Have a good one!

I write this from my hopelessly childish bedroom back at home, in which the rugs are baby pink and my piano playing certificates are up on the wall. Apparently I’ve grown up: Pink is no longer my favourite colour, but I can still play ‘Good King Wenceslas’ on the piano…

Being at home for Christmas is heavenly: The heating works, there is always hot water available and a fridge full of food that can provide endless amounts of snacks.

Clare Matthews-Worth would normally provide all you lovely readers of The Tab with a witty insight into her life, and I looked forward to hearing her hilarity upon arrival home for Christmas. But, in the true spirit of student living, heading home and taking time to relax rather than drink excessively, has meant that she has come down with the world’s worst flu and she is in her sick bed. The silver lining of course being that she’s at home, so her Ma is probably nursing her back to good health in time for Christmas. Get well soon Clare. We all look forward to hearing how her Christmas goes… Will she get a date for New Year’s? Watch this space.

So, this week you’ve got me, the slightly disorganised, scatty, but mostly sober Editor to wish you a very Merry Christmas. We’ve also taken on the hugely sarcastic and talented writer Jimmy Rees, to shed a little Christmas cynicism on the season. You can read his article here.

Here’s hoping that your festive period is enjoyable. Don’t do what I did a few Christmases ago…

Picture the scene: I had just got home from my Christmas job at 7pm on Christmas eve, to a hyperactive mother who informed me that we were to go round to our neighbour’s house for Christmas drinks. I politely told my mother – who had donned a tinsel scarf – that I was simply too tired for socialising. She ordered me to shut it, have a shower and to follow them round a little later.

So I did.

On my arrival at the neighbour’s house, I asked if I might have an orange juice. Naturally, I was handed a glass of champagne. This glass was never empty and before I knew it, the party games had begun.

As part of a quietly competitive family, we began taking the games very seriously. First was the sticky note on forehead game, on which a famous name was written. I correctly guessed, after a mere four questions, that I was Tim Henman.

The games went on. Next, it was the infamous cereal box game. Every round, several centimetres were cut off the height of the box, and the player must reach down to pick it up, without their hands touching the floor. I’m pleased to say both my brother and I were finalists. (A perfected technique.)

The games climaxed with the key on a long string game: the teams stand parallel to eachother and the key is woven in and out of each player’s clothing. This game got hopelessly competitive. Unfortunately however, I was a part of the losing team over the course of several rounds. The forfeit? Too many shots of vodka. Who said country bumpkins were boring?

I soon realised that I was completely and utterly pissed. More pissed than I had ever been before. It dawned on me when I was stood outside smoking a fag with my neighbour, in front of my mother and father who didn’t even know I smoked… I then proceeded to drink more and more wine and finished the night with some god awful concoction of spirits.

To cut a long story short, I awoke on Christmas morning covered in my own sick.

Have a great Christmas!