I wish you a merry Christmas

Dear readers,

The festive season is well and truly upon us now. I have already written of the need to hasten the commercialisation of Christmas. We should not overlook the fact that this is a religious double whammy, since, unusually, Hannukah begins at sunset on Christmas Eve. As an agnostic as well as an apostate Jew (and a hypocrite), I will be celebrating both in my own inimitable style, largely through the medium of over-indulgence. In that respect, at least, I am a traditionalist. It is said that the average Briton consumes 7,000 calories in food and drink on Christmas Day, which sounds about right. I may not quite hit that, as I don’t eat as much as my physique would suggest, but I will do my best.

Funny thing, Christmas Day. It resembles in one sense an airport terminal, in that it suddenly becomes acceptable to drink at any hour of the day. (It can’t just be me; we’ve all had a refreshing 9.00 am pint while waiting for a flight.) Similarly, champagne is often the order of the day on rising at Christmas, sometimes diluted into a buck’s fizz. This has always seemed something of a cop-out to me. If you’re going to hit the bottle as soon as you wake up – and, God knows, I am not the man to stop you – don’t pretend it’s healthy or vitamin-packed by adding a slug of orange juice. (I am reminded of a story told by the late Cecil Parkinson, who, as a newly-elected MP, was taken for a drink by Spencer le Marchant, a Tory whip. Le Marchant favoured goblets of bloody Mary, but, after one, Parkinson was reeling a bit. His companion wanted to press on. Parkinson protested weakly that he couldn’t, as the tomato juice was too acidic for him. Quite right, le Marchant concurred, and ordered neat vodkas. They don’t make them like that any more.)

I must pause here parenthetically (it’s my thing) to discuss for a moment sparkling wine. Champagne can be lovely, and is sometimes a justified excess. A good friend of mine, who knows better than most whereof he speaks when it comes to booze, insists that there are times when you simply have to “drink the label”. Much of the time, however, it is overpriced and overrated, and prosecco and cava are going great guns in the sales wars, often for very good reason. (I once had the opportunity to fly Virgin Upper Class with work, and I preferred their excellent Crémant de Limoux to the champagne on offer. Thanks, taxpayer.) On one point, however, I am clear: nomenclature. Given that it is not always genuine champagne, one must have a catch-all term for it. “Champers” is out, likewise “shampoo”. “Bubbles” is too mimsy. The only word I have found which is accurate and which doesn’t make me want to vomit is “fizz”. “Would you like a glass of fizz?” is a phrase to which I will warm, as opposed to reaching for my revolver. Anyway.

Christmas is also the preserve of sherry. Sales of the stuff have dropped in recent years, after a brief revival about ten years ago, but, for some reason, it is broken out for the festive period. Now I like sherry. I like all sorts of sherries, from a bone-dry manzanilla (excellent with smoked fish) to a sweet and nutty oloroso (try it instead of port with cheese). (True fact: Harvey’s Bristol Cream, over ice, was my tipple of choice at the beginning of my drinking career all those years ago.) However, it has been noted by some, unkindly, I think, that I will drink pretty much anything. This is not entirely true. Rum I cannot take outside a daiquiri, and tequila makes me feel ill at the first sniff, let alone sip. I also once nearly got into a fight in Edinburgh after drinking tequila, but that’s a story for another day. Anyway, where was I? Yes, sherry. Why is it that we so intimately associate the drink with Christmas? Is it just habit? We have, after all, as a nation, been drinking sherry for a long old time (and the Poet Laureate receives sherry – it was originally Canary wine – as part of his or her remuneration). It is part of the warp and weft of British, and particularly English, drinking, along with claret and warm beer. Perhaps it is the sweetness and warmth of dark sherry in particular which makes it an appealing winter drink. It may also be the fact that sherry is sometimes the one alcoholic indulgence which some older people allow themselves.

Each family has its own Christmas traditions and rituals. For me, as the product of what I understand is now called a “blended” family, it has long consisted of a two-stage process: turkey and trimmings plus presents with my father and stepmother on Christmas Eve, then repeat the process with my mother and stepfather on Christmas Day. As a child, I found this a very satisfactory arrangement. Friends at school and well-meaning teachers would fret about my being the product of a “broken home” (divorce was, I suppose, unusual among the parents of my peer group), but I saw two sets of presents and thought I was getting a good deal. Thankfully, my parents had been sensible enough to disabuse me of the terrible Santa deception at an early age. They were reluctant to let some old reprobate with a beard and a sleigh get the credit for their exertions.

The key to success on Christmas Day is to pace yourself. I remember (vaguely) one year, within the last ten, when I found that by noon I had finished a bottle of sherry and lunch was still a dot on the horizon. By mid-afternoon, I was beginning to wilt, and I count myself a seasoned campaigner. Of course, people react in different ways to daytime drinking. Some say it makes them terribly sleepy. I find the problems only arise when, or rather if, I stop; much better to plough on until the evening. Nonetheless, even I take it reasonably steadily if it’s an all-day project. Variety helps, too. Start with fizz, if you like, or sherry. Perhaps a cocktail or two before the big meal, whenever that comes. Then wine with the meal, and red or white is a debate for another day, assuming you are having fowl. After that, it becomes trickier. Stick with wine? Switch colours? Maybe a digestif? (Brandy is good, but my personal favourites are Benedictine and green Chartreuse, appropriate drinks, I think, for a monastic historian, and very settling for the stomach.) A great deal depends on when you eat the Great Meal. My Christmas lunches have tended to be quite early, certainly finished in time for Her Most Britannic Majesty’s annual appearance, so there is still a fair chunk of the day to go. Some people prefer to eat later, which may make the choice of refreshment easier.

The evening of Christmas Day can be oddly anti-climactic. The presents have been opened, you are bloated with food, sozzled by drink. The television will offer up delights for some, but I tend to find the festive fare pretty uninspiring, certainly on the main channels. There is, I note with dread, a Christmas special of Strictly Come Dancing, but I’d rather eat my own legs. (Would that some of the competitors had done the same.) Board games will entertain some, though they are a particular horror to my mother and therefore will make no appearance for me. For me, though, the evening is a great dilemma: choosing between a comfortable slide into dozy incapacitation at an outrageously early hour, or gritting the teeth and oushing on because once you go to sleep that’s Christmas over for another year.

I don’t think I’m alone in having assumed from childhood that one’s own rituals – Christmas or otherwise – were universal, and being surprised when presented with evidence to the contrary. Christmas, as a festival steeped in ritual, both religious and secular, is perhaps a time when we can learn from each other. Something about the course of the day niggling you? Try changing it. When I was at university, it was said that if something happened twice, it was a tradition. The author of said epigram came to regret it deeply. It does make you think, though, that your routine is not immutable. So The Sybarite’s Christmas message is one of, oddly enough, change. Try something different. Have sherry with your cheese. Eat an hour later. Add or delete orange juice to or from your morning fizz. Who knows, you might even enjoy it. Joyeux Noël.