Blue Christmas
Tales of self-sabotage
I moan about the build up, but I love the day itself. And hey, my Scrooge tribute act is mostly done in jest; I’m well aware that there’s people out there who legit struggle with this time of year, and I sound childish and churlish when stood next to them.
Christmas Day, even at the height of lockdown (when, looking back, I was not in a good place), has nearly always been a long, lazy day of good vibes. My family traditions vibe perfectly with The Muse’s, and we indulge ourselves for as long as humanly possible.
Not every Christmas Day has been perfect though, we’re only human after all. I largely take a back seat in this one, and I owe the stars of the following a huge Christmas bearhug for letting me share their tales. To spare their blushes, I’m going to call this piece autofiction so you don’t know what’s my own recollections and what’s my overactive imagination running wild as I look back.
2013
The Holmes family had really blown up. My sister was married, her firstborn a year old1 and absolutely adorable. My brother had met his future wife, while yours truly was head over heels infatuated with The Muse. Christmas Day took on a new and exciting dynamic.
When it comes to Christmas, my brother-in-law is the anti-Lewis. Dude straight up loves Christmas, gets excited about it in May. He’s an irrepressible soul and it’s impossible to not get swept up in his orbit; when he talks about hosting Christmas, I thaw out a little. Even if we’re talking about it at a summer barbeque.
2013 was shaping up to be a peach until, right on Christmas Eve, The Muse came down with a really thick head cold. You know, the sort of miserable, behind the eyes bastard that saps the joy from everything. She is rarely knocked off her stride though, so naturally we went ahead and joined the fam for Christmas Day. This was long before Covid, back when you could just rock up, say “Don’t get too close!” and still be grand.
My future sister-in-law was also rocking that year’s hot viral2 accessory, and both of them cheerfully compared symptoms over a glass of wine.
“I’ve got something that might help,” piped up Dear Old Mother Holmes as she produced a couple of bottle bags. “Merry Christmas!”
From the two bottle bags came two bottles of toffee vodka. Now, most flavoured spirits are not the real deal; they’re more like fortified wines. This puppy weighed in at a modest 25% - a Cossack would scoff at such sweetened ‘vodka’ but the medicinal properties were extolled by the wisest head in the room (sorry dad, but she is). Just like a hot toddy, the toffee vodka would clear their sinuses and lift their spirits. And so, both patients poured themselves a nip.
As the Christmas Day Des3, I nursed a 0% beer and looked on enviously while bae tucked into the sweet elixir, consoling myself there’d be plenty of our joint Christmas present left for later.
“That does work!” exclaimed The Muse a while later. “I feel much better.”
The day progressed. More presents, lots of laughs, and a beautiful Christmas dinner saw us into the evening and the greatest of traditions: Fruitbowl Lottery.
You’ve probably got your own name for it, it’s that game where you chuck a load of famous names into a bowl then split into teams. The names must be known to all players. Then you take it in turns to convey the name on your slip of paper to the rest of your team. In the first round you describe your person; the second round is charades; the third and final round you can use one word and one word only. Hilarity ensues.
No, really it does. One year, Big Poppa Holmes spent a full minute miming stabbing the living room floor. This was supposed to help us guess Bruce Willis.
“How was that Bruce Willis, dad?!”
He scowled at me. “Come, on! It’s obvious. Die Hard!”
More recently, on his round one opener, he fixed his team mates with a look and said “Makes suits, flies fast.”
We all sat there, dumbstruck for the full minute.
When the timer sounded, he rolled his eyes and said “I give up with you lot. Taylor Swift, innit?”
And I thought I got my love of wordplay from my mum.
Anyway, we’re getting ready for Fruitbowl Lottery, scribbling down names (my brother and I admonished with the usual “Boys, no footballers!”) and geeing each other up for the battle of wits, when The Muse asks me to get her another drink.
I ducked to the kitchen. Our bottle of toffee vodka was two-thirds empty.
“Erm… maybe go a little easy?” I said when I delivered her drink. “It’s not full strength but it’ll still give you a hangover.”
She looked at me, forlorn. “It’s the only thing that makes me feel better. Why are you trying to ruin Christmas?”
“I’m not. I’d just like to try some at some later…”
The Game of Games begun, and my beloved quickly revealed skills beyond anybody’s wildest comprehension. You know when a football club signs a complete unknown and they swiftly go on a tear4? Well that was The Muse playing Fruitbowl Lottery. With every slug of toffee vodka, her skills increased. Wildean in the first round, Meryl Streep on speed in Charades, a literary scalpel in the single word finale. Never had Clan Holmes seen someone grab Fruitbowl Lottery by the scruff and wrestle it into submission.
