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Pissed on mulled cider and roast chestnut reflux: The gammon food critic's Victorian Christmas fayre

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who doesn’t get why we can’t just stick illegal immigrants in stables like they did with Jesus.

I CAN’T be arsed with Christmas. All that fuss and build-up then it costs a shitting fortune and is over in a flash, like when I pay for sex. Plus the pubs only open for lunchtime, which is cruel to blokes with families.

Speaking of which I’ll be spending it on my own in the flat as usual. The kids and grandkids will be with the ex-wife and her new bloke in their massive house the divorce settlement meant I basically bought for them. Fine by me, saves bothering buying presents.

But I don’t want to look like a complete Scrooge, so I’m off to a ‘traditional’ Victorian Christmas fayre, only without the tuberculosis and child labour. There’s a direct train from Birmingham too, which means I can indulge in the true meaning of Christmas, getting pissed.

First impressions and it’s about as Victorian as my arse. There’s stalls selling all manner of festive tat – overpriced decorations for the tree I won’t be putting up, snowman bloody bobble hats, and you’re never more than three metres away from someone selling sodding fudge.

The street food stalls are even worse. There’s one selling samosas. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure the Victorians didn’t live in a country full of foreigners trying to shove their food and customs down everyone’s throats. Better times if you ask me. I doubt rickets was that bad.

The prices are hardly Victorian either. Eight quid for a f**king hot dog? They’re taking the piss! Then there’s a stall selling pulled pork. ‘I can pull my own pork, thank you very much!’ I quip hilariously, only to be greeted with hostile looks from everyone. I thought Christmas was a time for merriment? Miserable shits.

Still, there’s one welcome thing here: mulled cider. I’m worried at first that heating it up might have cooked all the alcohol off – I understand these things, I’m a food critic – but after downing seven plastic cupfuls I’m swaying and realise my fears were unfounded. Admittedly I’m topping mine up with a few shots of brandy from my hip flask, which is a Christmas tradition. For me.

After a couple of hours shuffling in the packed crowds, dodging the charity collection carol singers as I go, I decide to indulge in the one part of Christmas apart from the booze I’m partial to. Roast chestnuts.

I down a couple of bags to soak up the cider, burning my fingers and clumsily crunching on bits of shell as I go. Then I remember why I avoid them as the chronic heartburn kicks in. Belching like a warthog, I head off unsteadily to catch the train home.

Was it worth the trip? Not for a minute. Would I come again? Would I bollocks. Merry f**king Christmas.

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Six roleplay scenarios to make you both feel like twats, with the Mash sex columnist

READY to be someone else in the bedroom? Someone fumbling their lines and feeling deep humiliation? Combining the worse of bored sex and am-dram? Give roleplay a try. 

Any of these common scenarios will see you and your lover subject yourselves to an experience which forever after you’ll be ashamed to discuss:

Teacher and student

A nice place to start, or you thought it was before you slipped so easily into channelling Mr Whittaker the woollen-suited PE teacher with the lisp. Too easily. It was like he was there waiting to come out and also it made you rock-hard. You never realised him saying ‘Come on girlth, jump nithe and high’ was a core aphrodisiac memory.

Cleaning lady and boss

This began well, with so much spontaneous bending-over, but triggered a marital argument when you realised how much more cleaning you actually do around the house than that lazy f**ker and now he’s grabbing your arse as well? The only thing that got wet was the floor you were mopping.

Time-traveller

Establish rules. Otherwise you’ll both ending up standing unclothed arguing about whether it’s possible to have sex with your own grandmother or it creates a paradox. Plus she wants to be a cavewoman and you want to be a strict Victorian and neither of you has the talent. You wish you could travel to when couples didn’t do roleplay and instead embraced infidelity when their relationship went dry.

Doctor and patient

You borrowed your son’s toy stethoscope but had to stow it in the wardrobe once you saw the Peppa Pig logo. And now the sexy examination has taken an unexpected turn as your husband asks you to check that funny mole on his back and there isn’t a sexy way to browse WebMD.

French maid

The costume looked promising on the website, but in the flesh it’s more like a frilly bin-liner and definitely no naked flames. Also your girlfriend’s French accent so bad you mentally cancel a citybreak in Paris. Meanwhile you haven’t been assigned a character and are stuck being yourself.

Sci-fi

As if you weren’t bad enough at sex, you invite Big Bang Theory into the bedroom. She’s horrified that you’ve been making a robot costume in the garage for two months. All attempt to spray her silver – it’s fine, it’s edible body spray – are rebuffed. Requests that she bleep which you go down on her are refused. Al these years and your mother was right. You’re not normal.

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