Bruce Devlin on Christmas
Our new ‘man at the back’, comedian Bruce Devlin, shares with us how he’s feeling ahead of Christmas…
Christmas is coming and Bruce is getting fat. Well, not as fat as I could be; thankfully I recently won an Instagram body transformation package courtesy of @paultaylorpersonaltraining. I figure that, as I plan on becoming rotund again throughout Yuletide, I should do something in the run-up so I can continue eating and drinking right through to January.
My preconceived overindulgence reminds of the time my dog and I improvised a "book club” after Santa left me two epic reads underneath the Christmas tree: Between You and Me by Lorraine Kelly and My Story by Dannii Minogue. The second of which I still can’t bear to look at after Dannii blocked me on Twitter. Anyway, that’s a story for another day. Back to said “book club”, I found that, as my mind was expanded, so too was my waistband. Everyone knows that the ideal snack for book-clubbing is a cheeseboard; I’d sit down to read and cheese board twice daily for seven days in a row, so I’ll leave my brie intake to your imagination…
Though, I should have started getting fit for Christmas at the end of summer, because every adult knows that Christmas doesn’t last a day—it takes up seven months of the year.
It starts in August with faux-outrage about Selfridges’ newly-opened Christmas Shop. Then, come September, the mince pies are rolled out at the end of the aisle in Tesco. Before you know it, the tubs of sweets with jewel-tone wrappers lay in wait as soon as Halloween passes, much like the ghosts of my former trim self. Then there are the inevitable Boxing Day sales which, let’s face it, stick around until February. I don’t mean to sound like the Grinch, but it’s all a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?
Maybe I am a bit of a Grinch. My Christmases were nothing short of hellish growing up, and it’s all down to my mother! Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother but as my father wasn’t around (and the fact I've always been demanding and selfish), I’d always take on the brunt of her festive stresses. Looking back, I did provoke her a great deal; I remember screaming at her that I didn’t believe in the baby Jesus, to which her reaction was to run after me whilst simultaneously whipping a rolled-up dish towel. Getting the decorations up and down from the loft also proved to be a tipping point. I’d fling them up there with such carelessness that, the following year upon taking them down again, they’d all be smashed to smithereens; a crime scene left undiscovered for 360 or so days. Oh, the tears that were shed over fused lights and decapitated porcelain angels…
As for the meal? That’s a commotion in a league of its own. The bird was never cooked properly, so my mother would present it to us, pinkish on our plates, as she proclaimed; ‘You’s ‘ill have te eat it raw!”. It seems raw poultry was a delicacy in our house. Beneath it all though, I think I like Christmas. I see how it can be horrible for others; loneliness and the lack of funds can make you feel further isolated. It wasn’t until I became a parent myself – to my aforementioned Jackadoodle – that I realised what Christmas is truly about. The crap gifts, the often questionable (but still, in my opinion, edible) food, the fact it gets dark at 2:30 pm and that everyone knows a “working from home” day actually means staying in your onesie and guzzling box wine—I love it all. My mother, however, still hates it and isn’t afraid to tell people. “There’s too much Christmas and not enough money” is one of her favourite retorts—one I happen to agree with.
I guess the point I’m trying to make is; it doesn’t matter how small your budget or how big your jeans size may be, Christmas is a time to spend with those you love—even if they serve you raw turkey and hurl (lighthearted) abuse at you for not putting the decorations away properly. If you need me, you’ll find me staring at the cover of My Story and smashing cheese into my mouth, while my dog watches on.
Merry Christmas to you and yours. I’ll speak to you in the New Year.