Then suddenly, while trying to get across ‘Edward Scissorhands’, she did an impression of a crab before pitching dangerously towards the plate glass door behind her. I grabbed her shoulder, rescuing her from the same fate as David Warner’s character in The Omen.
“I’m fine, honest!”
Undaunted by near self-defenestration, The Muse ploughed on with the game, smashing nothing more dangerous than an awe inspiring run of answers.
Around 10pm, games played, leftovers hoovered up and toffee vodka conspicuous in its absence, I poured my parents and my girlfriend into our little Toyota Aygo and set off home.
Two minutes out from my sister’s place, The Muse leaned over and whispered in my ear. Except she was turbo-powered by this point, and her attempt at a whisper could’ve been her audition for town crier.
“Slow down over the speedbumps!”
I wasn’t going fast, we just had 18 stone of parent in the back seat of our nippy little runaround. Obviously if I’d said that I would’ve risked fat shaming my folks (who are not fat), so I kept schtum and carried on with the task at hand. My kingdom for family-related surge pricing.
We dropped my parents off and headed back to Holmes Towers. I put The Muse to bed and settled in for a quiet little Me Party. I had a lovely bourbon I’d been gifted and my film of the year (Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs 2) and was all ready for a lovely couple of hours.
Because I’m an old man and it had been a long day, I quickly fell asleep on the sofa.
I was shaken awake in the pre-dawn by The Muse.
“What did I do?”
“Wha… what?”
“WHAT DID I DO?!”
“When?”
“Yesterday! I don’t remember anything after dinner. I ruined Christmas, didn’t I? That’s why you’re out here! Your family hate me. I’m not going to Boxing Day, I’m not. I just can’t. I’m mortified. They hate me!”
The words came out in a flood, her distress plain to see. She really thought she’d ruined Christmas.
I burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny!”
“It is. You’re one of us now. For real. Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on and tell you all about it.”
1993
My uncle married an Australian and moved out there when their two oldest kids were just toddlers5. My mother’s brother is a classic English gentleman: urbane, sophisticated, possessed of great wit and truly one of the best to ever grace a kitchen6.
As the sophisticate of the family (at least until I came of age), he could always be relied upon to spring weird and wonderful gifts on his older sister, even from the other side of the world. This particular year, he delivered a bottle of creme de cassis to the Holmestead.
On her Christmas morning phone call with baby bro, my mum asked him what she should do with this strange addition to the liquor cabinet. “Add it to champagne to make a Kir Royale,” he said. “Just like a Buck’s Fizz.”
And there it was. The fatal flaw.
Because a Kir Royale is not just like a Buck’s Fizz. Creme de cassis and orange juice are very different beasts. Ratios are important. Cocktails are an art.
Dear old Unc knew that, and a few years later I would learn the art of mixology too. Had this happened after I learned those ways, I would’ve stepped in. “God no, it’s not like Buck’s Fizz at all. Don’t mix it half and half, you only need a splash of cassis - it’s punchy stuff.” And the drink - nay, the whole day - would’ve been sublime.
But in 1993 (and with no internet to guide him), my dad was in charge of the bar while I scowled at the telly through my spectacular grungy curtains7. He is many things, my dad, but he is not a master mixologist. He is good at following instructions though, so he duly replaced mum’s citrussy Christmas morning livener with a 50:50 shitmix of champagne and dark fruit liqueur.
And so, while we all sat around scoffing Roses8, the backbone of the whole day horsed down cocktails mixed by an amateur, in ratios that would make the Viking hordes think twice.
At this point, I need to make it abundantly clear that Mother Holmes is an exemplary host and a superb cook (way better than her brother). Nearly everything I learned in the kitchen, I learned from my mum. To this day, we delight in trading recipes and ingredients. What I’m trying to say is, Christmas Day 1993 was a fluke - a massive outlier that should not be used one iota to form a picture of my dear old mum.
It was not a legendary lunch that day. The roasties might’ve skipped the parboil stage, such was their lack of fluff. The pigs in blankets appeared to have been assembled in a force nine gale. I’m pretty sure Freddy Krueger carved the turkey. The Brussels sprouts were boiled mush, but that’s not her fault because no one in the UK knew how to cook sprouts properly until about 2010.
