To my surprise on Christmas night I found myself down amongst the ten of us playing Trivial Pursuits and being really very clever indeed.
The men against the womenfolk and we won, possibly because I'm really very clever indeed but probably because Owen has a store of many, MANY useless facts in that nearly 30 head of his.
We played charades too. There's a non-American name for it but I've forgotten it. My sister Anne on the swivel chair was the highlight but I still haven't a fucking clue what she was trying to mime.
The reason I was surprised to be taking part is that usually I get to be a grumpy little stay-alone tosspot once the dinner's in the belly, but this year I was seasonal and happy and not a little locked. Earliest I got to bed was 2.30am in the three or four days down there. That was last night, I was utterly broken.
Wine, beer and whiskey. Wine and beer and whiskey. Together. Apart. Before and after and during everything. Too much. To the max. I am a fucking lightweight.
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The Royle Family. Over three series and one Christmas special, I don't remember a slip in quality. Not one. The best sitcom ever made in my book, and then they go and spoil it all...
The other night's episode was poor at best and complete doggerel at worst.
Exposition-exposition-signposted gag-signposted gag-something about a recliner-put the turkey in the bath while Dave has a shave-oh fuck off with yourselves, lads.
Come on. No Anthony, no Cheryl... In fact, not a even a mention of Anthony as far as I could tell. I swear to Jesus, they must have written the script in between episodes of Coronation Street on a Monday, lost half the cast's phone numbers and recorded the thing on the Wednesday, finishing just in time for dinner.
Lazier than Denise's left arse-cheek, the whole thing.