I still remember the first proper Christmas I celebrated in the UK.
I’d packed to visit my then-partner’s place in the Midlands, full of festive cheer and a suitcase filled with cute outfits. Anyway, most of them returned to London unworn, because nobody told me that a proud British tradition is that you simply don’t leave the house for the entire period. Maybe you have a turkey-stuffed toddle around the nearest green space, but that’s about it.
It’s considered the height of bonding to lock your entire family in a house for days, marinate everyone in enough alcohol to give the NHS app heart palpitations and then let them loose on each other while someone shushes everyone else because the Doctor Who special is about to come on.
Christmas in Singapore, where I grew up, is just one more day in which to indulge the national pastimes of shopping and eating. The shops don’t close. Restaurants stay open. You don’t have to be trapped in a living room with your uncle, whom you only ever see on Boxing Day, going on about how Donald Trump might actually be good for the global economy.
One of the great cons about life on this sceptred isle is that the actual beating heart of British-ness is never promoted abroad – somewhat understandably, because it would be terrible PR.
Foreigners think it is all high tea and scones when instead it is chippie dinners, chipped mugs of builder’s tea and nipping out for a fag at work so you can complain about your boss – not exactly the stuff of glamour. Nowhere is this more obvious than in how we celebrate the holidays.
The Germans are the originators of jolly Christmas markets and glühwein, the French celebrate Papa Noel and indulge in foie gras, and the Brits have – well, we have 15 different types of alcohol, which we will competitively chug over four days, along with some extra-special varieties that we only drink in December (advocaat, I’m looking at you).
We start early with prosecco and orange juice in the morning – a transcendent, hope-filled gesture towards health and vitality. Alas, by the end, we are spiritually – sometimes physically – crawling on the floor, raiding the cupboards for whatever’s left. A dusty bottle of Chambord mixed with cranberry juice and the dregs from a Disaronno that your dad’s colleagues gave him when he retired? Bartender, one more!
Maybe my biases are coming in to play – I have an alcohol allergy. I’d literally break out in hives even if the baby Jesus himself passed me a glass of mulled wine. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to this country’s baffling traditions.
I’d assumed, based on how everyone around me kept going on about it, that Christmas dinner was something unique. But no: it’s a Sunday roast with a few extra bits thrown in, and they don’t even bring that much to the table. Bread sauce, for instance, is just beige chunks. I’ll happily eat it, but I can’t quite get over the feeling that it looks like something a peasant toddler would have sicked up in the 12th century.
Maybe this is why supermarkets are now pushing increasingly deranged showstopper offerings, like M&S’s build-your-own charcuter-tree and Lidl’s giant gravy yacht – anything to jazz up a meal that you could order from a high street Wetherspoon’s on any given Sunday.
Up until recently, my Singaporean mum tried her best to recreate a traditional Christmas dinner, but she chafed against the cultish strictures of the meal, including the idea that everyone had to be present for it on the 25th. Depending on her mood and extended family scheduling conflicts, the sit-down gets postponed all the way up till the 29th.
More crucially, why did the British waste precious stomach space on subpar dishes like brussels sprouts when there were so many superior foods that could join the party? This leads to the following, often-delayed annual buffet: turkey (reasonable), ham (makes sense), potatoes (appropriate), smoked salmon on a bed of lettuce (the seeds of destruction are being sown here), satay (excuse me?), coleslaw (you have got to be kidding) and, for extra carbs, spaghetti bolognese with Kraft cheese melted on top. I know, what?
But there’s just something to be said for a chicken satay chaser after roast ham. This too could be you, if you liberated yourself from tradition.
Brits insist that our way of doing things is superior – even though our stomachs and livers might disagree. There’s so much needless expectation around this period – the idea that everything has to be just right, otherwise it’s somehow a personal failure.
But if everyone collectively embraced the idea that the way we celebrate in Britain is objectively strange and weird, maybe we can let ourselves off the hook, so we won’t be so disappointed if the roasties are a little off or your brother forgot to pick up the cranberry sauce from Tesco.
Or just bin off whatever doesn’t work for you and make up your own traditions – this year, for instance, my mum has decided that we’re going out for sushi on the big day. Now even I have to admit that’s a little strange.
Zing Tsjeng is a journalist, non-fiction author, and podcaster
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