Hopefully, you’ll all have a lovely Christmas Day, with lots of family bonding over several drops of whiskey, a game of snap and those awful, awful jokes you get inside a Christmas cracker.
But you can bet all the change in your pocket there will be a row of some sort within the family unit, and chances are we know the reasons why…
Fighting over the telly
“I’m not watching that SHITE!” will be as familiar a refrain as Good King Whatsisname and “oh you shouldn’t have!” across the family homes of Ireland on Christmas Day. Let us warn you now, there will be EastEnders and there will be Coronation Street and there will be a fire or car crash on Albert Square and your aunt will probably cry.
Luckily, there’s probably more than one telly in the house so you can slink off to the room that nobody uses with a couple of cans to watch Back To The Future or The Karate Kid (not the remake, never the remake) in peace.
Who gets the turkey leg?
Your da. This is final. Don’t try and fight him on this, just get your own back when he’s passed out on the chair by wrapping him in Christmas lights and replacing the Guinness in his can with flat 7-Up.
Brussels sprouts
I tried to get emancipation from my parents when a stray Brussels sprout appeared on my Christmas plate as a nipper. True story.
The Irish Times called one of ‘the landmark court cases of our time,’ the Daily Mail called for jail time, The Sun did a mock-up of the judge’s head with a sprout superimposed, while the Farmer’s Journal ignored the whole thing completely.
Brussels sprouts form the backbone of every good Christmas argument, the dense fog of radioactive arse burp hanging doggedly around your uncle Paddy, the one man in the room who delights in those small balls of cabbagey detritus.
Shocking stuff. Why, Mam, WHY???
The great Roses debacle
They’re just putting the Coffee Escape in there to f*ck with us, aren’t they? Aren’t they? Damn you, Cadbury’s.
The Golden Barrels and the Hazelnut Whirls will be gone before you’ve even thought about ignoring the Queen’s speech, leaving only that caffeine-flavoured piece of disgustingness, a single Strawberry Dream (meh) and something called Brazilian Darkness amid all the open wrappers in the bottom of the tin.
Sakes.
Seating arrangements
There you are, in your mid-30s, sat with a paper hat on your head trying not to mourn the fact that you’re missing Argo on the telly and you’re at the kid’s table.
The f*cking kid’s table.
Your cousins are LOLing and doing something with a thing called Chatsnap and talking about that thing that happened that was, like, ohmigod, SO funny the other and you’re there nodding along and wishing that you could have one decent adult-sized conversation. You’re even prepared to talk about Irish Water and the Universal Social Charge in exchange for release from the adolescent torrent of eejitry.
Still, on the bright side, you have an entire bottle of wine to yourself. So there is that.
Texting at the Christmas dinner table
The mother isn’t happy. She’s presented you with seven hours’ worth of her toil, including three different kinds of stuffing, yet you’re trying to sort out where to meet the lads to watch the football on Stephen’s Day. Your da pipes up, “put that shaggin’ thing away,” you tell him to “go an’ shite,” your mother blesses herself, the da impales his pineapple ring and says something about “those poxy things are a curse! What happened to the art of conversation?”
You switch it to silent but take furtive glances at five minute intervals, your ma’s upset, the lads think you’re ignoring them because they had their dinner at 1pm and they’re bored off their faces, all you want is a pint and no more of this poxy white wine, the world is against you.
You’re 31 years old.
Background music during dinner
The mother wants Band Aid or whoever won The X Factor. Your sisters are hanging out for something called a Carrie Underwood. The da wants The Beatles. Your idiot uncle brought his guitar. You just want some peace and quiet (or to piss everyone off with some Future Islands). Nobody is winning this one, except maybe George Michael.
Answering the house phone
Brrrrrrnnnngggg. Brrrrrrrrnnnngggg. “Who would ring the house on CHRISTMAS DAY??? I BET it’s Margaret! She always bloody well rings during Christmas dinner! Just because she has it after Mass. Well I’m not answering it!” Brrrrnnnnngggg. “Ah feck it I’ll answer it…”
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…
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“Ah MARGARET LOVELY TO HEAR YOUR VOICE! HAPPY CHRISTMAS!!! How are they all??? WHAT? G’way! G…way!! G… No there’s just the five of us here. Josephine isn’t with us this year… “G’WAY!”
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