It used to be that I did make a bit of an effort with the Christmas dinner. I was cured of that by the Kelly Bronze turkey I dragged home from Borough Market on Christmas Eve with my customary Christmas respiratory complaint about seven years ago. That year I had made a pilgrimage to order it a week or so before, and then forced myself out to collect it in freezing conditions not compatible with my consumptive state. The only reason I made it home was the restorative shot of single malt at the butcher’s counter, with the BBC’s Jeremy Bowen for company; that was before they sent him off to Israel.
Anyway, I somehow heaved the mahoosive bird home and, in an even worse state of health on Christmas Day in the morning, was so sickened by the smell of the cooking bird I swore I’d never again a) travel that far for a bird b) pay that much for a bird c) defend the dark, free-range leg meat no-one wanted.
So between now and then I’ve dodged the issue by eating elsewhere mainly. I did do a Christmas dinner here about four years ago. I think there were crackers, something I realise I have forgotten to provide today, but who needs a party hat and compass anyway?
So that’s the preamble, here’s the confession: the whole Christmas confection has come from under this star (apart from the carrots which Alan Bartlett & Sons kindly grew for me). Note, this is not any old BP Christmas, this is an M&S Christmas. Ho ho ho.
There’s a epilogue to this sorry tale, eventuated by my not being able to resist popping into the BP Garage this very day to buy twiglets and fresh orange juice. I’ll see if I can relate that after the Queen’s Speech…