Christmas

I was at home in Devon for the month of December. My sister was also there and her tyrannical, wildly fluctuating moods set the weather inside the house. She sleeps badly and usually appeared in the kitchen at 10 or 11 o’clock in a hagridden state, insane with anger at we know not what, daring anybody to wish her a good morning. I timidly observed one morning that the weather was quite mild for the time of year. She vehemently denied it and flew into a rage, presumably at Nature’s rivalry for supremacy over the climate. She has no culture or accomplishments and doesn’t work. Her only interest outside her

The new year challenge was to compose a thank-you letter for a particularly unenjoyable Christmas visit to relatives that manages to be diplomatic but deters them from ever inviting you again. This one obviously struck a chord. You produced a catalogue of seasonal torture that had me squirming in my judging throne: uncomfortable blow-up beds; minimal central heating; lecherous uncles; interminable Trivial Pursuit sessions; 2,000-piece jigsaws (‘all week spent on that dried-up riverbed from central Africa’ — Jeremy Carlisle); unpalatable vegan food; home-made celery, nettle and parsnip (mulled!) wine. And so it went on. There was nice work all round, but high fives in particular to William Casement, J.C.H. Mounsey,

From Nicky Haslam Q. Being considered something of a guru on the subject of things common, can you advise me how to finesse the host or hostess who asks, challengingly, ‘I suppose you think my twinkling decorations/strings of cards/mulled wine/sushi/antler headband/children are terribly common?’ A wan smile won’t suffice. A. Say, ‘Yes I do. You’re so clever to be in the vanguard. Common is the new chic.’ This is an extract from the Christmas issue of The Spectator. Subscribe here. 

Ever since my teens I’ve hated Christmas, but last year something happened which made me change my mind. On 20th December, my teenage son was struck down by bacterial meningitis. No rash, no stiff neck. He’d been off school the day before but we all thought it was just a nasty cold. By the evening he seemed to be on the mend. He wolfed down a huge supper and sat up on the sofa, watching TV, tormenting his little sister. In the small hours he started throwing up. He became incoherent, then unresponsive. By the time the ambulance arrived he was like a statue. By the morning he was in

Are we really, as David Cameron claimed in his Christmas message, a country shaped by ‘Christian values’? Yesterday’s Evening Standard poll – which found that shopping is three times more integral to Britons’ Christmas than going to church – makes you wonder what the phrase even means. It doesn’t just mean do-goodery, though that is important. About 10 million Britons get help from a church-based group every year. If you see a queue of homeless people in a town centre at about 6 o’clock in the evening, you can bet there are a bunch of God-botherers handing out sandwiches at the other end of it. Where there is poverty, physical illness, mental illness, unemployment, the

I was in Toys R Us in Brent Cross the other day with my kids, pondering the true miracle of Christmas — that thanks to capitalism, global poverty has halved in just a generation, and we are now able to feed, clothe and shelter record numbers of people — and buy them lots of presents. [datawrapper chart=”http://static.spectator.co.uk/7PcxR/index.html”] My two-year-old was screaming because he wanted some toy cars, just a handful of fun things among an awesome display of toys that are far better, and cheaper, than they were when I was a child — and available to more people, not just in Britain but across the world. Some of my

For the Spectator’s Christmas survey, we asked for some favourite seasonal rituals – and what to avoid at Christmas. Tim Rice ‘Once In Royal David’s City’ (all six verses, please) is the thing I love most. For a successful Christmas, avoid prosecco and prawns. Prosecco is not my favourite taste and prawns can play havoc with your stomach. Jilly Cooper My husband Leo and I used to dream up our own Christmas cards, and I still do. One year we had three black labradors in turbans in the middle of the desert. The caption was: ‘There came three wise dogs from the East, bearing bones, and being wise they ate them.’ The thing that

I thought you might enjoy a little parable for Christmas, so here goes… The boardroom clock said twelve minutes to one. A waft of gravy in the air indicated that Christmas lunch awaited in an adjacent room. One agenda item to go: Colin the company secretary made a throat-cutting gesture to Kevin from health and safety, who had exceeded his allotted time for a presentation on disposal of toxic waste from Indonesian supplier factories. Coming after Maureen the HR director’s Powerpoint on ‘issues around diversity’, this had entirely lost the attention of the board, most of whom, Colin observed, were fiddling with their phones under the table. Except for the

For the Spectator’s Christmas survey, we asked for some favourite seasonal rituals – and what to avoid at Christmas. Dan Snow My favourite thing is being allowed to ignore my phone and email for days on end, re-engaging with that vaguely remembered place, the now. However, avoid overindulgence the night before Christmas. The kids will wake up on the happy morn earlier than seems possible. Even by their own nocturnal standards.   Alain de Botton My favourite ritual is reminding everyone involved that we will, of course, be having a sad and tense Christmas; there will be arguments, frustration, bitterness and barely suppressed longings to be elsewhere with other (better, more interesting) people. The

For the Spectator’s Christmas survey, we asked for some favourite seasonal rituals – and what to avoid at Christmas. Clare Balding I love a good walk on Boxing Day followed by watching the racing at Kempton. Avoid the internet. Be present in the moment, enjoying time with family rather than being distracted by online conversations.   John Rutter I conduct Christmas concerts around the country in the weeks before Christmas, so by the time the day comes, I’m ready to veg out, going to Christmas morning service in King’s College Chapel (sitting back while someone else does all the hard work), and enjoying food, drink and family at home. The only thing I avoid