By 
Ihad the radio on in the car the other day when John Lennon’s ‘Happy Xmas (War is Over)’ came on. It being one of the less trite, schmaltzy festive tunes, I turned it up and started singing along.
But just as John, Yoko and I were getting into our groove, we arrived at the ‘A very merry Christmas and a happy New Year/Let’s hope it’s a good one without any tears’ part.
Suddenly I was thrown out of the song and into a sort of waking nightmare, where, imprisoned in the theatre of my own mind, I was visited by visions and ghosts of spoiled Christmases past.
The first spectre was far and away the ugliest – almost literally.
Believe me, a full description would only depress you. Suffice to say, it involved me, nine-and-a-half-stone and with a face showing no signs of manhood, getting a gruesome, temporarily-disfiguring hiding – not completely unearned but definitely a touch over-the-top – on Christmas Night.
This column isn’t about cautionary tales, but if I were to give you a top tip to avoid ruining your family’s festive buzz in this way, it would be: Don’t be a lippy, intoxicated, pugnacious 18-year-old.
And if you are going to be one, be a fast one.
So that was that relived, yet again.
But no sooner was that ghost done with me than another picked me up and transported me back to a Christmas Eve in my early 20s.
My brother, sister and I had been at The Coach Inn, which at the time was a loose tradition of ours. We went for a few – but, as is the way, a few turned into a few too many.
But there was one among us whose equilibrium had been affected more than the rest.
Me.
Cormac McCarthy wrote that ‘There is no joy at the tavern, as upon the road thereto’.
Well, that night, there was plenty of joy on the road home as well, singing songs, laughing, and firing each other into hedges.
It was when we got into the house that the frivolity was fractured – shattered, even.
In our house, the Christmas tree always stands proudly in the hall. These last lock of years it’s been artificial, but back in the day it was always a sticky, prickly pine tree, bedecked in baubles and laden with lights, beads and decorations bought, gifted and inherited over decades.
Well, I came through the front door that night, took a headstagger and rugby tackled it to the ground.
The siblings weren’t long sobering up.
My brother, summoning the most wounding words in his vocabulary, unleashed a barrage of abuse upon me as I tried vainly to disentangle myself from the tree.
My sister, too dignified to condone his language but clearly sharing his sentiments, shook her head and roasted me in that restrained, sisterly way.
It was a fait accompli: they went to bed, and I was left, on pain of death, to re-erect the tree by myself.
Of course, the plan failed, and on Christmas Morning my mother came downstairs to find her cherished tree lying horizontally in the hallway.
Everybody emerged from their rooms to her roars.
The craziest part, though, was that my brother and sister actually appeared shocked that I, the same man who had been drunk enough to knock down the tree in the first place, had – surprise, surprise – been unfit to put it back up on my own.
At least that’s how I remember it.
It was a tense start to the morning, but my brother and I went downstairs, quietly got the focal point of the festive decoration straightened up, shouted everybody else downstairs, whereupon we all proceeded as though nothing had happened, allowing the usual Christmas traditions to lead the way.
By the time the pigs in blankets were eaten, the tea was made and a few presents were opened, the seasonal spirit had been restored.
Still, all in all, I wouldn’t recommend it.
And that’s all we have time for this week, folks.
But before I go, to make sure the obvious irony – namely, that this column becomes the thing that ruins this Christmas – doesn’t come to pass, I’d like to say that most Christmases in our house are not spoiled by alcohol-related mishaps, and are, in fact, wholesome, lovely, joyous affairs.
Evidence: Despite a few bad memories and no shortage of family loss, it’s still one my favourite times of year.
Readers, I hope you have loved ones to spend the holidays with. Stay safe, have fun, and watch out for the big sparkly green thing when you get home from the pub.
Merry Christmas one and all.
