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Such a magical time of the year, no?

My beloved wife, Lynette, loves Christmas very much. She puts up the tree, wraps gifts, scrubs the house, and rides herd on the process of me dealing with Christmas.


Because I’m not much of a fan.


This results in an interesting dynamic in the lead-up to the actual day, which we always try to spend with our little family and some close friends or “orphans” who have no other place to go for Christmas Day.


“Andrew wants you to roast a turkey this year.”


“Fuck him and fuck turkeys. I hate those fucken stupid fucken things. They all taste like dried bran that’s been shat out of a mule’s arse.”


“Don’t be like that. Maybe if you changed the stuffing…”


“I have stuffed those cunts with everything over the years. Sausage mince, cranberries soaked in brandy, breadcrumbs marinated in my own life-blood, figs with fig-fuck on them, lark’s arseholes, and an assortment of spices the fucken Dutch would have committed genocide over. Fuck the turkey. I’m not roasting a fucken turkey.”


“Maybe you’re cooking it wrong?”


“Oh, please! I have tried everything. Ovens, Webers, with Alfoil, without Alfoil, with intermittent Alfoil. I even spit-roasted the fucken thing once. Remember that disaster? We ate Maccas that Christmas because I could not get the ash off the bird with the Gerni. If Andrew wants a turkey, he can cook the cunt.”


“Stop screaming. There’s hate-foam in the corners of your mouth. So what will you do instead of a turkey?”


“I do a superb beef-rib roast. It is my signature dish. I have already spoken to the butcher about it.”


“Was that two days ago when you disappeared for three hours and came back smelling of cows?”


“I have an excellent relationship with my butcher. We must spend time together discussing my needs and his ability to meet them. It’s how these things work.”


“You also need to stop buying Christmas cakes. We have four now. One of the bastards weighs five kilos and has an entire orchard of glazed fruit on it frozen in two-inches of icing.”


“I fell in love with that one and had to have it. It’s like your thing with high-heels.”


“You always produce enough food to feed twenty people.”


“I am a wog. It’s how we roll. You cannot even imagine the shame I would bring to my name if it looked like we could not feed our guests until they fainted. Do you want people to think we’re poor?”

“Well, we’re not exactly rich.”


“But we must look like we are!”


“Most of our guests are crazy drunks. They don’t eat all that much anyway.”


“Fuck! Do you think we have enough piss? I have to get ice as well! Remind me to get ice on Christmas Eve!”


“You have all three fucken fridges filled to bursting, three eskies ready for ice, and more whiskey than an Irish boxing match.”


“You’re right. It’s not enough.”


“Where are you going now?”


“I need to get some stuff.”


“What stuff?”


“How the fuck do I know until I see it?”


“You’re yelling again.”


“I am not yelling at you. We have a big house and the acoustics sometimes need the volume turned up. What are you writing down?”


“We’re going to need some salad stuff. And that does not mean you have to come back with 30kg of tomatoes and a hessian bag full of onions, OK?”


“As if you know anything about making fucken salads…”


“I’m the one who makes the fucking salads, fucker!”


“I help. It’s not all you.”


“You dress it, for fuck’s sake. All the while screaming at me to bark out ‘Yes, Chef!’ like that disgusting, rude Pom prick on TV. You even tried to sack me three years ago.”


“Was that a turkey year?”


“I think so.”


“That’s why this year will not be a turkey year.”



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Boris Mihailovic

Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.

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