LUV – Hooray for festive all-day drinking! It’s the only time you can legitimately booze up all day (apart from your wedding day, whenever your decree nisi comes through, and during your inevitable decline into alcoholism), and there’s nothing quite like helping yourself to a second breakfast sherry while maintaining perfectly innocent eye contact with your most judgemental aunt.
Also, all-day drinking at Christmas is useful. One generally spends Christmas with one’s immediate family, extended family and in-laws. So people you know too well, people you don’t know very well at all, and people you dislike*. If you didn’t drink, you’d immediately revert to teenagedom and lock yourself in the nearest bedroom to rage-sob and smoke Gauloises.
Instead, the steady drip of alcohol throughout Christmas Day blunts the edges of unpleasant interpersonal experiences, creates a convivial glow, and inexplicably puts everyone in the mood for Downton and Monopoly, which is infinitely more civilised.
So basically yay alcohol, boo Gauloises. Chin-chin.
*If you’re reading this and I’m spending Christmas with you this year, obviously this doesn’t apply to you. More wine?
– Robyn Wilder
HAT – Oh, it all starts out so well…
9am: bounding out of bed with a great hullabaloo, as free and vibrant as a home-alone fart, because it’s Christmas Day! Therefore:
time with your fami loads of prese SANCTIONED BREAKFAST ALCOHOL. Chuck down a cava Bucks Fizz with a raised eyebrow at the clock and a giggle on your booze-befouled morning breath. Life is swell.
11am: Lick up the last drip of cava. Feeling good, feeling smooth, regarding the incessant chittering of your family with a beatific smile and serene glow. You are Jesus. You are St Nick. You are wrist-deep in cherry brandy chocolates.
1pm: Pre-lunch sherry followed by the first spasm of nausea of the day. You are suddenly aware of every barbed wire thread of your Primark elf onesie burrowing under your dermis like a million needle worms.
4pm: The 5th Bordeaux slips down past an emerging turkey belch. Noel Edmonds looms on TV dressed as a Japanese robot Santa. Thoughts darken; terror bubbles through your veins. And there’s no R Whites lemonade WHY IS THERE NO FUCKING R WHITES LEMONADE I NEED SOME TESCO IS CLOSED DAMN YOU EDMONDS
7pm: Jerk awake with paper crown plastered to clammy forehead and partner silently furious at some unremembered slight. Your eyes are balls of coral and your guts are as pulsating and rancid as a Scherzinger top note. But don’t worry, soon you can sleep as easily as a bigamist before creaking awake at 6am for four hours barfing in a train whizzing through Middle England.
You’re going to die. And you’re going to do it all again next year. Humanity.
– Julia Blyth