First of all Happy Christmas to all the loyal readers of the Irish News. Today, this column is officially Brexit free.
Tomorrow I will celebrate my fifty-fifth Christmas. My routine as a adult never changes. On Christmas Eve all the presents are delivered in a marathon run through Newry off-loading flowers, alcohol, gifts and toys. I often return home with more alcohol than I gave away.
Ours is a traditional Christmas. Nothing changes. No innovations. The three meat feast of turkey, ham and roast beef are all prepared on Christmas Eve.
And there’s nothing quite like that sneaky first slice of boiled ham when it’s just cooked. The aromas from our kitchen are intoxicating. We don’t have to wait up for Santa but I am no less childlike for that.
At 6am each Christmas morning, my better half is well used to my nudging and cajoling her from slumber. A quick phone-call to Radio Ulster and a request for Maria Carey singing “All I want for Christmas is you” usually rescues me from the Grinch-like stare across the duvet.
Then the presents. I have no respect for wrapping paper, no matter how beautiful it is or much how much labour went into creating it.
On the other side of the bed, the paper, the ribbons, the crystallised slices of orange are ogled at and admired. Reader, you can take it that I don’t wrap presents. I shop where they gift wrap, which is the High Street. I am a Luddite when it comes to online shopping.
Approaches to Christmas are shaped by our families. My in-laws are very organised, they approach Christmas with a sense of regimental duty. Secret Santa is usually drawn as early as Halloween. It’s not hugely secret for the siblings as they usually ask for something specific and get it. The real surprise would be not getting what you asked on for Christmas morning.
My family is slightly less organised. We like surprises. That is of course a two-edged sword. You keep receipts in our family. If you don’t, then wait two years and re-gift that M&S LED light up, green reindeer sweater.
Personalised presents are harder to re-gift unless you know a person with a similar name who likes Mrs Browns’ Boys and the words “Feck off - Tom’s mug” emblazoned on the front. Socks and underwear are useful but underwhelming gifts. It’s hard to whip up enthusiasm for a pair of purple Primark y-fronts or ribbed black Nike socks.
My seven year old nephew despairs of gifts which are clothes.
She who must be obeyed likes vouchers which is unexciting but safe. (It has also been challenging this year with the closure of Zara.)
Christmas Day is a lively and busy affair. Mass is a must. Especially Christmas morning Mass at the ‘Dominican’ with its superb Christmas crib. The nativity scene with moving stars is completed with nodding donkeys, elegant swans and mechanical Victorian Carol singers.
A dash over to the father in law and the tens of thousands of in laws who assemble there. It’s like a scene from Black Friday at Curry’s. A rainforest was destroyed in the wrapping of presents.
Then up to the family house. My father tends to wear his gifts and by my reckoning he could rival Bogart’s or Boyd’s with his array of cardigans and jumpers. My aunt is a joy at Christmas. She loves it. The house is like going to the Winter Gardens. Everything moves, lights up or makes festive noise. My favourite is a musical snowman which plays “Frosty the Snowman”. It’s also the favourite of my eighteen month old nephew.
In my youth we used to have a Christmas fry up before Mass, followed by a humongous and over indulgent meal followed even later by a high tea of cold meats and salads. Now it's just the Christmas dinner. My pet hate to this day is Brussels sprouts. They are obligatory even when no one likes them. It would take the culinary skills of Michael Deane to make me love a sprout.
Unusually for someone of my vintage I have a photo of my first Christmas replete with what are now politically inappropriate toys. That photo proves that from my first Christmas to now I have been lucky enough to have always been surrounded by warmth and love. Not everyone has been so lucky. So spare a thought for them on Christmas as there’s nothing joyous or celebratory about being alone.
