A FAMILY CHRISTMAS

1970s Style!

Gill Sherry

Whilst my childhood memories of Christmas are all happy ones, my earliest memory of Christmas Day sees me sitting beside the twinkling lights of our artificial tree, sick bowl on my lap, trying to unwrap my presents between serious bouts of vomiting.

I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with Cliff Richard’s festive crooning and was more likely a virus brought home from school which just happened to peak on the morning of December 25th. I’d like to blame it on those evil green bullets otherwise known as Brussels sprouts (Mum had a habit of hiding them under my turkey), but the timing suggested otherwise.

I did manage to sit at the table when dinnertime finally arrived, encouraged by my invisible friend. Apparently, imaginary friends are a completely normal and healthy part of childhood development, so I have no sense of shame admitting that I had one. My only embarrassment is that I don’t remember her name. Anyway, Mum and Dad were happy to indulge me, setting a place for her at the table – complete with Christmas cracker – and serving her up a wee plate of food. Meanwhile, Scamp, the family Jack Russell, sat patiently beside the empty chair, paper hat slightly askew, waiting for the guaranteed leftovers. There were no pigs in blankets in those days, but he seemed happy enough with his turkey.

There were usually eight of us around the table, including an uncle that we only ever saw once a year. My dad would collect him from his home on Christmas morning and take him back again after dinner. Some would describe him as eccentric but to me that suggests a certain flamboyance and joie de vivre, whereas Uncle ‘Nip’ could boast neither of those things. On the contrary, he was a loner who lived a simple life and was unfamiliar with the rules of social etiquette. Not a good thing when consuming evil green bullets in large quantities. Trust me when I say that vomit and flatulence do not mix well.

In the absence of scented candles (yet to feature in 1970s Coventry), a mist of pine air freshener would do its best to disguise the pungent odour, at the same time causing a chorus of coughs in the sitting room.

Once transferred from dining table to armchair, his gravy-stained jumper stretching across his stomach, Uncle ‘Nip’ would switch orifices when it came to dispelling unwanted air, belching over Bruce Forsyth’s Generation Game as he ate his way through the Quality Street tin.

A collective sigh of relief could be heard when Dad finally jangled his car keys, prompting reluctant hugs followed by a quick run round with the carpet sweeper. It also drew an invisible line between afternoon and evening which resulted in my nan asking for a snowball. What looked like a banana milkshake was actually advocaat and lemonade, topped with a glazed cherry. Even now, decades later, if someone mentions a snowball, I always think of my nan’s lop-sided grin as she polished off her second cocktail, rather than the ice-cold missile thrown in school playgrounds.

Advocaat only ever appeared at Christmas, along with Mateus Rosé, dates, brandy butter, pickled red cabbage and a selection of nuts. Mum would sit with a bowl of walnuts and Brazil nuts, cracking the shells as she admired the lines of Christmas cards strung across the chimney breast. All was well until my sister’s nut allergy flared up and Mum’s munching came to an abrupt end.

With only three TV channels to choose from, entertainment was limited. Prime time viewing saw Morecambe and Wise up against Tommy Cooper after which a game of charades was preferred over whichever black and white films were repeated, yet again, on the tele. Come to think of it, everything was black and white then. We didn’t get a colour TV until the late 70s.

My nan was not great at charades. She could never master the art of placing two fingers on her forearm to represent two syllables, using the offensive V-sign instead, much to everyone’s amusement. She wasn’t very good at keeping quiet either, more often than not speaking the clues (and sometimes the answers) out loud.

They were happy days. No gadgets, no distractions, no pressure. Just simple, family fun. And the fun continued beyond Christmas Day, as friends arrived on Boxing Day night for cold turkey, cheese and pineapple on sticks, and a selection of vol-au-vents. Gaudy camping chairs were brought in from the garage and placed haphazardly around the lounge, a make-shift bar was set up in the kitchen – bottles of Pomagne, Gordon’s Gin, Martini Rosso and Babycham front and centre – and Engelbert Humperdinck’s Christmas Tyme album played joyously in the background.

These festive get-togethers were as traditional as Christmas Day itself and were attended by so-called aunts and uncles who were in no way related but felt close enough to be family, thus earning themselves affectionate titles. Uncle Roger used to smoke, so it was a different kind of smell that loitered on December 26th, secondhand smoke inhalation of no concern in the 1970s.

The game of choice on those party nights was Twister. Much hilarity ensued as limbs tangled, sock-clad feet slipped, and bodies collapsed in a heap of hysterics. It remained a firm favourite until someone chucked up on the vinyl mat. Without a sprout in sight, we all blamed the prawn vol-au-vents, but it could easily have been last year’s advocaat, the six-month rule disregarded after a sniff of the dusty bottle and a quick wipe with a wet cloth.

Modern dining, décor and entertainment options mean our festivities look very different nowadays. But whilst Arctic rolls, paper chains, and miming games may be a thing of the past, a family Christmas remains very much the same as we spend time with those we love and remember those we’ve lost. Hopefully, without a sick bucket in sight!