Christmas Rituals
Santa visits about midnight... usually I need to help Santa up the stairs as Santa has had the best part of three bottles of wine. Santa's helper (my father) is usually at this point drinking straight Tia Maria from the bottle because the wine has run out and it tastes like coffee. Santa deposits the stocking on or around the bed, usually whilst my sisters sit upright and tell Santa to fuck off because its after midnight and Santa stinks of booze and fags. Santa will then usually repair to the bathroom, occassionally passing out in the bathtub.

Santa's helper then staggers up stairs, coughing and spluttering before passing out and snoring like an artillery barrage.

Cut to:

The morning. 6am Santa's helper gets up, puts on y-fronts, depending on how Santa is doing helps her out of the bath where she may or may not have spent most of the night. Santa's helper then gets dressed, goes downstairs, opens some wine and sits outside smoking and drinking. The little cherubs (my three sisters) awaken with girlish squeals of delight about 7.30am and wake me up. Santa may or may not be throwing up at this point.

We all troop downstairs. Santa's helper bitches and moans about the Blair/Brown Government / the economy / kids today / his raging hangover and then sends one of us to fetch more alcohol from the cellar. He then starts cooking.

10am. Santa appears. She usually, at this point, forgets that whilst she was born in Wales and was raised bilingually, she married and Englishman and negelected to teach her children Welsh. This makes the obligatory call to elderly Welsh relations who have been promised that this year we will all sing 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' in correct Welsh, problematic.

That done, the preliminaries are out of the way and the proper drinking can begin. The oldest of my sisters is dispatched in her car to pick up my grandmother, who will have already had several gin and tonics, and will no doubt be ready with her fund of mildly pornographic jokes, blue stories, and disturbing revelations about American servicemen during the War which, when delivered at the dinner table, cause a certain social difficulty.

Prior to Christmas dinner (served around 2pm) more wine is opened, sherry is consumed, and, depending on mood, vodka is drunk. Christmas dinner passes in a blur, the Christmas Pudding is usually doused in far too much alcohol (in the past we've used vodka or cachaca when the sherry has run out) and usually burns magnificently. Meanwhile, my grandmother, reckless of tongue now that she is past 90, cracks a series of dirty jokes that would make a stevedore blush.

3.30pm. We all repair to the living room, where presents are opened. My father gets bored after 15 mins and leaves to sit in the garden smoking and drinking wine. My mother usually passes out around 3.50-4pm. My grandmother is not far behind.

The rest of the day is spent drinking and eating more. There usually is talk of going for a walk, but everyone is too drunk to seriously consider it.

Bed time is around 8pm.

This ritual has been going on now for the past 10 years. I have no doubt that this Christmas will be little different to the previous ones.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 19:46, 3 replies)

fantastic
can you adopt me?
(Daft Vader, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:06, closed)

Agreed - aces!
Can I have Crimbo at your house?
(Billy The Fish wants to gargle with Lucy Pinder's bath water, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:20, closed)

Boxing Day
Must be a hoot then?
( The Scrunt Wants a Dozen Pints, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:25, closed)