I queued for two hours to get into the ASDA car park.
Two more to pay. That wasn’t in the Gospel of Mark.
I could see everyone around me stressed to the eyeballs.
There was a sweat running down my back like Niagara falls.

The kitchen’s now a mess and the fridge is overflowing.
The heating’s set to high and everyone is glowing.
The mash is ready but we’re waiting on the turkey.
Grandma’s had one too many and she’s a little jerky.

We’re all sat down at last and the table’s looking great.
But just had a phone call and Auntie Doris is running late.
There’s an argument over who’s getting white turkey meat.
I almost say, ‘That’s it, I’m Off, I’m voting with my feet.’

Dinner is over, everyone is stuffed, and games are being played.
Charades is up first, ‘It’s a song, you know, that one by Band Aid’.
Next up is a four-word film but a heated argument ensues.
The person performing is accused of giving too many clues.

The games are over as everyone’s had just about enough.
No one is keen to do the washing up and mother’s in a huff.
The Christmas jumpers are off because the house is still too hot.
Grandma’s still drinking, and both her eyes are now bloodshot.

Granddad’s snoring, the Radio Times on his lap.
Pine needles on the carpet, the two youngest having a scrap.
It’s Christmas time again with a bin full of wrapping paper.
I swear that next year I’m so not going through this caper.