Twelve obsessive Christmas details to get right or you've failed as a mother and a woman

ARE you a mum under pressure to organise a perfect Christmas? Good. Forget any of these, and you’ve ruined it for everyone, you heartless bitch: 

Stockings for presents must be premium quality

Decorative stockings should be huge, woollen and festive, ideally from John Lewis and costing £15. A pillowcase might seem fine, but proves you are completely without mothering instincts and your children would be better off in care.

Parboiled potatoes must not fall apart

Your roast potatoes must be crunchy and cooked in duck fat which will require earlier parboiling. If you fail to keep an eye on them and they start breaking up, sickening excuses like ‘There’ll be more edges to get crispy’ fool nobody. Do them again.

Santa’s mince pie must be of quality

The comestibles left for Santa and his reindeer must be a home-baked mince pie, organic carrots and a single malt whiskey. Cursorily tossing a digestive on a saucer will shatter the whole fantasy of Christmas and destroy your children’s lives.

Your husband must be gifted an activity day

All male partners have a deep desire to experience things such as driving a supercar, crafting something in an iron forge or visiting Jeremy Clarkson’s farm. If you do not arrange this he is entirely justified in having sex with a neighbour or prostitute.

Send elderly parents to a West End musical

Loving daughters book their tickets for The Lion King or similar, even if they have expressed no interest in this. The show must be preceded by a cream tea at Selfridges with you taking care of all travel arrangements. Anything less means you hate them.

Christmas decorations must be exquisite

The days of tossing some cheap Taiwanese baubles on the tree are over. Now they must be exquisite miniature artworks in their own right. Yes, Disney characters rendered in Swarovski crystal don’t come cheap, but you can sell a kidney and still make a sumptuous Beef Wellington for Boxing Day as you were surely planning.

Normal sprouts are no longer any good

Nowadays sprouts must be served with lardons, chestnuts and honey butter. You were just planning to peel and boil them? Unbelievable. Your poor husband, being married to a slut.

Make a gingerbread house

A lovely addition to Christmas, and no, you can’t buy one. This is to bond with your children over, although you will do all the work when they get bored.

Play traditional board games

It is your duty to reverse the tide of history and stop Christmas being dominated by phones and TV. Family members must be forced to play charades, ring tossing and board games. Only then will you have proved you are worthy of love.

Visiting a winter wonderland

Vet thoroughly beforehand. If an elf momentarily breaks character in front of your children you’ll have completely ruined the Christmas magic. Consider walking out of your family’s life and allowing your spouse to marry a new, prettier mummy.

Making s’mores

American and requires endless faff sourcing ‘graham crackers’ and searing marshmallows over a gas ring. But if you don’t have an on-trend display of transatlantic cultural awareness you will lose your offspring to TikTok.

You must ensure a white Christmas

It doesn’t matter how. Hire a snow machine, worship the Norse god of snow Ullr, frantically snip flakes off an ice block like Edward Scissorhands, but there must be snow. Without it you have failed to make Christmas perfect and should rightfully commit seppuku, but then who would make bread sauce the laborious way from stale bread and cloves?

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If Chris Rea wished to be known for his other work, he chose an inopportune time to leave us

CHRIS Rea, the Middlesbrough-born singer-songwriter who wanted to be known for his more serious work, has departed this life at exactly the wrong time for that. 

The husky-voiced singer, born in 1951, always hoped to be recognised for his blues songs and slide-guitar playing which there would have been a better chance of had he not passed away on December 22nd.

Losing him in June, while still tragic, would have meant radio stations playing his songs On The Beach or Auberge, sunny tracks evoking Mediterranean holidays and long, lazy nights.

His number one hit The Road To Hell, a prescient track evoking dystopian futures, would come to mind. It would not be inappropriate to play that in September. It is now.

Unfortunately, Rea’s passing came in the very month which a different hit of his, one not particularly representative of the musical path he chose to follow, has been played in saturation. We have heard it in every shopping centre, on every playlist.

It is impossible, therefore, for any of us to immediately associate Rea with anything other than that. Indeed, a text from your most banter-focused mate with the most obvious joke possible is probably how you found out.

Rest in peace, Chris Rea. The coincidence was untimely but real.

And a word of advice to Mariah Carey: if you wish to be remembered for your many diamond albums, for the best-selling songs of the 90s and 00s respectively, for inventing the hip hop remix with Fantasy? Try to pass on in summer.