Have yourself a merry Corbyn Christmas...
Guy Kelly’s ‘fly on the wall’ big day with the names of 2019
THE WINDSORS
Picture the scene…
At Sandringham, everybody is taking their seats for Christmas lunch. A place has been left either side of the Duke of York – something explained to him as being representative of the Sussexes’ absence, but really it was at the request of all the other guests. Spirits are low.
“They said this was another annus
horribilis,” the Queen says, by way of small talk, “what do you all think?”
Nobody answers for 40 minutes, so eventually the Duchess of Cornwall barks awake. “When are we going to address the bloody elephant in the room, then…?”
Everybody shifts in their seats like characters in an Agatha Christie novel. William looks to the empty places of Harry and Meghan. Beatrice and Eugenie scowl at Andrew. Charles stares at his brother’s chubby fingers, wondering if they’ve finally been noticed. Kate glances at the literal taxidermy elephant mounted on the wall, but suspects she meant it as a metaphor. Camilla waits a few more seconds. “… we forgot to invite Edward again.”
Likely to be heard: “Andrew, you’ve got two Christmas sweaters on and you’re sitting by the fire. It’s roasting hot in here – how are you not sweating?”; “It was just a straightforward shooting Christmas party!”
Banned phrases: “Where’s Harry?”; “Have you seen series 3 of The
Crown?”
THE CORBYNS
Picture the scene …
The smell of roasted home-grown turnip stew fills the air. Billy Bragg’s Christmas song, We’re Following the
Wrong Star, is on repeat. A huge red banner with the words, “Congratulations PM Jez!” has been amended to now read “Feliz Navidad!”.
Jeremy’s nearest and dearest – John Mcdonnell, Diane Abbott, Owen Jones, the staff of Novara Media – are sitting, exchanging heartwarming Christmas-themed conspiracy theories about how King Herod was unjustly treated by the incredibly biased media establishment in Judaea, and how Mary and Joseph would have found a bed in the very first inn they tried if only soaring rents had been controlled. Soon, everybody starts to get nervous. Jeremy had promised them presents and, looking at the tree planted in the lounge (“one down, 1, 999,999,999 to go before 2040!” they all cried), there are no presents. Jeremy has said nothing.
A little after 10pm, an out-of-breath Seumas Milne slithers in. “It was worse than we thought in the North,” he says. “There’s nothing coming. We’ve even lost Lapland.”
Mcdonnell instantly agrees to take the blame.
Likely to be heard: “Laura, LET ME FINISH”; “Jam, again, Jeremy? Really?”
Banned phrases: “Shall we pop the Queen’s Speech on?”
THE SUSSEXES
Picture the scene …
Having chosen to spend Christmas in Canada because it’s Somewhere That Isn’t Sandringham and Elton could cover the flights, the Duke of Sussex is giddy with excitement. He is dressed in a Kappa tracksuit, hasn’t been to church, keeps playing the Sex Pistols’ God Save the Queen and has ordered Deliveroo for lunch. Meghan enters the living room to find him ripping open his presents before 10am.
“Hey H, I’m just taking Archie and mom to do triple-gen yoga with me. Did you remember to post something like ‘Be Your Best at Christmas’ or ‘Kindness Wins, Hate Is Bad!’ on our Instagram this morning? Hold on, what are you doing?”
“Everything I am never allowed to do at Christmas normally!” Harry says, panting and throwing his phone into a swimming pool. “I’m free, Megs!”
At 3pm, the four of them settle down in front of the television with a kombucha. “It’s very important we watch this,” Harry mutters, fiddling with the remote control, “it’s a tradition… or will be.”
Doria pulls herself into a cobra pose to see the screen. Meghan tuts. “Harry,
we do not need to see this again. It’ll be the fourth time this week.”
The Newsnight theme tune starts as Emily Maitlis’s interview with Uncle Andrew begins.
Likely to be heard: “This is so much better than Norfolk”; “What time are George and Amal coming?”; “It’s just nice to not be with William and Kate for once, isn’t it?”
Banned phrases: “Have you called your father today?”
THE THUNBERGS
Picture the scene …
Darkness has fallen across Stockholm, but at the Thunbergs’ house, electricity is being created by Monaco’s Prince Pierre Casiraghi and a small family of Youtubers, who have agreed to take shifts on a bicyclepowered generator to light Greta’s life for the duration of the winter. Inside, tensions have been running high ever since Greta got wind of the fact the Christmas herring came via a lorry, and now she won’t even come to the dinner table.
Her father, Svante, puts down his cutlery and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Greta, even the Time Person of the Year needs to eat. What are you doing on that laptop?”
Lying on the floor, Greta huffs and slams her computer shut. “I was working out what the average daily methane emissions of a reindeer is, then timesing that by eight, then considering how long it would take Father Christmas to get around the world, then cross-referencing my findings against the UN’S climate change targets… and I have concluded that I do not want any presents this year.”
Likely to be heard: “Emma Thompson’s just called from Heathrow – she’s coming for a drink to celebrate the success campaigning against flying. Says she’ll be here in an hour.
I’ll pick her up from the airport.” Banned phrases: “Shall we all go around the table and say what we’ve achieved this year? Dad, I’ll start.”
MOTHER OF DAUGHTERS
Picture the scene …
On a quiet suburban street in Ramsgate, Kent, an improbably good-looking and suspiciously happy young family are gathered, playing a board game gifted to them “by the lovely team at @Selfridges who they met in Dubai on holiday over the summer, which they must in turn thank our beautiful friends @Emirates for”. Instagram influencer Clemmie Hooper – known online to millions as Mother of Daughters – pauses to take another selfie, only to realise she has no one to share it with, again.
It is a few months now since word got out that she had been posing as another Instagram influencer called Alice in Wanderlust on the gossip site Tattle and trolling some of her Instagram sisterhood – and even her online influencer husband @Father_of_ Daughters. She sighs and looks around the room, which is so blandly decorated it looks as if Oliver Bonas and Habitat threw up on a show home.
A ping is heard on the children’s ipad, causing @Father_of_daughters to exclaim dramatically. “Kids? Is that another Tattle message from Mrs Claus?!”
The children simply roll their eyes and show him the message. It is yet more abuse from @Mrs Claus, threatening them with a year’s chores and no presents if they’re not good.
“Look, we know what’s going on here,” the eldest daughter says. “We suspected it for a while, but since both Mrs Claus and Mummy posted their location as Argos at the same time, we totally know that all these messages are coming from you, Mother. You’re @Mrsclaus aren’t you?”
Father of Daughters admits he is saddened, had no idea, and isn’t sure how to react.
Likely to be heard: “Kids, gather round. We need to take a selfie with each of your presents so we can let the brands who gifted them know we’re very grateful”; “Why haven’t we got any Christmas cards from the other mummy bloggers this year, Mummy?” Banned phrases: “Where’s Alice in Wanderlust? I thought she loved Christmas”; “Have you seen Mother Pukka’s latest post?”