The first thing I should tell you about my relationship with Christmas is that I’m not saturated in essence of humbug. My approach to a big family Christmas is the same as my relationship with Mexican food: if it’s put in front of me I’ll enjoy it, but I probably wouldn’t ever purposely seek it out for myself.

With no family to speak of within 200 miles and with a fiancée who usually has to work on Christmas Day at her job as an NHS intensive care unit nurse, I’ve spent quite a few recent Christmas Days on my own in London. On the first year in particular, I admit I did slouch around the house with a face like a farrier’s anvil. But I now regard spending the day alone as something close to sapient, coming as it does with an entirely gratis dose of utter irresponsibility, a lack of relatives you don’t like hogging the downstairs loo and the freedom to eat and drink whatever you damn well please.

If you’re embarking upon this most potentially foetid of experiences, then there are some tips I’ve gleaned which can make the day a quiet joy and stop it descending into anything remotely approaching scrofulous torpor:

If turkey was such an amazing tasting meat then we’d eat it all year round. So salute your sabbatical from the festive roast with glee and relief, and don’t bother cooking anything at all. Indulge in a picnic of cold cuts which you should absolutely eat in bed if you wish.

Splash some cash on........

© The Spectator