Christmas Traditions.

Do any of you actually have a ‘traditional’ Christmas? You know…the kind they shove down your throat in the commercials and the movies which leaves you with an overwhelming urge to slam a brick through the screen? They always make it look so damn perfect, don’t they? The whole family sitting around an open fire, roasting friggin’ chestnuts and singing friggin’ carols (which no one actually knows the words to these days, and even if they did, they wouldn’t actually sing that shit).

Christmas morning. The kids are arguing because Billy has 86 presents and Amy only has 85. Little Jimmy doesn’t care how many he has though – he’s playing with a lump of dogshit cos it’s more interesting than the £400 trike you just bought him. And you’re pissed off because the turkey is still frozen, you’ve got PMS, and you’ve just caught your husband in bed ‘knocking one out’ over the Fiesta centrefold. Anyway, you’re still giving him the silent treatment because his only contribution to Christmas, as usual, was putting the 6 ft inflatable Santa on the roof (which you didn’t want anyway), and as far as you’re concerned, he can bloody well stay there.

Of course, the whole family can never get together any more because your Mum hates your Dad and your Dad hates your Step- Dad. Your mother-in-law will only visit if her eldest son won’t be there – she still hates him for marrying his own Auntie. There are brothers, sisters, step brothers and step sisters scattered all over the bloody country. There’s so many of them you can’t even remember their names, but it cost you fifty quid in stamps just for the cards.

Billy is screaming cos he’s got a shard of glass in his foot, and the cat is looking freaked out cos the last remaining bauble on the tree actually broke. Amy’s stamping her feet in a sulk because you forgot the 12 batteries for her DIY cosmetic surgery kit. Jimmy is still playing with the dogshit. What the hell – it keeps him quiet.

Your husband emerges and happily unwraps the mountain of presents you bought him, before giving you yours. “How lovely darling.” A fucking bread maker and a bottle of Britney perfume.

It never bloody snows, does it? It just pisses down with rain. And then the family arrive tramping their wet feet all over the carpet. Your mother is moaning cos the sprouts are going to be too hard and you should have put them on to boil in November. More fake pleasantries as you open socks, stupid gyrating snowmen, and 10 boxes of Lily of the Valley soap sets. Hubby is in a sulk because your step-dad is sitting in HIS chair and Grandma’s on the sherry (which she really shouldn’t be mixing with her anti-depressants).

You’ve just finished dishing up the dinner and your sister-in-law decides to announce she’s a vegetarian. The kids are squabbling about who’s sitting where, and your mother-in-law thinks she can see blood in the meat. Somewhere between the first and second course, the cat barfs up a furball while the dog is busily choking on the plastic ring your husband pulled out of his cracker (incidentally, the only one which went ‘bang’), which he miserably failed to slip on your finger in the perfect opportunity to apologise for being such a twat.

You haven’t got a dish washer cos you can’t bloody afford one, and as none of the ignorant bastards offer to help you’re left at the table wondering why the hell you spent 3 days in the kitchen for a meal which was demolished in 15 minutes flat, and for which the nicest compliment you received was “lovely dear.” Fuck it. Just have another drink… World War Three is about to erupt in the lounge because collectively, there are 34 new dvd’s to watch and no one can agree. At least Grandma doesn’t seem bothered, she’s massaging her neck with a vibe she found in your handbag – the one hubby knows nothing about because he wouldn’t be too pleased if he knew you were that close to your boss.

After an hour or so, the kids – thank God – go upstairs. The place looks like a complete tip, the Queen is droning on about a load of useless crap on the telly, no one wants to play the Christmas game you bought, and your mother is farting consistently and blaming it on the dog. Your mother-in-law is dribbling all over the sofa, your sister-in-law is convinced she ate a bit of dead animal, your step dad is looking like he’s just committed murder and your husband is asleep. When the door knocks, Grandma gets up to answer it, but forgets to do her trousers back up. So you’re hit with an image of incontinence knickers which will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Guess who’s at the door? That stupid girl from work who you said could ‘pop over whenever she liked’ because she was on her own. You never actually thought she would though, did you? And she’s arrived with camera in hand to get some snaps for your work friends, together with a nicely wrapped present. So now you’re in the kitchen scraping gravy off a piece of screwed up wrapping paper and looking for a bottle of unopened wine, while simultaneously trying to re-do your make-up.

Christmas night. What the hell is that all about? You’ve just tidied up…just managed to zip your stomach back in your trousers…just managed to contain your fury at whoever thought James bloody Bond was prime time Christmas viewing, and someone pipes up: “Shall we have supper now?” Have they not got any idea how long it took you to cram that stuff back in the fridge and shut the door? All you want to do is yell at them to get the fuck out of your house, but no. You smile, count to 10 and start carving disgusting, dried slices off a 30lb bird again. And while you’re there you may as well cut up the whole damn thing for the curry and the stew, cos you sure as hell don’t wanna be doing it again on Boxing Day. Anyway – the tin foil NEVER fits back over it once you’ve taken it off.

Eventually, everyone goes home. The kids go to sleep. James Bond finishes. You’ve put 15 black sacks out for the dustmen who won’t be around for another 3 weeks. The tree lights go out. Billy throws up. The dog’s got the shits. The cat drags in next door’s turkey carcus. And hubby is settling down to watch a 1970 repeat of the two Ronnies.

Time for bed I think. Time to lie there for a few hours and ponder Boxing Day morning at your Dads (while the kids are at all three of theirs), and an afternoon at the local pub where the most exciting thing to do will be pointing at the men with ironed- in crosses on the back of their newly acquired shirts. Oh. And trying to avoid the town geek with his well overused sprig of wilting mistletoe.

Happy Holidays everyone.

No. Sod that stupid, PC crap.

Happy CHRISTMAS!