largely to its greater post-Christmas adaptability in sandwich, curry and rissole. Henry the Eighth, it is said, was the first person to eat Christmas turkey in the UK and, looking at some of the sandwiches in the shops around this time of the year, the same bird is still doing the rounds. It is traditional to concur, when taking one’s first mouthful, that it is a bit dry and ask for more gravy. As a non-meat eater, I will traditionally be asked at this point if I would like some ham.
Christmas Dinner is, in effect, a standard Sunday Roast with knobs on, separated from ‘the normal’ by volume and accoutrement:
• Brussel Sprouts are, for many people, a once-a-year veg. Traditionally boiled for approximately three weeks before the day and hidden under the table during the meal.
• Bread Sauce – follows the English tradition of taking something relatively bland and stodgy and transforming it into something even blander and stodgier.
• Pigs in Blankets – pork sausage wrapped in bacon (so, more correctly Pigs in Pig, I would argue) presents the UK diner with the unique opportunity to accompany a meal with the sensation of inadvertently driving a cocktail stick through the hard palate and into the nasal cavity.
• Cranberry Sauce – this is most un-British, like having gravy on your pudding. Tolerated only on this one day of the year. For the rest of the year such gastronomic eccentricities are left to the French.
• Wine, both red and white may be served. Grandma, robbed of her mug of tea, will reluctantly agree to have a glass of port and lemonade (‘More lemonade than port, please. Well, perhaps just a splash more port…’), before falling to sleep and coughing her false teeth into the mash.

After the meal has been eaten, the plates have been cleared and the worst of it mopped off grandad’s shirt, comes the Christmas Pudding: the densest duff since Cnut. The glistening globe is placed, steaming, in the centre of the table before being doused in brandy and set alight, to shrieks of admiration from everyone around the table, except for grandma who has woken to find her hairpiece is on fire. The brandy soaked pudding is usually served with brandy butter, brandy sauce and brandy – or perhaps that’s just our house. In the past, the pudding would contain a silver sixpence, which the lucky finder would use to get their teeth fixed.

Only the hardiest of souls, and those desperate to avoid the washing up, will attempt to tackle the cheese and biscuits after all of this. Those wishing to have a cigar will be sent to the bottom of the garden as the smell makes Auntie Vera nauseous. Unfortunately, the bottom of the garden contains a compost heap that makes the smokers nauseous.

When the traditional moaning about who always gets landed with the washing up has subsided everyone settles down for an afternoon doze.

The first to wake opens the window and lets it out.