Ask Audrey's guide to the perfect Christmas

There is still an air of mystery around Christmas Day. Particularly in Ireland, where nobody seems sure of the time you can have your first drink without someone saying you’re an alcoholic, says our columnist Ask Audrey

Family and Friends

Where would you be without your family at Christmas time? In Lanzarote, probably, having a ball. Unfortunately, I find myself stuck at home, in a house without enough seats, sitting around a fire that my mother has set to ‘volcano.’ The only good thing is that everyone has a smartphone now, so no one has said a word to each other in three days.

Still, I never miss a trip back to the folks over Christmas. Particularly since I heard a rumour that Dad might have changed his will. (I never take a risk on that front.) The most important thing is to have a night out and leave off a bit of steam. In Cork this usually starts with one or two, and ends with a sneaky puke on the Grand Parade at half three in the morning.

Still, it beats staying in, watching Birds of a Feather half-perched on the arm of the sofa because I’m the youngest child. At the age of 44. Or 28, if you’re that French guy I scored with in Crane Lane on Friday night. (I have your socks Pierre, or was it Didier?) My main outlet is meeting up with old friends from college (UCC, obvs) and realising that they haven’t changed a bit. Which is a shame really, because I hung around with a group of guys from Clonmel. You’d think someone would give them a bar of soap for Christmas. Although you’d be talking a lot of Imperial Leather to cover up the bang of Tipperary off of them.

Decorations

How do know if your neighbour is a norry? At Christmas time, his house is visible from the moon. Because if your neighbour has a giant illuminated Santa on his roof, you know what he’s getting for Christmas. A six pack of white socks from Heatons. (How bad?) Posh Cork doesn’t put up Christmas lights. Their houses are lit all year round, in case they get robbed by people who didn’t do Medicine in UCC. They don’t put up decorations around the house either, because that’s what the au pair is for. (Along with polishing Ken’s Bentley. It’s a car, don’t be so smutty.) According to my posh cousin, the blue-blood women in Douglas and Blackrock never bother with a tree.

I asked where do they put their Christmas presents? She said you can’t put a set of fake boobs under a tree. I said you should have gone to my hen party. (That was one of the mildest things that happened.) She said it’s still a big deal for Posh Cork to go out into the country and bring back some holly. (Most Blackrock women bring a Taser in case they meet an actual culchie.) I asked why would they bother with a country walk in this weather. She said it’s the only way to show off their Hunter Wellies with Swarovski crystals. These ladies are relentless!

Hospitality

Christmas on Leeside is all about spiced beef. And spiced beef is all about reminding people that Cork is like heaven on earth. Here is how it works. 1: Put spiced beef on a slow simmer, no later than November 25. 2: Wait until your house smells like a giant bag of clove rocks. 3: Greet everyone who comes to door with, “You wouldn’t get a smell like that above in Dublin!” If the caller is in fact from Dublin, force the spiced beef down their throat until they start to dial for an ambulance. (If the caller is from Limerick, hide your valuables.) That’s Cork hospitality for you.

As for drink, I’d recommend it. (I view it more as an anaesthetic, particularly when my Conor’s sister calls with her kids. I know they’re gifted. I just wish they could be gifted to someone else.) If you are offering wine to a southsider, you’ll need to know something about it. (Other than it cost €4.99 in Lidl and tastes slightly better than toilet duck.) A good option here is to offer ‘a drop of the red we brought back from our second trip to Tuscany last summer; This will soften the cough of most southsiders, except from the posh end of the Douglas Road, where holidaying in Tuscany means you couldn’t afford Crookhaven. (Hardly anyone can these days.)

Present Value

A voucher says so much. Such as, I barely had time to buy this on Christmas Eve before meeting my cousin in the Imperial for four bottles of Prosecco. And I want to make it clear I spent more on you, than you did on me.

You need to careful about the money-value of your gift this year. It was perfectly acceptable during the recession to put a €20 limit on presents. Particularly since that was slightly more than the value of your house. However, now that half of Cork are property millionaires again (I call them southsiders), it might be time to revise that €20 upwards. I have strong evidence that people are back up around €40 again, even in Glounthaune. (They’re like Cavan people with knobs on.)

It’s still a minefield, giving presents to someone who is better off than yourself. My posh cousin views Christmas as a time for giving. As in giving me no option but to admit she is richer than me. (All because she married some landowner from Glanmire.) The downside is I feel inadequate for half an hour. The upside is I got a gleaming new Lexus off her last year. The downside is my neighbours in Ballinlough think I’ve started dealing drugs. They’re forever knocking on my door saying they’ve ‘run out of sugar.’ This area is on the slide. It won’t be long before we’re like Bishopstown.

