Christmas for me starts when . . . the baby turkeys arrive on the Callan killing fields in August. But it starts on December 8th in my head, and not when the shops have run out of Halloween tack at the end of October and assault our nerves with plastic garlands and scented pine cones.
Last Christmas . . . I embedded myself in the homestead, turned the age of Christ on the 27th and made so many blasphemous jokes that my mother wanted to dust off the old wooden spoon. I also crammed in about 17 episodes of Game of Thrones and ordered breakfast as King Joffrey every day. Put on a stone.
My favourite thing about this time of year is . . . the increase in kitsch. The twinkly lights, fake candles and harmless fools stuttering around the streets in dreadful jumpers are all part of the wonderful silliness. Stop trying to make Christmas classy. People think this decade is too cool for tinsel. They're wrong.
The one thing that brings out my inner Grinch is . . . those hot-air blowers at the entrance to shops. How can I focus on buying presents when my face has been burned and I now have to strip off three layers? Oh and why is there mystery glitter on my face?
The perfect gift for my ears would be . . . a whole album filled with prog-rock versions of schmaltzy Christmas hits by Muse.
The perfect gift for my eyes would be . . . a Guillermo del Toro/Tim Burton collaboration on a Christmas horror movie... Okay just give me some chocolate and a fine whiskey. And don't forget my birthday. Again.
It wouldn't be Christmas without . . . a Dad-measured Hennessy and Baileys on Christmas Eve with a movie we've seen a dozen times.
I don't want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need . . . Please postpone the January sales until, er, January? I don't want to see the gift I just bought a loved one at half-off 12 hours after they've opened it. *Shakes glittery fist*
