Spending Christmas with Family: the Drinking Game
You wake up to find your sister's bichon frise eating your advent calendar. Drink.
Christmas Eve, and you discover no mince pies have been bought in as your mother "thought she'd try baking them from scratch" for the first time. You bloody love mince pies, and your mother can't bake. Drink.
Mid-way through baking mince pies for the first time, it becomes evident that your mother believes chopped almonds and ground almonds are interchangeable. Quick bash with a rolling pin later and into the pastry they go. Drink.
Late on Christmas Eve, you remember your parents don't think cheeseboards are a thing. "There's plenty of Babybels?", your mother proffers. Down your drink.
Your sister informs you Daniel - shouty, awful, irredeemably stubbly Daniel - was her favourite contestant on this year's Apprentice. Drink your sister's drink.
Half-way through a mangled mince pie, your father asks you what [insert absent partner's name] is doing today. For the sixth time. Drink.
You realise Kylie Minogue's Kiss Me Once tour was on TV last night but you forgot thanks to a toxic combination of snowballs, the bulk-bought garage Peroni, and FAMILY. Drink.
Wrapping presents becomes a welcome excuse to lock yourself in the dining room, alone, for two hours. Drink.
An 18 year war of attrition over certain siblings' inability to replace toilet roll is reignited, more furiously than ever before ("WERE YOU BORN IN A FIELD"). Drink.
Mid-dramatic moment in the book you've been trying to finish, your father asks you what [insert still absent partner's name] is doing today. FOR THE EIGHTEENTH GODDAMN TIME. Yell, feel guilty, down your drink.
Your parents treat your objectively sensible suggestion that they purchase bags of pre-frozen ice with the kind of suspicion and scorn usually reserved for Shoreditch, leaving you to grapple with novelty poodle ice cube trays every time you go near the freezer. Drink a lukewarm G&T, choke on a partially frozen poodle leg.
Christmas morning, and your younger sister unwraps a MacBook Air ("How else will I write my dissertation?"). Drink, bitterly.
The bichon frise is accidentally shut in the garage at some point during present proceedings and only rescued when it comes to getting the hoover out several hours later. Drink, happily.
Meanwhile, the family poodle manages to make off with a bag of your sister's chocolate brussels sprouts. Drink, mutter something about karma.
The 2010 Glee Christmas album - I know, right - reaches its twelfth spin of the holidays. Drink, copiously.
The traditional Christmas walk takes some time longer than usual, drawn out by your sister's need to take selfies at every vaguely scenic juncture. Note to self - drink when back home. Note to self - buy hipflask.
Your mother's festive nerve begins to crumble under the pressure of cooking turkey, ham and potatoes all at the same time; threatens a return to microwaveable sprouts next year. Lend a hand, drink.
Sat around the table for Christmas dinner, your father cracks one of his lame jokes and you laugh despite yourself. What would Shoreditch think. Drink.
Sat around the table for dessert, flushed with turkey and liberally coated in bread sauce, you again come to understand why it is you put up with these people year on year, and that actually, for all your sarky internet quips, there's nowhere else you'd rather be. Drink, merrily, into your sister's next selfie.