If I am not on his naughty list, in fifteen days Santa will hopefully have visited chez Strachan, augmenting yuletide cheer with a sack full of Xmas gifts. Helping himself to a glass of single malt and a mince pie, prior to continuing with his work. A package delivery mission to make even the most hardened Amazon driver shudder.
Footnote – Idea for a future festive narrative, Gary – Santa Claus sponsored by Amazon!
Hopefully St Nick won’t replicate last Christmas Eve when, after quaffing too much of my whisky (I knew I shouldn’t leave the bottle out!), he inadvertently fell over my coffee table. In the process breaking two ornaments and an expensive shot glass… Although, in all truth, culprit of that carnage was probably my implausibly clumsy brother Ian.
However, I’ve no proof my hapless sibling caused the damage. At that juncture yours truly was being hounded by Dickensian spectres. Ghouls showing me the error of my ways during previous festive seasons. Delivering admonishment for my habitual curmudgeonly approach towards Christmas… They had a point, however I’m not sure why the ‘Ghost of Christmas Present’ rebuked me for mean behaviour towards Tiny Tim; I’ve never bloody met the kid!
That was a fraught night for GJ Strachan. However, I’m pleased to report the spirits’ mission proved a success. ‘The Ghost of Christmas Future’s threat of spending eternity in hell with Donald Trump if I didn’t change my ways shaking me to the very core! Consequently, I’ve resolved to embrace yuletide with a sunnier disposition.
Yes, one year on, sitting here among glittery, bright, and celebratory décor of my home, 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 and don’t want to give the game away, I guess.
Even the word ‘Bollocks!’, greeting me from behind door 10 of the homemade advent calendar mischievously gifted by partner Sarah, cannot dampen my prevailing ardour.
Her cardboard festive trinket bearing 24 curse words, each carefully chosen from Sarah’s vast swearing vocabulary. Her off-colour greetings hidden behind numbered doors haphazardly carved on a piece of A4 card; each secured shut with small dots of Blu Tac 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!” With the Ossett lass’s artistic talent being fairly limited, St Nick bafflingly 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 their purchase 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 the bird ordered was so big, to save carrying it, I asked for the foul to be kept alive so I could ride it home from the store.
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 for tea! 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 after the bird is prepped and oven in situ.
Not all Xmas Day customs followed me from my fledgling years into adulthood. For instance, after leaving my childhood home in my early 20’s, I was robbed of the annual opportunity steal segments of my brother Ian’s Terrys Chocolate Orange. A 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 orange was well and truly hidden, depriving our kid of potential reciprocal skulduggery.
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 consume 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.
Anyhow, I need to bring this prose to an end as a security guard from Sarah’s employers has just knocked at the door to ask for the Blu Tac back!
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