This feast duly presented to her family, my mum took herself off for a little nap. After a few dutiful mouthfuls, the old man and I made the executive decision to move straight to the cheeseboard.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that this fat hairy Grinch has been pissing and moaning about Christmas for two weeks now, and he’s still so pissy he’s just thrown his wife and his mum under Santa’s sleigh. What a bastard. Well, you’re wrong. I’m not above this.
1998
For many years, my friends and I had a Christmas Eve get together as part of our annual tradition. We always met in the same pub, usually at the same table, and bathed ourselves in good vibes for a few hours before a whole day of family commitments. We’d naff off to the races on the 27th too, because we were young, dumb and full of expendable income.
‘98’s Christmas Eve saw my best mate have a row with his girlfriend and leave the party in a bad mood. I followed him and started to give him a bezzy mate pep talk. I had my arm around his shoulder and was filling his ear with encouraging words when we drew level with two dudes about our age. This being the 90s, they took one look at us and flung some casual homophobia our way.
My mate, always a man who could back himself, asked the homophobe what his problem was. “You.” Came the response. And with that, I was in the Only Fight of My Adult Life.
My mate threw a lovely left hook at the homophobe, his mate chucked a roundhouse at my mate. I launched a rather respectable right at the second guy, and the homophone clocked me with an incredibly painful jab to the face.
Four men boys, four punches, I reckon four seconds of action.
We faced off, the other three looking ready to go for real. I didn’t want to fight that night (yes, The Ramones were ringing in my head) - my face hurt.
“Wait,” I said. “Stop.”
Everyone looked at me.
“It’s Christmas. We don’t want to do this at Christmas. None of us wants to get nicked or fucked up. This is silly.”
Amazingly, considering we were four pissed up townie scrotes, this laddish little soliloquy did the trick. We all said ‘sorry’ and ‘Merry Christmas’ to each other, then went our separate ways.
But I still woke up on Christmas Day with a brutal shiner, and had to sit there soaking up the shame of judgement all fucking day. So yes, I know the family curse too.
Merry Christmas, Ledgeheads! Thanks for reading. Only you can break the Grinch Curse: show my fragile ego some love before you scarper. Bang that like button on your way out, or get involved in the comments if this piece landed well with you. If you’re feeling really flush, buy me a kir royal and I’ll love you forever. Cheers.
She is now 14 - kind, considerate and bossing every single adult in the room every time I see her.
Olden days viral. As in ‘of or related to a virus’. Words change but there’s no need to forget The Old Ways.
Designated driver.
Check out my boy Igor Thiago down at Brentford. A Brazilian beast who arrived via Bulgaria and Belgium, he’s second only to Erling Haaland for goals and on course to be the highest scoring Brazilian in a single Premier League season. Vamos!
The youngest of the Australian cousins was born out there. All three of them are incredibly cool and excellent, just like their parents.
While travelling around Australia, my friend and I stayed with them in Sydney for a while. We probably outstayed our welcome, but after three months of junk food and transitional friendships, it was wonderful to feel like we had roots.
Yes, of course I had hair back then and it was magnificent. I wasn’t born bald, bozo. How dare you?
If you Quality Street jabronis want to fight about it, I’ll see you outside. The hopeless Heroes fans and the Celebrations chumps should probably just sit quietly in the corner, though. This is the big leagues.
What will happen this year? The Kir Royale was hilarious - your poor mum! And toffee vodka for a cold? (Not going to judge, currently nursing a cold with some whisky! 🥃)
This made me laugh.
I don’t think there’s anyone in real life who haven’t ruined Christmas in some way, due to too many festive ‘spirits’
I don’t think The muse should be so hard on herself.
Many, many moons ago, before we were married, it was my husband’s family tradition that everyone went to watch the football on Boxing Day. For our sins, both my family, and his, are big West Ham supporters (I know). To be honest, I only follow football because I really have no other choice.
This particular year, we had been to a party on Christmas night at a friends house. We were young and bulletproof back then, and could survive on little to no sleep. In true fashion I got carried away at the party and gave myself my number 1 hangover of all time. You know, the type you measure every other hangover by.
Upton Park was the last place I wanted or needed to be the next day, it was cold and I was sick.
I’m not the biggest of people, and I got lost in the crowd out of the station and found myself in a panic, right next to a policeman sitting atop of a fucking huge horse, which then sneezed on me.
I made my way, disgusted, to the stadium where the family were waiting for me, full of shame and horse snot. I fell asleep that day, in the stands. They dressed me up in everything they could find. Thankfully this was before the days of camera phones, so this only exists in memory.
That story is retold EVERY year. You’d think they’d have tired of it by now, but no.