LUV – Ah, the Festive perineum, as named by LUV & HAT quarterback and Shirley Carter tribute act Stuart Heritage. It’s a whole week of 2pm on a Sunday. It’s the point in the year most distant from the next time your nan will chug down her 7th sherry, peer over her half-moons and tell you you’re too fat/thin/unmarried/not pregnant enough. It’s the week where you can sit in the office sale shopping on Amazon and demolishing equal amounts of Spotify Christmas playlists and mince pies and no-one cares, because your overpaid boss is shitfaced on the slopes of Chamonix and all your colleagues have called in sick with advanced bollocksitus.
It’s the best time of year to wander the empty streets and pretend there’s been a nuclear apocalypse that’s destroyed everything but Tesco Express. It’s the only time of year the combination of exquisite boredom and constant alcohol consumption could result in one pouring Advocaat into a turkey carcass and scooping it out with the dregs of a Cadbury’s selection box. (Chomp. Always fucking Chomp) It’s when Scrooged is on. It’s when Scrooged is on again. It’s when one starts to slightly tire of Scrooged. It’s the six days when you start to exhibit the classic signs of gout but the doctor’s are shut and it doesn’t matter because you’re trapped on your sofa by a) your own trembling gut and b) the guilty feeling you should be buying cut price oak furniture somewhere. It’s the Christmas guiche. And every second of it is magnificent.
– Julia Blyth
HAT – All I ever want to do is spend the week between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day on the sofa, in my pyjamas, gone wonky from too many liqueur chocolates. That is all I want.
Every year, as Christmas approaches, I fantasise about a gentle cycle of naps, new books, films about penguins and espionage, whatever will replace Candy Crush, port, crisps, out-of-date Christmas canapés, and very little higher brain function.
And every year I am thwarted. Because this is how everyone – you, me, the Pope, Grumpy Cat – is legally obligated to spend the week between Christmas and New Year:
- Boxing Day (26 December): Hungover and dyspeptic, making small talk with the racists and swingers you’ve suddenly realised you’re related to.
- Boxing Day Boxing Day (27 December): On the road and in service stations. You know, like the baby Jesus.
- Boxing Day Boxing Day Boxing Day (28 December): Hungover, dyspeptic, and with a bad back from the camp bed you’re sleeping on, making small talk with the homeopaths and gang members who make up your significant other’s family.
- New Year’s Eve Eve Eve (29 December): On the railways, like the hobos of yore, except with more pasties and worse hair.
- New Year’s Eve Eve (30 December): Fucking working.
- New Year’s Eve (31 December): Catching up on your emails, then a Chinese, then nodding off and violently waking up every 20 seconds to find that Jools Holland is still on, then someone yells “it’s midnight” and you crawl gratefully into bed after a single glass of prosecco.
- New Year’s Day (1 January): Crying.
Or is that not everyone’s experience? Do other people do it differently? Have I just been indoctrinated by the mid-festive tropes of the racist swinging homeopathic gang community? Either way, BUMS to the Festive Perineum, I say. Racist, swingy bums to it all.
– Robyn Wilder