“Merry” gentlemen’s tidings of discomfort and little joy

No, I don’t want to hear All I Want For Christmas in October. Or see tinsel and fairy lights straight after Halloween. For some they represent a countdown to “the most wonderful time of year”, but for me it’s just a foreshadowing of the impending ennui of a repetitive annual regime. And the bloating and bankrupting of ourselves. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the seasonal gluttony and annual catch- ups in overcrowded pubs, amid the stench of mulled wine, with friends I’ve almost lost touch with entirely ( on purpose), but Christmas — like Britney — has lost its magic for me.

I used to look forward to the day the same way I did Ms Spears’ performances, but now it’s just like: “Oh OK, that’s happening again. I should probably be drunk for this.”

But I know that it’s Christmas, and I feel bad that I sometimes struggle to get into the spirit of things. “Spirit” being the operative word, being that when you reach 18 it’s like you silently agree to exchange the thrill of receiving presents for the contentedness of being drunk.

But after years of knowing that I can actually be drunk at any time I want, I’d rather just have the presents. Although as a 28- year- old Londoner, all I want to unwrap on Christmas morning is a rent- free fl at in Zone One, or cold hard cash. Or razor blades because them shit is expensive.

And while it can be fun to imagine a man coming down your chimney, as an adult you just want one to come into your life and start fi xing shit. So, I’ll usually start drinking before midday because it numbs the pain of speaking to family friends, and stave off the hunger until the food is served at that weird time between lunch and dinner. My nieces join us later, and after joyfully watching them open hundreds of toys they don’t need, I open another bottle of vodka. It always feels like a time of refl ection, both on another year of failed relationships and why I’ve eaten an entire tub of Quality Street to compensate — although it’s as unavoidable as ITV2 shoving Love Actually down our throats seven times a day.

The highlight of the day is the food- coma nap, which for one day out of the year takes precedence over a depression nap. Boxing Day is better with less pressure and just as much food, but most importantly, we can fi nally stop playing those cheesy jingles. At least until we get to September again.

I know I sound like

The Grinch, but if we can minimise its hype, fi nancial and social pressures, and reindeer jumpers, that would be a Christmas miracle.

“It’s a time to refl ect on why I’ve eaten an entire tub of Quality Street”