Jesus H. Christ. What a fucking night of debauchery. You’re supposed to feel reborn this morning but you don’t. Disprin wasn’t one of the disciples, was he, but he should’ve been. That’s right, Christmas fucking Day. You wake up and you’re hoping Mr. Claus has been good to you. Then comes the big kahuna: more eating and drinking! Christmas lunch with the relatives. People that are the same family but from a different planet. They arrive with potato bakes, warm beer (Christ, where do they still find Lion lager!) and red napkins with Santa on them. The Cat Stevens starts to play. Your aunt shows you the 2 million photographs she’s taken this year because she thinks she’s the new Annie Leibowitz. Your uncle gives you a big slap on the back and paraphrases Robert Kiyosaki’s Rich Dad, Poor Dad for 15 painful minutes. Your cousins are at least cool. If you’re living in Welkom. During the 60’s. In a fallout shelter. Lunch time! Graca corks pop. The JC Le Roux flows like it were champagne. Put on your paper hat. Snap that fucking cracker. What’d you get! Yes, a little bit of deaf-in-one-ear, yay! Table full of food. Gammon so dry the water glasses move toward it in sympathy. You decide not to overdo it. You nibble on some salad while your cousin’s strange dog nibbles on the edge of your favourite chair. Everyone sucks in food like it’s the last they’ll ever see. Somehow, you end up eating three plates full. You loosen that top button. You sip more wine. Cat Stevens wasn’t lying; it’s a wide fucking world if you eat this much. But you’re done. You’re finished. You can hardly breathe, let alone think about more food. Then the mince pies come out. Fuck.
