It's the most wonderful time of the year. I'm here.

Aongus Von Bismarck wrote: »

As the renowned writers Geoffrey Chaucer and Nelly Furtado once said - all good things come to an end. And so it is that a fantastic year of achievement and accomplishment comes to a depressing conclusion with a Christmas Day that could be described as abysmal at best. The fact that I find myself posting on this site, a site normally associated with men with beards discussing computer gaming strategy, is evidence enough of the horrors that I had to endure.

Things started to go wrong from the very start. The Brother has recently discovered atheism, and has become one of those insufferable types who feel the need to talk about it constantly, quoting nonsense from spoofers such as Dawkins. As a result of this he refused to go along with our time honored family tradition of attending Midnight Mass. The Mass itself was a tough hour, mostly because of the ‘efforts’ of the local choir. Their rendition of Silent Night in particular was horrific, with one local busybody thinking he sounds like Andrea Bocelli, when in reality he sounds like a pig being lead to slaughter. We arrived home to find the brother passed out on the couch, surrounded by empty cans and the remains of a Maltesers selection box.

I ran the Goal Mile on Christmas morning. There was lots of guffawing from slack jawed yokels as I went through my warm up routine before the race. There was rather less guffawing when I posted the best time in my age category by a considerable margin, beaten overall by a few athletes in their early 20’s. I entered into the spirit of the charity race by donating 500 euro afterwards.

The present giving wasn’t exactly a success; the Brother (when he finally got up) asked if he could cash in the generous voucher for Louis Copeland's that I gave him. I figured that a suit might help him get a real job and would perhaps increase the chances of a favorable outcome at his next inevitable court appearance. As I said to Mother, it’s time Judge Mary Fahy got tough with him.

There was also a distinct lack of gratitude from other family members. My Father did express genuine thanks for the all-expenses paid trip to the Cheltenham festival (all expenses doesn’t include bets I quipped!). The voucher for Ballymaloe that I gave to my Mother was frostily received. After a few too many glasses of wine, she actually had a go at me and claimed that she didn't need to be taught how to cook. When I mentioned that her Christmas Dinner roast potatoes suggested otherwise she left the room in tears. I've always told her to limit herself to two glasses and these emotional outbursts are what happens when she doesn't listen. I did manage to save the meal by preparing a wonderful turkey jus instead of the Bisto based fiasco that was being proposed. You can’t do much with over cooked turkey and vegetables, but it really saved it from being, frankly, inedible.

Christmas Dinner itself was made all the merrier by a surprise guest in the shape of my brother's latest paramour. Her Christmas Day attire wouldn't have looked out of place in Amsterdam's Red Light district; she single handedly polished off one of the bottles that I had earmarked for pairing with the cheeseboard. To her credit, the girl was knowledgeable, thanks to her if I ever find myself in the position of being an unemployed single mother, I know how to maximize my returns from trips to the Social Welfare office.

I’d had quite enough of the family by late afternoon, so retired to the kitchen to listen to some classical music, read some of a wonderful new book published on Charlemagne, and to feast on the wonderful cheeseboard I had prepared.

Finally, as I predicted, here is what the Brother got me for Christmas. I don’t know why I bother.

https://imgur.com/a/fZ1v4

_Kaiser_ wrote: »

It's much the same as Pat Shortt, or Mrs Browns Boys IMO. Beloved by many but the reason is beyond me.