If I am not on his naughty list, in eleven days Santa will have broken into my flat. With a bit of luck, though, not to ransack its festively decorated chambers or quaff my favourite single malt whisky. No, the chubby red-faced bloke’s modus operandi will be to impart yuletide cheer in the shape of gifts.
Thoughts of the upcoming Noel manifesting a festive spirit within this spacious two-bedroom apartment, with ensuite, fitted kitchen and good links to Wakefield and Leeds from Sandal train station.
Footnote – When alluding to manifestation of festive spirit, I mean yuletide ambience. Not that Dickensian spectres are in the process of addressing my curmudgeonly approach to Christmas… Those ghouls are not expected until midnight on Christmas Eve. A tarry which will no doubt offer the stern ultimatum of “This is your last chance, Strachan!”
Yes, sitting among such glittery, bright and celebratory décor, it is hard to conceal a contented smile. Not that anyone should want to hide a satisfied grin, I hasten to add… Well, unless you have got a good poker hand. Or perhaps have just ransacked my flat; take note Santa!
Even the word ‘Bollocks!’, greeting me from behind door 14 of the homemade advent calendar mischievously gifted by my partner Sarah, cannot dampen my prevailing ardour.
Her cardboard festive trinket bearing 24 curse words, each carefully chosen from Sarah’s vast swearing vocabulary. These off-colour greetings hidden behind numbered doors haphazardly carved on a piece of A4 card; each secured shut with small dots of Blu Tac… A stationery accessory, I am led to believe, stolen from her employer.
On the calendars front she has scrawled a scowling Santa Claus holding a swear box. Out of his mouth a speech bubble exclaiming “I’m dreaming of a shite Christmas!” Her artistic talent being limited, St Nick appears to possess three arms and a pocket where his nose should be.
As a keen student of English, I’d like to think I possess a reasonable vocabulary. However, when it comes to cuss words the delightful Ms Brook highlights significant shortfalls in my expletive arsenal.
Sarah excels at malediction. Her skillset so prolific it saw her represent England during the 2012 World Profanity Championships in Sweden… Her team lost to reigning champions Ireland in the final; however, the profanity laden tirade she launched at judges upon learning of the defeat earned her the Player of the Tournament award.
Anyway, I digress…. This is a feature about Strachan family traditions, not the antics of a lady who’s annual swear box contents pay for our summer holidays.
As I write, my eyes are drawn to a coffee table where a bowl of satsumas, along with a nearby Christmas Radio Times magazine lay. The Radio Times won’t get read and the satsumas will remain uneaten until their unceremonious binning when January calls. However, as this waste is a family tradition, I feel duty bound to maintain this annual profligacy.
Wanting to maintain familial institutions further, I’ve ordered a full turkey for Christmas Day’s festive smorgasbord. This despite the breast being the only part of the poultry guests will consume.
Since the passing of my parents and me leaving my marital home, I no longer get the huge turkeys cooked during Strachan Christmases of yore. One year, with numerous family members visitng for yuletide lunch, the bird ordered was so big I asked for it to be kept alive so it could be ridden home from Sainsburys.
I was apprehensive about having to slaughter the turkey on the big day, however these concerns soon abated when it died in tragic circumstances on Christmas Eve. It’s untimely passing courtesy of choking to death after my wife idiotically fed it Pot Noodles on the run up to the big day! The bird asphyxiating after eating the pot along with the noodles.
A further Christmas morning routine is the clan’s consumption of a full English Breakfast. This shallow fried feast cooked and troughed by those present once the bird is prepped and oven in situ… Incidentally, when prepping the bird I always ensure a Pot Noodle container lodged isn’t lodge in its gullet prior to cooking.
If wishing to be particularly asinine about the 25th December’s itinerary, I could add it’s traditional to ignite the oven prior to the turkey’s roasting. However, you’ll be relieved to hear I have no desire to reach that level of descriptive granularity…… Although, coming to think of it, I just have.
Sadly, not all Xmas Day customs followed me from my fledgling years into adulthood. For instance, after fleeing the nest in my early 20’s, I was robbed of the annual opportunity to slyly steal segments of my brother Ian’s Terrys Chocolate Orange. Confectionery gifted annually to my siblings and me.
Although not a spiteful kid, I wrongly thought it’d be more fun to ‘help’ Ian eat his chocolate before opening mine. Ensuring my spherical treat was well and truly hidden once his was devoured; depriving our kid of potential reciprocal mischief.
Another childhood tradition which died in adulthood was receipt of a ‘Oor Wullie’ and ‘The Broons’ annual. These cartoon strip yarns, made famous in the Sunday Post newspaper, sharing the whimsical escapades of two Scottish clans. These tomes always sitting near the summit of Ian and my 1970’s Christmas lists.
Tradition and the procurement of habitual yuletide treats were a big thing in my family home. Every year my dad Malcolm would buy a box of dates bearing the ‘order’ “Eat Me.”
As I don’t recall ever witnessing dad eating the dates, it appeared the box’s plea fell on deaf ears… Same as my habit of wasting yuletide satsumas, it appears Malcolm was similarly unfazed by fruit wastage in the name of brood tradition… With I wonder if dad was similarly inclined to steal our Ian’s chocolate segments as well?!
Anyhow, I need to bring this prose to an end as a security guard from Sarah’s employers has just knocked to ask for the Blu Tac back!
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love having new traditions and making them up as I go along..