This morning, as I tentatively peeled back door 10 of a homemade advent calendar gifted by my partner Sarah, yours truly was greeted by the word ‘Bollocks’.
Her mischievous cardboard festive trinket bearing 24 curse words, each carefully chosen from my beau’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 an old 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 2024 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 went a long way towards earning her the Player of the Tournament award.
Anyway, I digress… My intended topic for this narrative is 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 being unceremonious binning when January dawns. However, as procuring mini oranges and a Radio Times are family traditions, I continue this annual profligacy.
Satsumas similar to the ones I waste every year
Not all perennial traditions exist in 2024. Since the passing of my parents and my leaving of the marital home, unlike Strachan Christmases of yore I no longer buy a huge turkey. Birds so big I asked for them to be kept alive so it could ride them home from Sainsburys.
A further Christmas morning routine lapsing since I started living alone is consumption of a full English Breakfast. A shallow fried feast cooked which back in the day was troughed by those present once the bird was prepped and oven in situ.
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 deprived of the annual opportunity to slyly steal segments of my brother Ian’s Terrys Chocolate Orange. Confectionery gifted annually by our parents 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 reciprocally scoffing.
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. Despite struggled to understand much of the Scottish colloquialisms within the comic strips, the brio levels at their receipt never diminished.
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 containing 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 tradition… I doubt dad followed his eldest son into stealing our Ian’s chocolate segments
Anyhow, I need to bring this prose to an end as a security guard from Sarah’s old employers has just knocked to ask for the Blu Tac back!
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