*All events are sadly true and accurate, however names have been changed to protect the guilty*
I am officially away for Christmas and so begins my Christmas Diaries; much like my Tinder Diaries, but with slightly less random blokes who don’t seem to care when I projectile vomit on them, I will be documenting my life for the next week.
I have gone away with my family for 7 days. 7 whole days. If you want to get down to the nitty gritty of it, that’s 168 hours.
I haven’t spent that long with my family for a very long time; even before I moved out of home, I’d never spend a full week there, and I began refusing family holidays after the age of 17 and insisting on going abroad with friends to drink Headfuckers out of buckets, stand on bars in my bra and thong, and lay crying on the floors of Greek airports because our flight was in 40 minutes and I was a cross between drunk and hungover, with aggressive air stewardesses telling me they’d be leaving me in Zakynthos unless I had a strong espresso sharpish.
I am a little bit afraid of how the week will pan out; I’ve been preparing myself for it since about mid March, and I don’t feel anymore ready. I love my family, and I love Christmas, however I get political when I drink anything with bubbles in, and the second the clock strikes midnight on December 1st I begin mainlining prosecco in, meaning me and Uncle Richard will of course be ruining Christmas Dinner by one or both of us bringing up Jacob Rees-Mogg over the cranberry sauce.
A further reason I’ve been dreading this little soiree is because of Megan. Megan is my cousins girlfriend, and Megan is, for want of a better word, a massive twat.
The first time I met Megan, many moons ago, after about 10 minutes of conversation, she took me by the wrist and sat me down, cocked her head, looked deep into my eyes with genuine concern and said ‘How are you finding the age difference?’.
Confused, I said ‘What age difference?’
‘The age difference between you and Tom. It must be pretty hard for you’.
Tom was my boyfriend at the time. Our age difference was 3 months, 2 weeks and 6 days.
Before I had a chance to inhale air (which was very much required at that time), Megan pushed on ‘I find with age difference relationships like yours, a lot more work is required, you know? Myself and Ryan have found we are really struggling with our age difference, what with me being 24 and him being 25. So if you ever need any advice, do let me know’.
I’ve been flabbergasted at many things in my life, but this took the biscuit. It really did.
Christmas, as we all know, is a time for family, friends, generosity, goodwill to all men and getting shitfaced on dessert wine, doing a tactical chunder in the downstairs loo and being discovered by Grandma Coral and pretending you must’ve had a dodgy portion of stuffing.
I’ve been trying to implement a plan on how I’m going to maintain my usual festive consumption of Prosecco (a bottle an hour past 6pm), whilst also still leaving the week on speaking terms with at least 80% of family members, and I’ve come up short to be honest. I’ve decided I’m going to play it by ear. Which, as we all well know, is never a good sign with me.
We arrived at our country retreat today, after a 2 hour drive with me crammed in the backseat of my parents car, a portable slow cooker jammed into my ribcage (I can confirm I was one speedbump away from internal bleeding) and Simply Red playing on repeat; even Mick Hucknall isn’t enough to drown out the tones of my mother berating my dad for daring to do 38 mph in a 40 zone.
We unpacked our lives, and as wood was put in the fire, food was prepared and beds were turned down, I did what I do best, which was organise the alcohol. I couldn’t help but notice a bottle of something with a Polish label, that very clearly stated it had 50% alcohol content. Now, that is what I like to see. One sniff of it was enough to nearly knock me off my feet, so I’m sure integrating it into a drinking game version of Monopoly will end well, and by well, I mean Uncle Richard calling me a liberal millennial with no concept of capitalism, and that this is the last time he comes to a family event, and he’s moving to Argentina (he’s been moving there since I was born). It’s happened before.
I’m currently sat with a prosecco writing this, the fire is crackling, life is swell, and I think I’ve dislocated my finger from tearing into an 8 pack of Canti with all the vigour of a hyena tearing into the carcass of a wild boar.
I will speak to you all tomorrow.
All my love BGP xx