Which Christmas tribe are you?
From first of December stresshead to Victorian-style stickler for tradition, Kate Spicer charts the seven characters that come around every festive season
It’s beginning to feel a lot like that bit before Christmas, when perfectly normal people all go a touch… odd, becoming a stressinduced, seasonally disaffected cartoon version of themselves. Don’t worry, it’s the same everywhere. You’re not alone. In fact, right now, you are probably part of a panicking Christmas tribe. Take your pick…
Victorian Christmas Freak
There is something so reassuring about tradition. In late November, the children sat down to make paper chains and cards with home-made glue, glitter and cottonwool balls. On Christmas Eve, stockings will be filled with a satsuma, a few sweets and a lump of coal – because a devotee of the Victorian Christmas would never give anything as gauche as an Apple Watch. More’s the pity, think the rest of the family.
While her utter devotion to late-19th century traditions has a constancy in these uncertain 21stcentury times, it does create a lot of waste: the cards, the crackers, the gift wrap, the sugared almonds, marzipan fruits, nuts and marrons glacés that are never eaten. And those dirty lumps of coal.
And while they’ve grown to appreciate the warm, familiar smells of a classic Victorian cake, there’s been a compromise over the recipe after the family put a stop to her using the Mrs Beeton 1861 version: “Mummy, pleeeeeeease can you do Gizzi Erskine’s?” Because no one likes eating Tarmac, even if it is brandy flavoured.
Do say: “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.” Don’t say: “Did Mrs Beeton do a vegan book?” Give them: Fortnum & Mason’s Christmas & Other Winter Feasts by Tom Parker Bowles
(Fourth Estate, £30).
Totalitarian Christmas
She started buying the stocking fillers in January, and her festive cupboard is full of neatly wrapped parcels by the end of October, with child slave labour responsible for holding down the ribbon while she ties countless pristine bows. Existing on black coffee and fury, her ability to drill order into all aspects of Christmas has yet to be bettered by AI brains in Silicon Valley.
Any attempt at breaking tradition, though – a meek request for goose this year instead of turkey – could bring the whole machine to a grinding, smoke-from-the-ears halt.
On Christmas Day, at 7am sharp, everyone is instructed to rise with the appropriate childlike excitement and to come and open stockings on Mummy and Daddy’s bed, despite the fact that the youngest child is a partner at a law firm and the oldest recently had a hip replacement.
The schedule continues, precisely on time, until midnight, when she finally conks out over the traditional tray of After Eights. It would be a shame to wake her. Do say: “Can I put the sprouts on yet? After all, it is August.” Don’t say: Anything – it will almost certainly be wrong. Give her: Wacaco Nanopresso portable espresso maker (£46.90, wacaco.com). Should keep her buzzing through 2020.
Christmas Denier
Around Hallowe’en, she starts to dread the annual visit to her dysfunctional family. This is when she starts talking about her plans for a yoga retreat. One sound of the sleigh bell intro to Slade’s Merry Xmas Everybody and she puts on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Denial is not always a chronic condition, and she might be cured by the topical application of a boyfriend with a really nice family. For now, though, it’s off to Goa for a bit of me-time – although even those Christian Indians can get a bit Christmassy, so she’s heard about the Saudis’ loosening travel restrictions for single women and may head there next year. Do say: “I’m a Buddhist, actually.” Don’t say: “Cheer up love, it’s Christmas.” Give her: Yogamatters eco travel yoga mat
(£35, yogamatters.com)
Christmas Sufferer
No one knows why Uncle Grumpy doesn’t go away for Christmas, given his interminable moans about commercialism, waste, the dangers of overeating, overdrinking and all-round profligacy. Painfully mean and self-righteous, the more battle-savvy among the family no longer even notice his outbursts. His refusal to dress for dinner is as traditional as the ratty old fairy that tops the tree.
But for new in-laws and visitors, he can be disconcerting, frightening even. Grinch-like, he rummages through the bin bag, carefully folding paper to be re-used. He uses every last scrap of turkey, pulverising the bones for dog food. Despite declaring “I can’t stand the bloody stuff ”, he takes remnants of Christmas cake home to fry up for breakfast. This year, he has an unlikely ally: his 14-year-old niece is seeing him with new, eco eyes. Uncle Grumps was into sustainability long before she’d even heard of Greta Thunberg. Plus, the way he lambasts the grown-ups is pretty similar to her own adolescent furies. With his niece’s genuine sighs of solidarity – he gains a superpower with every harrumph and tut – and after a few cheering ales, he even gets up and dances to Last Christmas.
Do say: “Let’s just cancel Christmas and donate all the money to Oxfam.” Don’t say: “Tis the season to be jolly.” What to give him: Berghaus Vaskye padded jacket (£140, berghaus.com) and a box of Cohiba Maduro 5 Magicos (£36.40, jjfox.co.uk). Should keep him busy outside the back door for an hour or so.
Christmas Martyr
The harried Martyr dreams of aping her neighbour, who makes the festive show look so effortlessly fun, sparkly and chic, while her hair and tree wilt with the stress. Even if she books the Ocado delivery in October, she’s always left with a midnight slot. Despite plans to vamp herself up for Christmas lunch – crushed velvet, carefully applied liner, lipstick, gloss and a drenching in Shalimar – she is confined to the kitchen, dealing with a soggy potato crisis. Everything takes too long, and eventually she sits down in jeans and a sad old fleece because she had no time to change. In between the selfless scuttling, she pops out to the local animal rescue centre, church or homeless centre.
Do say: “I insist you pop upstairs and have a bath – I can finish Christmas lunch.” Don’t say: “It’s a bit dry… have you thought of brining the turkey?” Give her: A bottle of Pommery brut and six Wolseley crystal champagne coupes (£54.75 and £195, wolseleyshop.com)
Christmas Hedonist
Pops a chilled gin-in-a-tin or a minibottle of Moet in the top of everyone’s stockings and, from midnight mass to Boxing Day, intends to be absolutely battered herself. Christmas scrolls before her eyes as a meticulous list of festive libations with their accompaniments. Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon? A Mimosa! The early December morning commute is spent considering the various merits of pairing a mid-morning mince pie with oloroso, amontillado or manzanilla. Her repetitious chat and tendency to nod off is offset by the delights of the wine stash, all en magnum, that she ordered after covertly browsing the Justerini & Brooks website at work.
Do say: “Is burgundy the best bet for turkey, or any other ideas?”
Don’t say: “It’s recommended one alternates each drink with a glass of water, you know?”
Give them: Winesave Pro argon gas wine preserver (£29.99, winesave.com),
“so you won’t have to finish the whole bottle, will you, dear?”
Competitor Christmas
After an obsessional scroll through the Insta feed of table-setting guru Fiona Leahy, she goes for red baubles with homemade shoe-shaped gingerbread decorations this year. Initial plans to let the kids dress the tree didn’t work out because the final product just looked too amateurish. She’s spent 30 minutes negotiating with the Berry Bros delivery guy so that their gold and green delivery van delivers their own-label Montrachet when all the neighbours are likely to clock it. The big day is a rosta of outfits, which will climax in something gold and sparkly she saw on Viscountess Weymouth on the Tatler website. No matter that the kids are in onesies and her parents have elasticated waists on their trousers: Christmas is her catwalk. Halfway through cooking Christmas dinner the so-hot-right-now black negronis get the better of her, and her mother moves in to take over the cooking.
Do say: “Your table is better than the one Meghan Markle did.”
Don’t say: “Why have you hung the tree upside down this year?”
Give her: Cire Trudon, Solis Rex candle (£75, johnlewis.com). Her house will smell like Versailles.