The Big Day

Most people still refer to Christmas as The Big Day. That’s because it seems to go on for ages. Particularly if you started with a tin of Roses at 6 am while trying to show your four-year-old the rules of Grand Theft Auto V. (There aren’t any, but you need to exert some control on her moral compass.) There is still an air of mystery around Christmas Day. Particularly in Ireland, where nobody seems sure of the time you can have your first drink without someone saying you’re an alcoholic. The good news is people seem to think sparkling wine doesn’t count, so feel free to replace your Cornflakes with a glass of Prosecco. The bad news is you’ll probably fall asleep during Fair City. (If you really think that’s bad news, I feel sorry for you.) We don’t have Thanksgiving here. But most Irish families have a special Christmas-Day tradition, to show how grateful they are for what they have.

My posh uncle from Blackrock used to drive around the northside saying I’m glad I don’t live here. His wife still visits his grave every Christmas Day, to make sure he’s still dead. (She can’t believe her luck!)

Drinks

It’s considered acceptable now to invite your neighbours in for Christmas ‘drinks.’ This used to be called ‘a drink’ in the past, but we were only fooling ourselves. This is particularly popular in Posh Cork, where the residents enjoying sharing good will and tips on tax-efficient off-shore banking arrangements. (I hear the Revenue has another name for it.) It’s perfectly acceptable to use waiting staff at these events, particularly if you can find a maid’s uniform to fit your au pair.

There is every chance you’ll be offered food at one of these events. The chances are this is a tray of party food just out of the oven, unless the hosts are using the occasion to ram their wealth down other people’s throats (hello Sunday’s Well!). It’s not unusual to eat 17 samosas at these things and find yourself constipated until Patrick’s Day. So keep an eye on that one.

You’ll be expected to bring a bottle of wine. Anything from the bottom two shelves in the off-licence is a sign that you’re tight. (Or your people are from Bandon, which is effectively the same thing.) Anything from the top shelf will be kept by the hosts and drunk later themselves. (Particularly on the Douglas Road. That crowd didn’t get rich by serving quality wine to strangers.) So go for the second shelf from the top, and make sure to drink more than you brought. Otherwise, what’s the point?

The Real Meaning

It’s so easy to lose sight of the real meaning of Christmas. Particularly when you’re half blind from sauvignon blanc. (Sure, it’s only once a year.) For a lot of us, it’s about meeting family members home from Australia. And trying to stop yourself from screaming “I get it, the weather is fantastic and everyone goes around in shorts. Thanks for flying half way around the world to ask me how I can bear to live in Cork.”

From what I’ve heard, the locals in Australia would make Limerick look like a city of culture and learning. (Imagine!) Christmas is of course a time to pause and think about people who are less fortunate. (You can’t ignore the Norries all year around.)

I know the charity shops around town are stuffed with never-worn designer gear at this time of year. Mainly because Monica’s husband, Ken, in Blackrock, said she wasn’t allowed to have a fourth wardrobe. (I hear she has her own toilet in Brown Thomas.) And then there’s religion. I love to see the churches full of young people at Christmas, unsure of whether they should kneel or stand after the Holy, Holy, Holy, so they just stay sitting down, Snapchatting the hot Italian fella from marketing. That, for me, is what Christmas is all about.

Shopping

I tend to steer clear of town in the run-up to Christmas. It’s full of people from Kerry asking where’s a good place for lunch. At least I think that’s what they’re saying. I might have a better chance of understanding them if I stood closer, but then you have to deal with the smell. (No offence, obviously, if you’re from Kerry. And thanks for spending a small bit of money in Cork, rather than piling it all into giant houses on the road into Killarney. And I thought we were the snobby ones.) I try to keep away from supermarkets in December. I had to get a series of tests done due to a dicky stomach last year, on Christmas Eve.

The doctor said my blood was 31% Roses, and the rest was mainly Celebrations. I said I’ve a lot to celebrate, sure amn’t I from Cork. He said would you mind undoing your top. I said you could at least buy me a drink. He said Hi B, 8pm. I didn’t get home until New Year’s Eve. My Conor was devastated.

Dinner

You have to have a turkey. Otherwise people might form the impression that Christmas is about enjoying yourself. (I find turkey about as tasty as licking the Grand Parade on a Sunday morning.)

It worse if you’re Polish, and you have to eat carp. If that’s what Poles eat for Christmas, can you imagine what they put themselves through during Lent? (Serves their women right for being gorgeous.) I know people say that cranberry sauce is a must, but I think that’s mainly a British tradition. Which explains why it’s such a big hit in Kinsale. (Second only to wife-swapping, according to my sources on the ground.)

An alternative these days is the three-bird roast. Which is now a six-bird roast in Sunday’s Well, because you know how competitive they can get north of the Shaky Bridge.

There is something not right about having that for dinner. To be honest, I haven’t seen a crazier collection of birds since lady captain’s prize at Douglas Golf Club.