A true and accurate account of Christmas with the family Terry. Up north.
The train home for Christmas is always exciting and full of seasonal cheer. Once you’ve got over the jostling for space, elbows in your face and pensioners with bad attitude who are clearly sitting in your pre-booked seat and must MOVE, dodgy hip or not.
My little sister, Philly, is waiting to greet me at Chester station. At first I don’t notice her as she is wearing some kind of cunning disguise. A Santa disguise.
Sam, my folks’ six-stone bundle of Labrador fun, is accompanying her. He is wearing reindeer antlers at a jaunty angle, tied under his chin with a ribbon. Apparently they drove to town dressed like that, even stopping for petrol on the way.
Get back to Terry Towers, and within the first 30 minutes Sam has stuck his tongue in my mouth, bitten me on the elbow and broken the toe of Terry Terry, head of the Terry clan. He is a BAD DOG but, oh, so very handsome.
2pm. Philly heads off to her work Christmas lunch. She says she’s not planning to drink very much and will be back around tea time.
2am. Philly is standing outside my parent’s bedroom calling for our mum. She’s fallen down the stairs outside Rosie’s, Chester’s premier nitespot, and has a cut on her head and blood down her dress.
You can’t buy class like that.
24th Dec – Christmas Eve
Mrs Terry informs me that I have a moustache.
I like to pride myself on being hair free and carefree so have never considered facial hair a problem area. Mrs Terry begs to differ. So offended is she by the sight of my “lustrous and flowing” lip hair that she offers to pay to have it removed and even drives me to the salon.
It really bloody hurts but at least I will wake up on Christmas Day ‘tache free
25th Dec – Christmas Day
Wake up with a moustache. A rash moustache.
A bad reaction to the wax has left me with a fine coating of red pimples all over my upper lip.
Mrs Terry chooses today to relate that when she fell pregnant with me Terry Terry wanted her to abort.
It is unclear whether the sight of the rash has prompted this outburst.
26th Dec – Boxing Day
The red ‘tache has gone and been replaced by pulsating white-heads. I look pestilent and refuse to leave the house.
“Don’t squeeze them,” advises my mum.
“Of course not, Mum, I’m not stupid,” I reply
I have squeezed the spots.
Catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror in M&S and realise that the combination of red scabs and industrial strength foundation I’ve been forced to slather on make me look as though I’m hiding a shaving rash.
I look like a tranny. And not a very convincing one.
A peaceful day.
The dog was driven into a biting frenzy by the hits of Michael Jackson, Terry Terry wore a false nose and glasses combo all day for reasons known only to himself and Mrs Terry brought out the crackers and Christmas pudding (mysteriously absent from Christmas Day itself – it transpired she’d forgotten where she’d hidden them).