Christmas is always a depressing time of year. It shouldn’t be. I’ve got all the required components that should add up to a glorious week. A small horde of cousins, plus one’s and family? check. A surprising lack of “naughty uncles” that seem to plague all my friends families? check. Tons of food that the self-nominated family chefs take more time over and is therefore better than the rest of the years fare? Check!  I’d also just made a life decision to jet out to Asia to seek new adventures so I was pretty much on a high. Plus there are presents. So it really shouldn’t suck.

But the 2017/8 Christmas for this (godless) seminarian did, indeed, go down about as well as the titanic. And not for the obvious religious reasons. It was a pain in the ass because everyone, everywhere, when confronted with a mountain of food, alcohol, and brandy soaked pudding couldn’t help but be fascinated with the diet. More worryingly, they were fascinated with making me break it.

It’s a rare day when I disagree with the great Albert. But, my dear deceased fellow, you’ve got it wrong. When someone is on a diet, and lives in a general state somewhere between raging hunger, fatigue from overwork in the gym and the general stress of a family gathering (just for added good measure) – don’t question their lifestyle. Just accept them for who they are.

But no. I’ll talk later about the general problem with “food-pushers” when you’re dieting, but basically, it’s a real thing. I had friendly aunties coming up to me looking like 1990s cocaine dealers trying to get me to eat a mince pie. “I’ll tell you what kiddo… the first one’s for free….”

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