Tuesday January 6/2015
Cut to me, sitting in front of Christmas Eve dinner take two: yet another traditional holiday meal composed of bangers, maple bacon brussel sprouts, and a variety of cheeses. Josh and I had set up camp for an evening of Christmas cinema at its finest, Adaptation. Ok, so nothing about this evening in any way related to the holidays, but at least I was with family and not Mr Bean, soaking in a puddle of my own tears. Plus, Meryl Streep is really quite a lot like a mother figure to me, so it was nice to have her a part of our evening. I actually can't even say that much. I was passed the hell out seconds after the opening credits. I woke at 2:00am, frantic, immediately stating I had to go home. That whole, "How will Santa find me if I'm not in my house?!" thing really sticks with you over time. The crisp, early morning winter air, had me wide awake as I walked past silent neighbourhoods, imagining Mr. Claus delivering his Christmas cheer all over the slumbering city of London. I smiled as I thought of home. Right now, my family would be nestled around a couple of Hot Rocks at our dinner table (a strange Christmas Eve Dinner tradition that we have committed to for more years than I can remember). My Mom would be on her second glass of merlot, and giggling every time my Dad stole a readily cooked garlic sausage from her designated cooking area. She would have baked more than enough homemade bread for the evening, but would also make sure to compensate by eating the majority of it. My Dad, at this point, would resign to the couch, switching seamlessly to his Forty-Creek whisky (my parents aren't alcoholics, despite my contradictory description. However, it would explain my booze prone tendencies. That shit is hereditary). My Papa Joe would be telling long tales of his time spent in the war, while his wife sits patiently beside him, verbally editing his stories as he went, and reminding him softly that he'd already told us that one.
By the time I reached my English flat, it was half two. My Canadian family would be saying their goodbyes, and wishing each other a Merry Christmas. Once her guests had left, my Mom would pull out the "back up" baking from the downstairs freezer. If I were home, we'd all cozy around the FAKE Christmas tree my parents invested in the moment I moved out, despite my aggressive protest, and watch White Christmas. My Dad's snoring would soon harmonize Bing's angelic voice, and the two of us girls would be left to bask in the cheesiness we love so dear.
As I curled up next to Bah Jangles, and Clambato in my big, empty bed, I set up my computer, wished my parents a Merry Christmas from afar, and fell asleep to the sound of Bing Crosby dreaming of a White Christmas, as I dreamed of my Dad's snoring, and my mom's childish giggle.
The next morning I awoke to Elvis Presley and his Blue, blue blue blue Christmas. How I had managed to set a festive alarm for Christmas morning, both surprised and impressed me. Louise was set to arrive in half an hour, which meant I had another fifteen minutes to snooze, and the remainder to frantically make my flat look liveable. Dressed in her finest Christmas Jumper, and me in mine, we welcomed Christmas morning with an abundance of mimosas, an array of holiday cheeses (I have to stop eating so much cheese; New Years resolution No. 1), a classic viewing of Horrible Bosses 2, and a mini-mani (for how on Earth can you celebrate Christmas without Christmas inspired nail polish?). Once our nails had dried, and our first bottle of champagne had emptied, it was off to spread Holly Jolly jolliness to one and all! We were a li'l bit buzzed at this point (accent on the li'l bit, for when I'm buzzed I tend to don a cockney inspired accent. Ok, I don't need to be buzzed to do this. I do this all the time. I have no shame). First stop, The Alexandra, where we most certainly did NOT smuggle Baileys into the pub. It was clearly hot chocolate. God, we're not animals. Next stop was Casa del Brother Beamish for Christmas brunch. Now, here is where I believe my inability to get holiday hammered initiated. I had every intention to get absolutely ass backwards smashed on Christmas day, so much so that I made sure to make zero boxing day plans as a means of a heavy recuperation period. Alas, I did not get so much as ass forwards drunk. (Although a dear, British friend of mine would, days later, tell me he begged to differ). And this is, I believe, why: Our brunch menu consisted of two courses. To begin, Joshua created three, full sized omelettes equipped with all the fixings, and accompanied with bacon and mushrooms. In between courses we sipped on more Baileys and uncorked our second bottle of bubbly. At this point I was content, and pleasantly full. But who could turn down french toast with fried bananas, roasted hazelnuts, and fresh blackberries, all drizzled in authentic Canadian maple syrup? No one. The answer is no one. And so, as I previously mentioned, my fault for the day was choosing food over booze. If I had not stuffed my face all day, I would have sailed on a perfect buzz which would lead to an entire night of festive drunkenness. But, I love food. Hashtag no regrets.
It was late afternoon at this point, and time to force ourselves to move on, regardless of our bodies' desire to slip into a permanent food coma. Another pit(y) stop at the Falcon, to visit our friend Harry, and remind ourselves of how blessed we are that the Unnamed bar chose to close over the holidays, preventing us from having to pull pints on Jesus's special day. There, we met up with a couple of bar wenches from the Alex after they closed the infamous bar. Australian Brad (who somewhat resembles a younger Tom Hardy, if Tom showered less, drank more, and grew a handle bar moustache) and this other British guy, I believe his name is Kieran, but I'm not certain. We were merely passing time, and trying to digest, before arriving at our final destination for the evening, The Railway. Being our neighbouring bar, Louise and I know the managers quite well (perhaps too well) and were therefore extended an invite to their after hours Christmas dinner lock in. With Brad and the other one as our plus one's, we were greeted with shots of Jaegermeister (which happens to be a digestif; quite fitting for my current state, and necessary considering the ridiculous amount of food I was surely soon to devour). And ridiculous it most certainly was! My plate could have easily fed an entire village of emaciated African children. But instead it fed only me. As did Bradley's brussel sprouts. And that British guy's brussel sprouts. Needless to say, by the end of the meal we were zombies. Gluttonous, carnivorous (what zombies aren't?), sluggish, less than jolly zombies. The Brit actually managed to fall asleep on the pub's couch. Out cold for hours, despite various people's cruel tactics to wake him. The rest of the evening was fairly tame, and felt quite a lot like a typical Christmas at home. Bellies full, eyelids heavy, bodies sprawled over furniture, mild and sporadic conversation to be had, but always a constant flow of alcohol. For we are not quitters, and the night was still young. Potential was a mere arms length (and litre bottle of grass infused vodka) away. By around 1:00am, Josh's incessant demands that Christmas is not Christmas without after dinner pie (he's right, to be fair) were finally taken seriously and forty-five minutes later Santa (Josh) appeared with his sack (two styrofoam take away boxes) filled with presents for everyone (an endless amount of individual apple pies). How he managed to find a chipper open at 1:00am on Christmas stumps me to this day. 'Tis the magic of Christmas! Two magical pies, and a few too many scoops of maple ice-cream that him and his accomplice had found at the back of the pub's freezer, and it was official. In the fight between boozy fun and consuming my weight in food, food had won. And it was time for me to put down the vodka I'd been milking for the past hour and a half, and surrender to it's victory. After acknowledging the fact that Santa wasn't the only one who could jiggle his belly like a bowl full of jelly, I dragged my fat ass home and into bed. Despite having my family, my Irishman, and myself all in different countries, I couldn't have thought of a better way to have spent my orphan Christmas. Jesus was good to me. Thank you Jesus. And Happy Birthday.
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